Frank Mason was standing by the door which led to the hallway listening anxiously. He evidently expected another summons from the front doorbell. In the large open fireplace a pile of logs burned merrily, making the room insufferably hot, for the September evening was mild. On the desk lay what remained of Raymond Mason’s confidential files. The others were in the process of being reduced to ash in the fireplace.
“Good evening,” said Henry.
Mason wheeled around as though he had been stung. For a moment he looked at Henry with real panic in his face; then, suddenly, he grinned.
“I forgot the garden door,” he said.
“Luckily for me,” said Henry. “You might as well put the lights on again.”
Frank Mason did so. Then he said, “Sorry I was unsociable. No special reason, you know. I just didn’t feel like company.” He paused, and then added awkwardly, “I was burning some old papers.”
“So I see,” said Henry. He sat down in a leather armchair. “Why did you set the hounds of the press on to poor Mr. Mumford?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh yes you did. There was nobody else who…”
“I didn’t set them on to Mumford. He has nothing to do with it. He’s a sycophantic cipher. Mumford isn’t worth a minute of anybody’s time.” Frank paused. Then he said, “I thought the world ought to know about people like my father.”
“You seem to me,” said Henry, “to be in a very muddled frame of mind. Only a few days ago you were claiming that your father had been murdered, and demanding justice and revenge.”
“You don’t have to murder a man simply because you disapprove of his way of life,” said Mason. He smiled suddenly. “Not even if you’re a revolutionary Communist. Besides, he was my father. You said just now that I was demanding justice. Well, I am. Justice for the person who killed him, and justice for the community at large by warning them against other men like him. I don’t call that muddled thinking.”
“You and I,” said Henry, “should get a few things straight. For a start, nobody killed your father.”
“But…”
“I’ll explain,” said Henry. He did.
When he had finished, Frank Mason said slowly, “I suppose you must be right. Which means that I owe Manning-Richards an apology, but I’m damned if he’s going to get it.” After a pause he added, “A bit ironic, isn’t it? Dad got himself shot to save old Miss Manciple’s life, and now she’s dead anyway, not a week later. He needn’t have bothered.”
Henry looked at him curiously. “Nobody could possibly have known that Miss Manciple was going to die,” he said, “could they?”
“No. No, of course not.”
“Right,” said Henry. “Now we’ll go on from there. Starting with the gun. What did you do with it?”
“I told you. I put it in this drawer…”
“You didn’t take it back to Cregwell Grange this morning when you called there with your jumble for the Fête?”
“Certainly I didn’t. Why, has it turned up?”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Oh well, that’s a good thing. One more mystery out of the way.”
“Perhaps,” said Henry. “Now, about the things you took from your father’s private filing cabinet today.”
Frank Mason looked decidedly rattled. “How did you…?”
“You don’t think that Mr. Mumford would let a thing like that pass, do you? He got in touch with me at once. He’s extremely upset.”
Mason grinned. “Good,” he said.
“Why on earth,” Henry asked, “didn’t you simply lock up the cabinet again? Then he’d never have known that the things had disappeared.”
“Because I wanted him to be upset, of course,” said Mason. “I hope he bursts a blood vessel. He can shout all the imprecations he can think of at the top of his tiny voice and brandish his tiny fists. There’s not a damned thing he can do about it.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Well, everything in that office is my property now, isn’t it? Including Mumford, come to that.”
“No,” said Henry, “it isn’t.”
“But my father’s will…”
“Has not yet been proved. Legally, you aren’t entitled to anything yet. Your action today was just as much burglary as if you’d put a nylon stocking over your face and robbed a bank.”
Frank Mason looked alarmed. “Are you sure? You mean — he can’t actually do anything about it, can he?”
“He could,” said Henry, “but I don’t think he will. Not if you are sensible.”
“What do you mean by sensible?”
“First thing tomorrow,” said Henry, “you must go up to London, apologize to Mumford, and return everything that you took out of the cabinet.”
“But,” instinctively, Mason’s eyes went to the fire.
“I do appreciate your difficulty,” said Henry. “Why are you destroying them?”
“You know what they are?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, wouldn’t you destroy them?”
“I might feel inclined to,” said Henry, “but I should have thought that they’d be just the thing to give to the press if you are set on blackening your father’s memory.”
Mason flushed, “He was my father,” he said.
“You mean, there are limits?”
Mason said, “I hold no brief for the useless parasites concerned, but I’m neither a toady nor a blackmailer. When I take over the business, it’s going to be honestly run.”
“And profitably?”
“Why not? In a competitive society one has to compete.”
After a pause Henry said, “I should go ahead and burn the lot. I imagine that all those dossiers show the client in a state of indebtedness, don’t they?”
“Of course. That was the whole filthy idea.”
“Then nobody is going to complain.”
“But Mumford…”
“Least of all Mumford,” said Henry. He added, “When you take over, don’t sack him. He’s an honest man and extremely useful to the firm. You’ll never make a profit without him.”
Mason stared at Henry. “You’re a curious character,” he said.
“In every sense of the word,” said Henry. “Among other things I’m curious about why your father was so keen on buying Cregwell Grange.”
“Snobbery.” The word came out like a reflex action.
“No other reason?”
“Not that I know of. What other reason could there be?”
“He never said anything to you…?”
“Never when he could help it,” said Frank shortly. He picked up a file from the desk. Henry saw that it had Sir John Adamson written neatly on its label. “Well, another for the holocaust.”
As the flames licked around the buff cardboard and its contents, Henry felt a momentary pang of doubt, but he put it aside. He said, “When did you find out about these secret flies?”
“When I found the spare key to the cabinet. It was in a drawer in my father’s dressing table, and it was rather indiscreetly labeled. I put it into my pocket the day I arrived here — before you started your snooping around — but I didn’t think much about it until I connected it up with a list of names that I found in an old diary of his. Then I decided to investigate. I was delighted to find that Mumford was out. That gave me an opportunity for a cozy little that with Sarah Jenkins. She’s a bright girl, and she knew a lot more about what went on in that office than Mumford did.”
“Do you still have the key?”
“Yes. It’s here,” Mason pulled a small key out of his pocket. It bore no label of any sort and Henry remarked on this. Mason said, “I burned the label.”
“Can you remember what it said?”
“No.”
“Not even in general terms?”