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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75318 ***
+
+
+The Duke of York’s Steps
+
+by Henry Wade
+
+Copyright, 1929, by Henry Wade
+published by Payson & Clarke Ltd (New York)
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+     I. The Two Bankers
+    II. At Queen Anne’s Gate
+   III. The Victory Finance Company
+    IV. The Expected Happens
+     V. Sir Leward Marradine Takes Interest
+    VI. Inspector John Poole
+   VII. Significant Information
+  VIII. Ryland Fratten
+    IX. Silence
+     X. The Inquest
+    XI. The Intervention of Inez
+   XII. “Breath of Eden”
+  XIII. Eye-Witnesses
+   XIV. Sir Garth’s Papers
+    XV. “Eau D’Enfer”
+   XVI. Reconstruction
+  XVII. This Way and That
+ XVIII. The Method
+   XIX. The Ethiopian and General Development Company
+    XX. The Rotunda Mine
+   XXI. General Meets General
+  XXII. Miss Saverel
+ XXIII. The Hotel “Antwerp”
+  XXIV. Alibi
+   XXV. Justice
+  XXVI. . . . May Be Blind
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+The Two Bankers
+
+“A glass of the Dow for Mr. Hessel, please, Rogers, and I’ll have
+brown sherry.”
+
+The wine waiter retired to execute the order and Sir Garth Fratten
+turned to his guest.
+
+“Too much vintage port last night, I’m afraid, Leo. Old Grendonian
+dinner. ‘Hair of the dog that bit you’ may be all right with
+champagne, but port—no.”
+
+His companion laughed.
+
+“I should have thought you were too old a Grendonian to fall into that
+trap,” he said. “Where was it? The Grandleigh? They generally give you
+pretty good stuff there. I hate those functions myself—not that there
+are any Old-Boy dinners of the school I went to.”
+
+There was a trace of bitterness in Hessel’s voice, but his companion
+ignored it.
+
+“I don’t like them myself,” he said. “I haven’t been to one for years,
+but this was a ter-centenary affair and I rather had to go. The wine
+was all right—it was the speeches that were the trouble—they kept at
+it till nearly eleven. I got mine over early—and shortly—but some of
+them took the opportunity to let off steam. Pretty indifferent steam
+most of it was, too. One has to drink something—toasts and general
+boredom. I couldn’t drink the brandy—1812 on the bottle and 1912
+inside it—the usual Napoleon ramp. But the Cockburn was genuine
+stuff—’96. Must have got outside the best part of a bottle—not wise in
+these soft days. Have some coffee, old man. Shall we have it here? The
+guests’ smoking-room is sure to be packed now, and it’s after two—we
+can smoke in here.”
+
+The two men were sitting at a small corner table in the handsome
+dining-room of the City Constitutional Club, of which the elder, Sir
+Garth Fratten, was a member. Chairman of the well-known “family” bank
+which bears his name, Sir Garth occupied an assured position in the
+esteem, not only of this exclusive club, but of the “City” generally.
+Still well on the right side of seventy, the banker was commonly
+regarded as being at the peak of a long and honourable financial
+career. He had kept his mind abreast of the rapidly changing
+conditions of post-war finance, and this faculty, coupled with his
+great practical knowledge and experience, caused his opinion and his
+approval to be valued very highly, not only by individuals, but even
+at times by the Treasury. He had been knighted for his services,
+financial and otherwise, to the country in the Great War and it was
+thought not unlikely that his specialized knowledge might lead him to
+a seat in the Upper House.
+
+His companion, Leopold Hessel, was about eight years his junior,
+though his scanty hair was at least as grey as Fratten’s—probably
+because his path in life had been less smooth. His skin, however, was
+clean and, apart from the eyes, unlined, and his figure slim. He had
+the dark eyes and sensitive hands, but none of the more exaggerated
+features of his race, and the charm of his appearance was confirmed by
+the fact of his close friendship with a man of Sir Garth Fratten’s
+discrimination. This friendship had been of untold value to Hessel in
+the war, when the position of men of even remote German descent had
+been extremely difficult. Fratten, however, had insisted upon Hessel
+retaining his position upon the directorate of the bank and this
+action by so prominent a citizen, being regarded as a certificate of
+Hessel’s patriotism, had saved him the worst of the ignominies that
+were the lot of many less fortunate than himself. None the less, the
+scar of those harrowing years remained and was probably reflected in
+the conversation that was now taking place.
+
+“I wish you’d let me put you up for this place, Leo,” Fratten was
+saying. “I hate having to treat you as a guest—you know what I
+mean—and take you into that poky little smoking-room on the rare
+occasions when you consent to lunch with me.”
+
+Hessel smiled rather bitterly and shook his head.
+
+“It’s good of you, Fratten,” he said. “In many ways I’d like to belong
+here, but . . .” he paused, as if seeking how best to express a
+refusal that might appear ungracious. “Perhaps I haven’t the courage
+to risk a licking now,” he concluded.
