AMBROSE GREETED HENRY with a mixture of relief and enthusiasm.
“Chief Superintendent Tibbett! What a very fortunate chance. I am afraid this is a very distressing business.”
“Sudden death always is,” said Henry. “Especially if it appears to be murder, as I gather it does.”
“Well, you can see for yourself,” Ambrose said. “It’s pretty obvious the poor fellow was strangled, and it’s hard to see how that could have been accidental or self-inflicted. Your medical experts will be able to determine exactly what happened, of course, but my guess is that he was knocked unconscious and then throttled. Probably a karate chop to the back of the ear. Oh, please don’t think I’ve touched anything. I’m giving you my opinion just on what I saw.”
“Well…” said Henry, with deliberate vagueness. “Well, I’ll go and take a look at the body, and then come back here and you can introduce me to your friends.”
“I’m terribly sorry, old man. This is Miss Susan Benedict, my secretary. And this is Mr. Harold Benson, who”—Ambrose paused significantly—“who found the body. Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett of the CID.”
Henry said, “I’m delighted to meet you both. I’ll be back in a minute.” He went quickly through the door that separated Ambrose’s office from the waiting room.
The small, passagelike room was full of people. Photographers were taking pictures and fingerprint experts were busy with powder and brushes. Simon Finch’s body lay in exactly the same position as when Ambrose had seen it. A photographer’s arc lamp now bathed it in a pool of white light, but pending Henry’s arrival nothing had been touched.
Henry studied the late Simon Finch, aware of the mixture of compassion and respect that he always felt in the presence of a creature dead by violence—whether it be a murdered human being or a cat hit by a car and thrown into a ditch. In the final, complete, and utter vulnerability of death, there was always the silent dignity, the paradoxical invulnerability of a being beyond pain or inquisition or any human power. For a moment, Henry was swept by a sense of the futility of his job, of all these busy people swarming like ants over the corpse. The man was dead. What did it matter who had killed him? Beside the simple fact of death, nothing seemed important. Then he pulled himself together. Of course it was important to find out who had killed this young man. Apart from any question of abstract justice, a person who has killed once may kill again.
Henry looked carefully at the body, and at the scattered pages of newspaper around it. He said to the photographer, “You’ve got all this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Inspector Reynolds, let’s have everything out of his pockets—protected for fingerprinting. Then you can take a look at him, Doctor, and take him away for an autopsy.”
The police doctor smiled wryly. “I should have thought even you could see that the man had been strangled, Tibbett.”
Henry said, “Expertly?”
“Depends what you mean by that. I should say he was knocked unconscious first. After that, it’s just a matter of applying pressure. We’ll let you know for certain soon. Finished, Reynolds? Good. We’ll keep the clothes for analysis, of course. Okay, chaps. Get him on the stretcher.”
On the table, beside the pile of National Geographic magazines, Inspector Reynolds laid out the contents of the dead man’s pockets—each item encased in transparent plastic. It was not a large collection. There was a key ring with a couple of latchkeys on it; a clean white handkerchief; the return half of a railway ticket from Westbourne to London, cheap day-return fare; and a letter from Ambrose Quince addressed to Simon Finch, Esq., 4 Seaview Gardens, Westbourne, Sussex. The letter was in crisp legalese, and requested Mr. Finch to be at Mr. Quince’s office at 10 A.M. on Saturday, January 14, in order to confront a rival claimant to the estate due to Simon Warwick. There was also an imitation-leather wallet containing eight pounds in notes and a few postage stamps. Apart from 35p. in small change and a checkbook from the Sussex National Bank, Westbourne branch, there was nothing else.
Henry said, “Secretive sort of chap.”
Reynolds grinned. “Fishy, if you ask me, sir. No driver’s license, no visiting cards, no nothing. Like as if his pockets had been spring-cleaned.”
“Maybe they were,” said Henry. “At any rate we have a name and an address, and Mr. Quince obviously knew him. You take over in here, Reynolds. I’ll have a word with the people next door.”
