For a wonder the clerks in Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's offices were
all hard at work. The articled clerks were in a smaller office to the
right of the large one with a partition partly glass between. Through
it their heads could be seen bent over their work, their pens flying
over their paper with commendable celerity.
The managing clerk had left his desk and was standing in the gangway
in the larger office opposite the door leading into the ante-room.
Beyond that again was the door opening into the principal's particular
sanctum. Most unusually his door stood open this morning. Through the
doorway the principal could plainly be seen bending over his letters
and papers on the writing-table, while a little farther back stood his
secretary, apparently waiting his instructions. Presently he spoke a
few words to her in an undertone, pushed his papers all away together
and came into the outer office.
“I find it is as I thought, Thompson. I have only two appointments
this morning—Mr. Geary and Mr. Pound. The last is for 11.45. After Mr.
Pound has been shown out you will admit no one until I ring, which
will probably be about one o'clock. Then, hold yourself in readiness
to accompany me to the Bank.”
“Yes, sir.”
The managing clerk at Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's glanced keenly at
his chief as he spoke.
“It is quite possible that a special messenger from the Bank may be
sent here in the course of the morning,” Mr. Bechcombe pursued.
“Unless he comes before twelve he will have to wait until one o'clock
as no one—_no one_ is to disturb me until then. You understand this,
Thompson?” He turned back sharply to his office.
“Quite so, sir.”
The managing clerk had a curious, puzzled look as he glanced after the
principal. Amos Thompson had been many years with Messrs. Bechcombe
and Turner, and it was said that he enjoyed Mr. Bechcombe's confidence
to the fullest degree. Be that as it may, it was evident that he knew
nothing of the special business of this morning. He was a thin man of
middle height with a reddish-grey beard, sunken-looking, grey eyes,
like those of his principal usually concealed by a pair of
horn-rimmed, smoke-coloured glasses; his teeth were irregular—one or
two in front were missing. He had the habitual stoop of a man whose
life is spent bending over a desk, and his faintly grey hair was
already thinning at the top. As he went back to his desk both
communicating doors in turn banged loudly behind Mr. Bechcombe.
Instantly a change passed over his clerks; as if moved by one spring
all the heads were raised, the pens slackened, most of them were
thrown hastily on the desk.
Percy Johnson, one of the articled pupils, emitted a low whistle.
“What is the governor up to, Mr. Thompson?” he questioned daringly.
“Casting the glad eye on some fair lady; not to be disturbed for an
hour will give them plenty of time for—er—endearments.”
Thompson turned his severe eyes upon him.
“This is neither the place nor the subject for such jokes, Mr.
Johnson. May I trouble you to get on with your work? We are waiting
for that deed.”
Mr. Johnson applied himself to his labours afresh.
“It is nice to know that one is really useful!”
The morning wore on. The two clients mentioned by Mr. Bechcombe—Mr.
Geary and Mr. Pound—duly arrived and were shown in to Mr. Bechcombe,
in each case remaining only a short time. Then there came a few
minutes' quiet. The eyes of the clerks wandered to the clock. At
twelve o'clock the first batch of them would depart to luncheon.
Amos Thompson's thoughts were busy with his chief. Some very important
business must be about to be transacted in Mr. Bechcombe's private
room, and the managing clerk, though usually fully cognizant of all
the ins and outs of the affairs of the firm, had no notion what it
might be. He would have been more or less than mortal if his
speculations with regard to the mysterious visitor had not risen high.
Just as the clock struck twelve there was a knock and ring at the
outer door, and he heard a loud colloquy going on with the office boy.
In a minute Tony Collyer came through into the clerks' office. It
showed the upset to the general aspect of the managing clerk's ideas
that he should go forward to meet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Anthony. I am sorry that Mr. Bechcombe is engaged.”
“So am I,” said Tony, shaking him heartily by the hand. “Because I
want to see him particularly and my time is limited this morning. But
I suppose I must wait a bit. Get me in as soon as you can, there's a
good old chap!”
Thompson shook his head.
“It won't be any good your waiting this morning, Mr. Anthony. We have
orders that no one is to disturb Mr. Bechcombe. It would be as much as
my place is worth to knock at the door.”
“And how much is your place worth, old boy?” Tony questioned with a
laugh, at the same time bringing down his hand with friendly
heartiness on the managing clerk's back. “Come, I tell you I must see
my uncle—honour bright, it is important.”
“It's no use, Mr. Anthony,” Thompson said firmly. “You can't see Mr.
Bechcombe this morning. And, pardon me, but it may be as well in your
own interests that you should wait until later in the day.”
Anthony laughed.