+
+Fratten’s gesture of denial was emphatic.
+
+“You’re not still thinking of that damned war business, are you?
+That’s all forgotten long ago—not that it ever applied to you. Or is
+it Wendheim and Lemuels? They weren’t blackballed because they
+were . . . because of their religion. It was simply that this club has
+always asked for other qualifications besides wealth and business
+success. That ass Erdlingham didn’t realize it, or they’d got the whip
+hand of him or something—he’s in all their things—and he put them up
+and of course they just got pilled—not the sort we want here. You
+are—you’d get in without the least doubt.”
+
+Hessel’s hand lightly touched his companion’s sleeve. “You are a good
+friend, Fratten,” he said, “a good deal better than I deserve. Don’t
+you see that that’s one reason why I won’t risk this—you know what
+your position would be if it didn’t come off. No, don’t go on. I’m
+more grateful than I can say, but I shall not change my mind.”
+
+Fratten sighed.
+
+“All right, Leo,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but I respect your
+attitude. It’s more my loss than yours, anyway. Come on; we must be
+off. I’ve got a Hospital Board meeting at three and I must look in at
+the bank first.”
+
+The two men made their way out into the wide hall, with its handsome
+double staircase, recovered their overcoats (it was October) and hats
+from the pegs where they had hung them, and were soon in the street.
+
+As they turned into Cornhill Fratten threw away the cigar that he had
+been smoking, and cleared his throat.
+
+“I’ve got something in the way of a confession to make to you, Leo,”
+he said. “I ought to have made it before, but I’m not sure that I’m
+not rather ashamed of myself. I told you that I’d been to an old
+Grendonian dinner last night. Well, I met a fellow there who was a
+great friend of mine at school, though I hadn’t seen him since. He was
+a soldier, did damn well in the war, commanded a division in France
+towards the end and a district in India afterwards. I don’t think he’d
+ever lived in London till he retired a couple of years ago—anyhow we’d
+never met. When he left the army he didn’t settle down in the country
+to grow moss and grouse at the Government like most of them do.
+He . . . are you listening, old chap?”
+
+Hessel had been looking straight in front of him with an expression
+that suggested that his thoughts might be on some other and more
+important subject, but he emphatically repudiated the implied charge
+of inattention.
+
+“Yes, yes, of course I am. Go on—interesting career. Who is he? What
+does he do?”
+
+Sir Garth, as other and lesser men, liked to tell his story in his own
+way. He paid no attention to the questions.
+
+“As I was saying, he didn’t settle down to a life of promenades and
+old ladies at Cheltenham; he set up as a bold bad company promoter—and
+with no mean success.”
+
+“Who is he?—What’s his name?” repeated Hessel.
+
+“Lorne. Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., K.C. This and K.C.
+That. He asked me to . . .”
+
+But his companion had stopped.
+
+“Look here, Fratten,” he said. “What is this? What is the confession?
+I can’t hear you in this racket. Come down here.”
+
+He took his companion’s arm and pulled him into an alley-way that led
+through towards Lombard Street. It was comparatively quiet after the
+roar of the traffic in Cornhill.
+
+“What on earth is this story?” repeated Hessel, with a note of
+agitation in his voice.
+
+“I’ll tell you if you’ll give me half a chance. He’s Chairman of a
+Finance Company—the Victory Finance Company, I think he called
+it. . . . He has asked me to join his Board. He thinks my name would
+be a help—I suppose it would. Apparently they’re thinking of extending
+their scope; they . . .”
+
+“But you didn’t consent?” ejaculated Hessel sharply.
+
+“I warned you it was a confession, Leo. I’d had, as I told you at the
+club just now, more port than was strictly wise. I wasn’t quite so—so
+guarded as I usually am—we were very great friends at school. I was a
+fool, I suppose, but I promised him I’d look into the thing—he’s
+sending me the details tonight.”
+
+Hessel’s usually calm face was flushed. He was evidently deeply moved
+by Sir Garth’s information.
+
+“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “You can’t do that. Your doctor . . .
+You told us—the Board—only two or three meetings ago that your doctor
+had absolutely ordered you to do less work! Your heart . . . you said
+your heart was unsound! You’ve gone off the Board of the British
+Tradings—I thought you were going off your Hospital Board too.
+Besides, this Victory Trust; what is it? You can’t—with your
+reputation—you can’t go on to the Board of a tin-pot company like
+that! It’s probably not sound. It’s . . .”