Ambrose Quince was slightly taken aback when he realized that he was not going to be the first to be interviewed. Henry’s quick and smooth explanation that he wanted to talk first to Miss Benedict, as she must have been the first to arrive at the office that morning, seemed a little thin to Ambrose. He felt that priority should go to seniority rather than to punctuality. However, he put a gracious face on things and allowed Henry to lead Susan off to the outer office, which had been set aside for interviewing.
Susan, pleased at being picked first and very much at ease, explained smilingly to Henry that she was Mr. Quince’s private secretary, and that there was nothing at all unusual about Mr. Quince receiving clients on Saturday morning.
“It’s always nice and quiet,” she explained, “and Mr. Quince isn’t being bothered with phone calls and so on. I’m always glad to come in on a Saturday if Mr. Quince wants me. It’s no trouble. Besides, he’s ever so generous about giving me time off to compensate.”
She described accurately and concisely the arrival of Mr. Finch. “Ever so early. Twenty past nine for a ten o’clock appointment. I told him he’d have to wait.”
Henry said, “He had to come up to London from Westbourne. I suppose there wasn’t a later train that he could conveniently catch.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Susan. “I think he was just muddleheaded. Said something about a nine-thirty appointment. Well, that’s nonsense. It’s down here in my book for ten.”
“Can you remember exactly what he said?”
Susan frowned. “Not really. I didn’t pay much attention—I wanted to get on with my typing. Oh, I think he mumbled something about a message, now I come to think of it.”
Henry was interested. “You mean, he said he had received a message changing the time of his appointment?”
“I don’t know what he said. I wasn’t really listening.”
“Please try to remember, Miss Benedict. It could be important.”
There was a pause, and then Susan said, “Well, all I can say is that I’ve a vague sort of recollection of him using the word ‘message.’ And I do know that he seemed to imagine he was expected at nine-thirty.”
“That’s very helpful, Miss Benedict. So you showed him into the waiting room and went on with your work.”
“I didn’t exactly show him in. He knew where to go.”
“You had met Mr. Finch before, had you, Miss Benedict?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Here in the office, or socially?”
“Oh, only in the office, of course.” Susan sounded disdainful.
“Can you tell me what his business was with Mr. Quince?”
Susan’s eyebrows went up. “You mean you don’t know?”
“I know nothing except that I’ve been sent to investigate a murder in Mr. Quince’s waiting room,” said Henry.
With a good story to tell, Susan became voluble. “Why, Mr. Finch and Mr. Benson are the two claimants to Lord Charlton’s will. They both say they’re Simon Warwick. Mr. Quince went off to America to make inquiries about them, and when he came back he wrote to both of them arranging this meeting. You see, up till then each one of them thought he was the only claimant.”
“There aren’t any others?” Henry asked.
“Not serious. Just a few crackpot letters—you know.”
Henry said, “When Mr. Quince came back from America, did he tell you which claimant he fancied to be genuine?”
Susan hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No, he didn’t tell me anything. Just dictated a letter to each of them—exactly the same letter—telling them to be here this morning to confront a rival claimant.” She gave a little laugh. “Actually, Chief Superintendent, I don’t think there’s any doubt about it, myself.”
“You don’t?”
“Well, I mean, just ask yourself. First of all, little Simon Warwick was adopted by an American couple, but Mr. Finch was English as English. And then—well, Simon Warwick was the nephew of a lord, after all. You can see—I mean, you could see that Mr. Finch wasn’t out of the top drawer, if you know what I mean. But Mr. Benson, now—well, he’s different altogether. He’s American all right, and yet with it he’s a really superior sort of person. He’s Simon Warwick all right.”
“And yet,” Henry said. “it was Simon Finch who was murdered. I wonder why.”
“Don’t ask me,” said Susan, with distaste. “I suppose somebody didn’t like him.”
“That seems obvious,” said Henry.
His light irony was lost on Miss Benedict. She sniffed and said, “He’s the sort of person who would get murdered. I just wish he hadn’t done it in Mr. Quince’s waiting room.”