“What a quaint old bird you are, Thompson! Well, since my business is
important, and I don't want you to lose your berth—wouldn't miss the
chance of seeing your old phiz for anything—I shall go round and try
what I can make of my uncle at his private door. I'll bet the old
sport has some game on that he don't want you to know about, but he
may be pleased to see his dear nephew.”
“Mr. Anthony—you must not, indeed—I cannot allow——”
Anthony put up his hand.
“Hush—sh! You will know nothing about it! Keep your hair on,
Thompson!” With a laughing nod round at the grinning clerks he
vanished, pulling the door to behind him with a cheerful bang.
A titter ran round the office. Anthony Collyer with his D.S.O. and his
gay, irresponsible manners was somewhat of a hero to the younger
clerks.
Amos Thompson looked grave. He knew that Luke Bechcombe had been
intensely proud of his nephew's prowess in the War, he guessed that
his patience had been sorely tried of late, and he feared that the
young man might be doing himself serious harm with his uncle this
morning. But he was powerless. There was no holding Tony Collyer back
in this mood. Presently Thompson, listening intently, caught the sound
of a distant knocking at his chief's door, twice repeated, then there
was silence.
He shrugged his shoulders, imagining Mr. Bechcombe's wrath at the
intrusion. After a smothered laugh or two the clerks applied
themselves to their work again and silence reigned in the office. The
managing clerk watched the clock anxiously. He could imagine Mr.
Bechcombe's reception of his nephew, but, knowing Tony as he did, he
felt surprised that he had not returned to report proceedings. Then
just as the office clock was nearing the half-hour a messenger from
the Bank arrived. The waiting-room was reserved for clients, so the
Bank clerk was shown into a little office that Amos Thompson used
sometimes when there was a press of work, and the managing clerk went
to him there.
“Is there anything I can do? Mr. Bechcombe is unfortunately engaged
until one o'clock.”
“No, thank you!” the young man returned. “I was charged most
particularly to give my message to no one but Mr. Bechcombe himself. I
suppose I must wait till one o'clock if you are sure I cannot see him
before.”
The managing clerk looked undecided. His eyes wandered from side to
side beneath his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“I will see what I can do,” he said at last.
He went back to his own desk, selected a couple of papers, put them in
his pocket, and went through the outer office. In the lobby he picked
up his hat, then after one long backward glance he went towards the
outer door.
The time wore on. The first contingent of clerks returned from their
luncheon. Their place was taken by a second band. The clock struck
half-past one; and still there was no sign of either the principal or
his managing clerk. The messenger from the Bank went away, came back,
and waited.
At last the senior clerks began to look uncomfortable. John Walls, the
second in command, went over to one of his confrères.
“I understood the governor said he was not to be disturbed, until one
o'clock, Spencer, but it's a good bit after two now, and Mr. Thompson
isn't here either. The waiting-room is full and here's this man from
the Bank back again. What are we to do?”
Mr. Spencer rubbed the side of his nose reflectively.
“How would it be to knock at the governor's door, Walls? He couldn't
be annoyed after all this time.”
John Walls was of the opinion that he couldn't, either. Together they
made up their minds to beard the lion in his den. They went through
the ante-room and knocked gently at Mr. Bechcombe's door. There came
no response.
After a moment's pause Mr. Walls applied his knuckles more loudly,
again without reply.
He turned to his companion.
“He must have gone out.”
The fact seemed obvious, and yet Spencer hesitated.
“You didn't hear any one moving about when you first knocked?”
“No, I didn't,” responded John Walls, staring at him. “Did you?”
“Well, I expect it was just fancy, because why shouldn't the governor
answer if he was there? But I did think I heard a slight sound—a sort
of stealthy movement just on the other side of the door,” Spencer said
slowly.
“I don't believe you could hear any movement except a pretty loud one
through that door,” the other said unbelievingly. “But it is very
awkward, Mr. Thompson going out too. I don't know what to do.”
“The governor did say something about Mr. Thompson going to the Bank
with him,” Spencer went on. “I wonder now if Mr. Bechcombe went out by
the private door, and Mr. Thompson and he met in the passage and they
went off to the Bank together.”
“I don't know,” John Walls said slowly. “It is a funny sort of thing
anyway. I tell you what, Spencer, I shall go round and knock at the
private door.”
“What's the good of that?” Spencer objected sensibly. “If he's out it
will make no difference. And if he is in and won't answer at one door
he won't at the other.”
“Well, anyway, I shall try,” John Walls persisted. His rather florid
face was several degrees paler than usual as he went through the
clerks' office. Man and boy, all his working life had been spent in
the Bechcombes' office, and he had become through long years of
association personally attached to Luke Bechcombe. Within the last few
minutes, though there seemed no tangible ground for it, he had become
oppressed by a strange feeling, a prevision of some evil, a certainty
that all was not well with his chief.
