Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

“Came as a surprise to you, did it?”

The clerk blinked at him. “Oh, yes, it did indeed! More like a shock, really. Well, as I say, I can't realise it. I keep thinking Mr. Warrenby will come walking in any moment, wanting to know if the Widdringham lease has been posted, and— But, of course, he won't.”

He glanced up, with an uncertain smile, and was disconcerted to find himself the object of a bright, piercing scrutiny. He did his best to meet it, the smile fading from his face.

“Been his head clerk for long?”

“Ever since he started practice in Bellingham,” said Mr. Coupland, with a touch of pride.

“And you didn't know that he had any enemies?”

“No—no, indeed I didn't! Mr. Warrenby wasn't one to take people into his confidence. Even in practice, there were always some things he preferred to deal with himself. He was a—a very energetic, forceful man, Chief Inspector.”

“By what I've heard he was a man who made a lot of enemies.”

“Yes, I believe—that is, as to his private affairs I couldn't say, but professionally, of course, he wasn't well-liked. He was very successful, you see, and that made for a good deal of jealousy. On the Council too, and all the committees he sat on—well, in everything, really, he would have his own way, and—perhaps I shouldn't say this, but—but I fear he wasn't always very scrupulous in his methods. He once said to me that there were few things he enjoyed more than making people dance when he pulled their strings, and, of course, that sort of thing doesn't make a man popular. He always treated me very well, and all the staff, but I couldn't but wonder sometimes at the trouble he'd go to to discover everything about the people he came into contact with. I ventured to ask him once, but he only said you could never know when it might be useful.”

“Blackmail?” asked Hemingway bluntly.

“Oh! Oh, no, I wouldn't say that! I never saw anything to make me suspect—it always seemed more to me as though it amused him to make people he didn't like uncomfortable by letting them see he knew something about them they wouldn't wish to be known. Oh, quite trivial things—I don't mean to suggest—I daresay you know the sort of thing I mean, Chief Inspector. There aren't many of us who haven't ever done anything we wouldn't be a bit ashamed to have known. If you understand me!”

“I understand you all right. And you were surprised when you heard someone had shot this pocket-Hitler of yours?”

Mr. Coupland looked startled. “Yes, indeed, I was! Oh, dear, I hope I haven't given you a wrong impression! I didn't mean to say that Mr. Warrenby did anything to make anyone want to murder him! Often he would say things more by way of a joke than anything: twitting on about some little misfortune or mistake. Well, he's done that to me, and I won't deny it did make one angry, but—but there was nothing in it really!”

“I see,” said Hemingway. “Well, Mr. Coupland, I don't have to tell you that it's your duty to give me any assistance or information you can, so I'll put it straight to you: have you any reason to suspect that he may have been blackmailing—or whatever you like to call it!—anyone, at the time of his death?”

“No, Chief Inspector! No, no, none at all—I assure you! Well, I couldn't have! I never knew him privately, and in his practice—oh, no!” said Mr. Coupland, looking frightened and unhappy.

Hemingway, who had been watching him with his head a little on one side and an expression in his eyes which reminded Harbottle irresistibly of a robin on the watch for a titbit, nodded, and said briefly: “All right!”

At this point, the junior clerk slid into the room through as narrow an opening of the door as was possible, and stood hesitating on the threshold. Mr. Coupland glanced at the Chief Inspector for guidance, but as Hemingway did not seem to think that the intrusion in any way concerned him, he cleared his throat, and said, in rather a strained voice: “Yes, what is it?”

The youth trod delicately up to him, and murmured something to him, of which the only words which Hemingway heard were “Sir John Eaglesfield.” They appeared to exercise a powerful influence on Mr. Coupland, for, after exclaiming in a dismayed and startled way, he said: “I wonder if you would excuse me for a few minutes, Chief Inspector? One of Mr. Warrenby's most valued clients—!”

“That's all right,” said Hemingway. “You go and deal with him!”

Not unthankfully, Mr. Coupland removed himself. When the door had closed behind him and his junior, Harbottle, who had remained seated at Warrenby's desk throughout his chief's interview with the head-clerk, silent and observant, said: “What do you make of him, sir?”

“Oh, perfectly honest!” Hemingway replied, going to the desk, and looking at the mass of papers on it. “How are you doing, Horace? You seem to have got enough to keep you occupied!”

“I have,” said Harbottle, on a mordant note. “That chap was just explaining to me, when you came in, that things aren't as straight as he'd wish, owing to the office being so cramped. Which it certainly is. He was telling me that Warrenby was determined to get an office next to the Town Hall, which he says is the best pitch in the whole of Bellingham, and wouldn't be content with anything else.”

“And I don't doubt he would have got it,” remarked Hemingway.

“Nor I. I wish he had, for I should have found my job easier,” said Harbottle, casting a glance round the room, which was indeed crammed with cupboards, shelves with labelled deed boxes piled on them, a safe, standing open, two filing-cabinets, and a large bookcase. “If there's any scheme in this town he hadn't got a finger in, I can't think what it could be. That cupboard over there is full of the stuff, and I take it I'd better go through it. He seems to have kept all his private business letters and such here. Mostly in the safe, but this lot comes from the cupboard under the books. That's what you want me to work on, isn't it?”

Hemingway nodded. “Yes, don't try to meddle with the deed-boxes belonging to his clients: you'll be getting into hot water if you do, and wasting your time as well. Well, I've seen some solicitors' offices which I thought were so cluttered up no one could ever find a thing in them, but this fairly takes the cake! Poor old Horace!”

“Oh, it isn't in a muddle!” Harbottle said. “Everything's docketed, and bundled up. The trouble is there's so much of it, and what he's written on his bundles doesn't always convey as much to me as it no doubt did to him.”

“Coupland no use to you?”

“Not on all these side-lines. He only knows about the real business of the office. I've got hold of one bit of information I think'll interest you, Chief. Did you know Warrenby was the Clerk of the Peace?”

“No, but I'd have betted any money on it.”

“He was appointed last year,” said Harbottle. “I got it out of Coupland. Old Drybeck was laid up when the appointment fell vacant. Used to be held by some old solicitor, who died just before Quarter Sessions. Warrenby slid into the job when Drybeck was convalescing in Torquay.”

“Probably murdered the old Clerk to get the job,” commented Hemingway, who had picked up a sheaf of letters, and was running a rapid and practiced eye over them.

“I could tell from the way Coupland spoke Drybeck thought he ought to have been appointed.”

“Well, I don't know that I blame them for choosing Warrenby. I should think he was an efficient bloke, which is more than I'd be prepared to say of Drybeck on the evidence I've got so far. Yes, yes, Horace, I know what you're after! It gives Drybeck a bit more motive. You may be right, but I should think he must have got used to seeing Warrenby grabbing every job in sight. Don't tell me he didn't get himself appointed Town Clerk, Coroner, Sexton, Welfare Officer, and Town Crier as well, because I wouldn't believe it!”