Henry let this pass. He said, “Right. Where were we?” He glanced at his notebook. “Mr. Finch arrived at twenty past nine, and went into the waiting room. What happened next?”
“Nothing happened. I went on with my typing.”
“You didn’t hear any sound from the waiting room?”
“Of course not. If I had, I’d have gone in to see what was happening. But I was typing fast, you see, and that makes enough noise so that I wouldn’t have heard anything through the door unless it had been really loud.”
Henry nodded. “I see. So what was the next thing that did happen?”
“Mr. Benson. He came just at ten, on the dot. He didn’t make any silly mistakes about his appointment. We exchanged a few words, and then he went into the waiting room.”
“Can you remember what was said?”
“Oh, nothing special, Just ‘good morning.’ And I told him that Mr. Finch was here already, and asked him to wait. That’s all.”
Henry said, “So Mr. Benson went to join Mr. Finch in the waiting room. And then?”
“Well, I was pretty sure that Mr. Quince hadn’t arrived, because he hadn’t buzzed through to me, but I buzzed his office just in case he was there.”
“What’s all this buzzing?” Henry asked, and Susan explained the office communications system.
“And then,” she went on, “poor Mr. Benson came running out of the waiting room, terribly upset, and told me Mr. Finch was dead. I went in with him to have a look, and there he was—Mr. Finch, I mean. Luckily just then Mr. Quince arrived, and of course he took over and then everything was all right.”
Henry said, “You buzzed Mr. Quince’s office after Mr. Benson had gone into the waiting room?”
“Yes. I told you.”
“So some time elapsed before Mr. Benson came running out to tell you he had found the body?”
Susan was instantly on the defensive. “It doesn’t take much time to buzz.”
“And to get no reply?”
“Mr. Benson came out of there just as quick as he could.”
“Miss Benedict,” said Henry, “that waiting room is fairly small, and nobody could miss the sight of a dead body in the middle of it. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that Mr. Benson even went in at all? Wouldn’t he have seen Finch’s body from the doorway?”
Definitely upset, Susan said, “It wasn’t more than a moment. I expect he just looked to see…maybe he thought Mr. Finch was just ill…”
“Maybe he did. Now, please, Miss Benedict—tell me exactly how long Mr. Benson was in that room, in your estimation.”
“I…I don’t know. Perhaps a minute.”
“With the door shut behind him?”
“Well…yes. But it swings shut.”
“Only a minute?”
“Well…it could have been a little longer. I don’t know. I was doing my typing…” Susan was badly rattled. “There’ll be an explanation. Just ask Mr. Benson.”
“I propose,” said Henry, “to do just that. Please wait in Mr. Quince’s office for a little longer, will you, Miss Benedict?”
Harold Benson, Jr., was still in a state of tightly controlled shock when he arrived in the outer office to be interviewed. He confirmed in a quiet voice the simple facts about his letter from Ambrose Quince and his arrival at the office.
Henry interrupted to say, “I understand this meeting was to bring you face to face with a rival claimant to Lord Charlton’s estate?”
Benson flushed. “That’s what Quince said in his letter. I knew, of course, that the other man must be a fraud.”
“Because you are Simon Warwick?”
“Because I am Simon Warwick.”
“So you had nothing to fear from this obvious impostor?”
Benson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He said, “I knew that he couldn’t be Simon Warwick, but I didn’t know what sort of claim he could possibly have made that would make Quince take him seriously. So of course I was a little worried. I was also very curious.”
Henry said, “All right. Let’s get on. You went into the waiting room, closing the door behind you. Didn’t you see the body at once?”
“Of course I did.”
“Then—”
“That’s to say, I saw this character sitting in the corner. Miss Benedict had told me that Mr. Finch had already arrived. I thought it was odd, because he appeared to be asleep.”
“Asleep?”