The private door into Mr. Bechcombe's office opened into a passage at
right angles with the door by which clients were admitted to the
waiting-rooms and to the clerks' offices.
John Walls knocked first tentatively, then louder, still without the
slightest response.
By this time he had been joined by Spencer, who seemed to have caught
the infection of the elder man's pallor. He looked at the keyhole.
“Of course the governor has gone out. But I wonder whether the key is
in its place?”
He stooped and somewhat gingerly applied his eye to the hole. Then he
jerked his head up with an inaudible exclamation.
“What—what do you see?” Walls questioned with unconscious impatience.
Then as he gazed at the bent back of his junior that queer foreboding
of his grew stronger.
At last Spencer raised himself.
“No, the key isn't in its hole,” he said slowly. “But I thought—I
thought——”
“Yes, yes; you thought what?”
Both men's voices had instinctively sunk to a whisper.
Spencer was shorter than his senior. As he looked up his eyes were
dark with fear, his words came with an odd little stutter between
them.
“I—I expect I was mistaken—I must have been. You look yourself, Walls.
But I thought I saw a queer-looking heap over there by the window.”
“A queer-looking heap!” Without further ado the other man pushed him
aside.
As he knelt down Spencer went on:
“It—there is something sticking out at the side—it looks like a leg—a
leg in a grey trouser—do you see?”
There was a moment's tense silence. Then Mr. Walls raised himself.
“It is a leg. Suppose—suppose it is the governor's leg! Suppose that
heap is the governor! He may have had a fit. We shall have to break
into the room. Just see if Thompson has come back. If he hasn't get
hold of two of the juniors quietly. Send another as fast as he can go
to the nearest doctor, and get some brandy ready. It's a strong door,
but together we ought to manage it.”
There was no sign of Thompson in the office, but one of the articled
pupils was a Rugby half back. Spencer returned with him and one of his
fellows and the Rugby man attacked the door with a vigour that had
brought him through many a scrum. It soon yielded to their combined
efforts, and then with one accord all the men stood back. There was
something at first sight about the everyday aspect of the room into
which they gazed that seemed oddly at variance with their fears. Then
slowly all their eyes turned from Mr. Bechcombe's writing-table with
his own chair standing before it, just as they had seen it hundreds of
times, to that ominous heap near the window.
John Walls bent over it, then he looked up with shocked eyes.
“He—I am afraid it is all over.”
“Not dead!” Spencer ejaculated; but one look at that ghastly face upon
the floor, at the staring eyes, and wide open mouth with the
protruding tongue, drove every drop of colour from his face. He turned
to Walls with chattering teeth. “It—it must have been a fit, Walls. He
looks terrible.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
It was a woman's voice. With one consent the men moved nearer the
private door so as to shut out the sight of that ghastly heap.
“Is there anything wrong?” There was an undertone of fear about the
voice now.
John Walls turned.
“Mr. Bechcombe has been taken ill, Miss Hoyle—very ill, I am afraid.”
The sight of his white, stricken face was more eloquent than his
words. Cecily Hoyle's own colour faded slowly.
“What is it?” she questioned, looking from one to the other. She was a
tall, thin slip of a girl with clear brown eyes, a nose that turned up
and a mouth that was too wide, a reasonably fair complexion and a
quantity of pretty, curly, nut-brown hair that waved all over her head
and low down over her ears, and that somehow conveyed the impression
of being bobbed when it wasn't. Ordinarily it was a winsome,
attractive little face, but just now, catching the fear in Walls's
voice, the brown eyes were full of dread and the mobile lips were
twitching. “Can't I do anything?” she questioned. “It must be
something very sudden. Mr. Bechcombe was quite well when I went out.”
John Walls laid his hand on her shoulder.
“You can't do anything, Miss Hoyle. We can none of us do anything. It
is too late.”
Cecily shrank from him with a cry.
“No, no! He can't be—dead!”
A strong hand put both her and John Walls aside.
“Let me pass. I am a doctor. What is the matter here?”
John Walls recognized the speaker as a medical man who had rooms close
at hand.
“I think Mr. Bechcombe has had a fit, sir. I am afraid it is all
over.”
“Stand aside, please. Let us have all the air we can.”
The doctor bent over the man on the floor, but one look was
sufficient. He touched the wrist, laid his hand over the heart. Then
he stood up quickly.
“There is nothing to be done here. He has been dead, I should say, an
hour or more. We must ring up the police, at once. You will understand
that nothing is to be moved until their arrival.”
“Police!” echoed John Walls with shaking lips.
“Yes, police!” the doctor said impatiently. “My good man, can't you
see that this is no natural death? Mr. Bechcombe has been
murdered—strangled!”