“Yeah. He was lying back in the armchair, with his newspaper over his face. I said, ‘Good morning,’ and he didn’t say anything. So I sat down, and looked at him again, and I thought, ‘There’s something mighty peculiar about that guy. Could be he’s ill or passed out or something.’ So I went over and shook him by the shoulder and said, ‘Hey, Mr. Finch’—and he just fell forward onto the floor, and the newspaper flew all around everywhere, and of course I could see then that he was dead. I was—well, I was appalled. I just rushed out and called Miss Benedict, and—well, I guess you know the rest.”
“Mr. Benson,” Henry said, “had you ever met Mr. Finch before this morning?”
“Of course not.”
“You didn’t know him, even by sight?”
“Certainly not. I tell you, I didn’t even know of his existence until I got Quince’s letter.”
“Very well, Mr. Benson. Please leave your address with Inspector Reynolds. You’ll be staying in England for some time, I hope?”
“You’re darned right I will. I’m staying until this business gets good and sorted out.”
“The murder, you mean?”
Benson looked surprised. “The murder? Hell, no. The will.”
“You don’t think that what happened this morning—?”
“What happened this morning,” said Benson angrily, “was a damn nuisance, but it was nothing to do with me. This guy who called himself Simon Finch—somebody obviously didn’t like him, and I’m not surprised, if he went around pressing fraudulent claims. So somebody killed him. That makes no difference to the fact that I am Simon Warwick, and I came over here to claim my inheritance, and by God I’m going to do it.”
Henry said, “You must surely realize that you are in an awkward position, Mr. Benson. According to Miss Benedict, Mr. Finch went into the waiting room shortly before half-past nine. She was in the outer office all the time, and nobody else went in there until you did. And you were in there an appreciable time before—”
“I’ve already explained that,” said Benson. “And I’d like to point out that this isn’t a locked-room mystery, Chief Superintendent. You must have noticed that there’s a door from Quince’s office into the waiting room and another out into the corridor—and they were both unlocked. Anybody could have walked in anytime between nine-thirty and ten and killed that guy and walked out again. I just had the bad luck to find him.”
Henry said, “You know a lot about the office layout, Mr. Benson.”
“So does anybody who’s ever visited Quince. You’re ushered in via Miss Benedict and the waiting room, and when you leave, Quince shoots you straight out into the corridor from his office.”
There was a little pause. Then Henry said, “By the way, did you have a newspaper with you when you arrived here this morning?”
“No, I didn’t. I glanced at one over breakfast at the hotel, but I didn’t bring it with me.”
When Harold Benson had gone, Henry—to Ambrose Quince’s mounting annoyance—asked Susan to come back into the office. She was most emphatic that Mr. Benson had not been carrying a newspaper. When it came to Mr. Finch, however, she hesitated.
“Well, he must have had one, mustn’t he, because it was all over the place. This morning’s Times. And since Mr. Benson didn’t have one—”
“There wouldn’t have been a copy in the waiting room for clients to read?”
“Oh, no. Definitely not. So it must have been Mr. Finch’s.”
Henry said, “You don’t sound absolutely sure, Miss Benedict.”
“Well, I am.” Susan moved to the offensive. “Now I come to think of it, I remember distinctly. He had a newspaper under his arm.”
Henry sighed. “Very well.”
“Can I go now?”
“You can go back to the other office. Don’t leave the building.”
Ambrose Quince was brisk, businesslike, and in a curious way seemed to Henry to be almost pleased by the turn of events. He described his arrival at the office at five past ten—“Does them no harm to let them cool their heels for a few minutes”—his encounter with Susan and Benson, and the subsequent steps he had taken. Then he said, “Well, it all seems quite straightforward, doesn’t it, Tibbett?”
“How do you mean?”
Ambrose gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. I should have put you in the picture sooner. The fact is that Simon Finch was the real Simon Warwick, beyond any shadow of doubt. I have a file in my office—naturally you’ll want to inspect it—which proves conclusively that we had found our missing heir. As a matter of fact, I gave a little dinner party at my house last week for the various people most closely concerned with Lord Charlton’s will, and told them that I was convinced that we had the right man, and that I intended to submit proof of his identity to a court of law.”
Henry said, “Did you also tell them that your claimant was coming here this morning?”
“Yes, I did. I told them that I intended to dispose of Mr. Harold Benson once and for all by confronting him with Simon Finch. For reasons which you will see when you study the file, I am convinced that Benson knew Finch as a boy and somehow got the passport from him.”
“The passport?”
“It’s all there in the file, Tibbett. Just take it from me that Finch was Simon Warwick and that Harold Benson is a very inefficient impostor. He possessed just one piece of purely circumstantial evidence to support his claim, and I suppose he hoped that Finch wouldn’t come forward with counter-evidence. When he got my letter and realized that we had rumbled him, he decided to take drastic action.”
“Really?” said Henry.
Quince appeared not to notice the interruption. He said, “Susan must have told you that Finch was under the impression that his appointment with me had been changed to half-past nine. Somebody must have got that message to him, and it’s obvious that the somebody was Benson. He made sure that Finch would get here well ahead of him, thus leaving a decent time interval in which somebody else might have done the killing. Then he arrived himself and did the job. Wouldn’t take any time for a man who knew what he was doing. Bertie Hamstone was a Commando during the war, and he’s often told me how quickly and quietly you could dispose of a man. Chop and choke, he calls it. As soon as I saw Finch, I remembered what he’d said.”
“My fellow executor on Charlton’s will. Banker at Sprott’s. Anyhow, Tibbett, if Benson believes that the field is clear now that his rival is out of the way, he is wrong. I have the proof that the late Simon Finch was in fact the late Simon Warwick, and I shall get that fact duly attested.”
Henry said, “And what will happen to the money?”
“Lord Charlton was quite definite on that point,” said Ambrose. “If Simon Warwick should be found to have died, the money would go to his eldest legitimate child. If he had no child, then we revert to the previous will. The money goes to charity. According to what he told me—and of course you’ll have to check this out—Simon Finch was unmarried. Therefore, the original will comes back into force, and many worthy causes will be the gainers.”
“All the money goes to charity, does it, Mr. Quince?”
“Oh, there are a few personal bequests…the largest is to Charlton’s personal secretary…his butler and chauffeur get a few thousand…”
“And even those bequests are canceled under the new will?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Ambrose. “I tried to persuade him to let them stand, but he was adamant.”
“Just for the record,” Henry said, “what about you, Mr. Quince? Was there a bequest to you under the old will?”
Ambrose grinned. “Certainly not, worse luck. No, I get my fee as executor and that’s that. Whoever the beneficiaries may be.”
“Well,” Henry said, “I’d be grateful if you’d let me take away your file on Simon Warwick—that is, all the information you have on Simon Finch and Harold Benson. I’d also like a copy of the original will and a guest list of your dinner party.”
Ambrose looked taken aback. “Surely you’re not suggesting—?” The same thought had occurred to him, but he had not expected Henry to latch on to it quite so fast.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Henry. “Just trying to get a complete picture. By the way, Mr. Quince, did you bring a copy of the Times to the office with you this morning?”
“Yes.” Ambrose was surprised. “I always do. I buy one every morning off the old newsvendor on the corner.”
“Do you still have it?”
“It must be in my office. If you’d care to look—”
“Yes, if you don’t mind, Mr. Quince. I’d like to.”
Ambrose gave Henry a quizzical look, but all he said was, “Better go via the corridor. I think your chaps are still busy in the waiting room.”
Susan Benedict and Harold Benson were sitting in Ambrose’s office, chatting and looking considerably more relaxed now that their interviews with the police were over, at least for the time being. However, they stopped talking abruptly as Ambrose and Henry came into the room. On the desk between them lay an unopened copy of the Times.
“There it is,” said Ambrose. “Just where I left it. I remember now putting it down on the desk before I went into the waiting room.”
Instinctively, all eyes went to the newspaper. Then Henry said, “So the paper which was all over the waiting room must have been Mr. Finch’s.”
“Or Mr. Benson’s,” said Ambrose, without looking at Harold.
Easily, Henry said, “Miss Benedict seems to recall that you weren’t carrying a newspaper when you arrived this morning, Mr. Benson. Is that correct?”
Susan nodded vigorously, and Benson said, “Quite correct. I told you already.”
“Then it must have been Finch’s,” Ambrose said.
“Or somebody’s,” said Henry. “Well, I don’t think I need detain you gentlemen any longer. We have your addresses, and I’m afraid we shall have to bother you again, so don’t leave town without letting us know. And now I’d like a final word with Miss Benedict.”
“Again?” Ambrose did not sound pleased.
“Just to cross-check a couple of points,” said Henry, with an amiable vagueness that deceived nobody.
Quince and Benson glared at each other and took their leave, Ambrose standing back with exaggerated politeness to let the American go through the door first. Then he paused and said, “You’ll lock up as usual, will you, Susan?”
Henry said, “I’m afraid my people will be here for some time more, Mr. Quince. Fortunately tomorrow is Sunday. I hope that by Monday we can restore your office to you for normal working. Meanwhile, I’m afraid we must keep the keys.”
“Oh, very well,” said Ambrose. “The Chief Superintendent would like to take all the Simon Warwick files and a copy of Lord Charlton’s original will, Susan. Please let him have them.”
“Yes, Mr. Quince.”
“As for the guest list,” Ambrose added, “my wife will have all the details. Where should she send them?”
“If it’s convenient,” Henry said, “I could call this afternoon and pick them up. I have the address—in Ealing, isn’t it?”
“Certainly, my dear fellow. It’ll be a pleasure.”
As soon as the door had closed behind Ambrose, Susan jumped up and said, “I’ll get those files for you now, Chief Superintendent.”
“In a moment, Miss Benedict. There’s something I want to ask you first. Mr. Finch lived in Westbourne, didn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“You had his address and telephone number?”
“Yes, of course. It’s all on the file. Well, it wasn’t exactly a telephone number.”
“Not a telephone number?”
“What I mean is, it wasn’t his own telephone. He lived in a sort of boardinghouse, you see, and the landlady took messages if he wasn’t in.”
“I see. Now, I want you to think hard. Who knew Mr. Finch’s telephone number?”
Susan frowned. “Well, I did, of course, and Mr. Quince could have got it from my book. And I suppose all Mr. Finch’s friends in Westbourne and his family and—”
Henry held up his hand. “No, no,” he said. “What I’m getting at is this. Did anybody outside this office ask you for Mr. Finch’s number?”
“Oh, no. Well, that is, not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you said ‘outside this office,’ and after all Mr. Hamstone’s the other executor of Lord Charlton’s will, which makes him—”
Henry said, “Mr. Hamstone of Sprott’s Bank?”
“That’s right. Mr. Bertram Hamstone. Such a nice gentleman. Well, him being the other executor, like I said, we’re in touch with him a great deal. It must have been the day before yesterday, Mr. Hamstone’s office called and asked for Mr. Finch’s telephone number. They had his address, you see, but no phone number, and of course it wouldn’t be in the book under Finch, not being his own telephone.”
Henry said, “You say that Mr. Hamstone’s office called. What does that mean? Whom did you actually speak to?”
“Oh, I don’t know his name. A man. Sounded a bit like an American—there’s a lot of them work at Sprott’s. He just said he was Mr. Hamstone’s office and could I give him Mr. Finch’s number.”
“And you did.”
“Well, of course. It wasn’t a secret, was it?”
“No,” said Henry. “No, of course it wasn’t. Well, if you can find me those files, you can get along home. I’m afraid this has been a distressing experience for you, Miss Benedict.”
“Oh, not really.” Susan was being brisk and efficient, as Mr. Quince would have wanted her to be. “After all, I didn’t really know Mr. Finch. It wasn’t as if it was a friend.”
“That’s the sensible way to look at it,” said Henry, with a smile.