+
+“Ah, that’s another point,” interrupted Fratten. “If it’s not sound,
+of course I can’t go into it. Apart from my own reputation it wouldn’t
+be fair to the public; they might take my name—for what it’s worth—as
+a guarantee. That I shall go into very carefully before I consent. As
+to health, what you say is quite true. My ‘tragic aneurism’ or
+whatever it is old Spavage calls it, is rather serious. I don’t deny
+that I’m worried about it. It isn’t heart really, you know—I only call
+it that because it sounds prettier. But after all, this Victory
+Finance Company ought not to mean much work. I gather that it’s my
+name and perhaps some general advice on the financial side of the
+business that Lorne wants.”
+
+Hessel had by this time calmed down and he now spoke quietly, though
+none the less definitely.
+
+“I think you are misleading yourself, Fratten. You tell me that this
+company contemplates extending its scope. I know you well enough to be
+certain that if you go on to this Board and it starts developing fresh
+fields you will throw your whole energy into the work. You may deceive
+yourself about that but not me. Now, apart from your own point of
+view, I want to put two others to you—your family’s and the bank’s. If
+you break down, if you over-strain yourself and collapse—that’s what
+happens, you know—is that going to be pleasant for Inez and Ryland?”
+
+“It certainly wouldn’t spoil Ryland’s sleep,” answered Fratten
+bitterly. “I can’t imagine anything suiting him better.”
+
+“Oh, come, Fratten; you’re unjust to the boy. But Inez—you know well
+enough that she adores you. I should say that you were the centre of
+her whole universe. Can’t you think of her? Doesn’t she come before
+this school friend?—a friend who means so much to you that you haven’t
+seen him, and probably haven’t thought of him, for forty years.”
+
+The banker’s expression had softened at the mention of his daughter
+but he made no comment. Hessel renewed his attack from a fresh
+direction.
+
+“And the bank,” he said. “What about that? Thousands of people depend
+upon the success of Fratten’s Bank. All your shareholders—it’s been
+your policy—our policy—for generations to distribute the shares widely
+and in small holdings—mostly to small people. Small tradesmen, single
+ladies, retired soldiers and sailors, your own employees. Many of them
+have all their savings in Fratten’s Bank. You know well enough that
+the position of the private banks is anything but secure in these
+days—half a slip, and the ‘_big five_’ swallow them. We’re doing well
+now, we’re even prosperous—why?—because of you. Your knowledge, your
+experience, your flair—you _are_ the bank, the rest of us are dummies.
+I don’t plead for myself, but my own position, my financial and social
+position are entirely dependent upon Fratten’s.”
+
+Sir Garth shook his head impatiently.
+
+“You exaggerate,” he said. “The Board is perfectly capable of running
+the bank without me—probably better. You yourself are worth in fact,
+though possibly not in the eyes of the public, every bit as much to
+the welfare of the bank as I am. You may have less experience but you
+have a quicker, a more acute, financial brain than I ever had and I’m
+past my prime—I’m depreciating in value every day. No, no, Leo; you’ve
+over-stated your case, and that’s fatal. I’ll take care, of course,
+but that appeal _ad misericordiam_—weeping widows and trusting
+orphans—is all bunkum. Anyway I must get along now—I can’t stand here
+arguing all day.”
+
+Hessel’s expression was grim.
+
+“You’ve definitely decided?” he asked.
+
+“If it’s sound, yes. I’ve taken a leaf out of your book, Leo, about
+the club. I’m grateful to you for your consideration, for your advice,
+much of it very sound, but—I shan’t change my mind.”
+
+He moved off down the alley, and Hessel, after a moment’s hesitation,
+followed him in silence. They turned into Lombard Street, both
+evidently wrapped in deep and probably anxious thought—so much so that
+Sir Garth, omitting for once the fixed habit of years, stepped into
+the roadway to cross the street without glancing over his shoulder at
+the traffic. As he did so, a motor-bicycle combination swooped from
+behind a van straight at him. With a violent start, Fratten awoke to
+his danger and stepped back on to the pavement, untouched, while the
+cyclist, with a glance back to see that all was well, sputtered on his
+way.
+
+But though there had been no collision, all was very far from being
+well. The banker took two or three shaky steps forward and then
+tottered to the inner side of the pavement and leant, gasping, against
+the wall. His face was very pale, and he pressed his hand against his
+chest.
+
+A crowd had gathered at the first sight of the unusual and now pressed
+closely round the sick man, adding its heedless quota to his distress.
+Hessel, who had come quickly to his companion’s side, did his best to
+drive off the sensation-vultures, but it was not till a majestic City
+policeman appeared that their victim was given a chance to breathe in
+comfort. After loosening his collar, the constable and Hessel guided
+Fratten into the office outside which the mishap had occurred. Quickly
+recovering himself and declining the manager’s offer to send for some
+brandy, Sir Garth brushed aside the constable’s desire to trace the
+motor-cyclist.
+
+“No, no. No need to make a fuss,” he said. “It was as much my fault as
+his, and anyway you people have got more important work to do than
+that. I’m quite all right now; it would have been nothing if I hadn’t
+happened to have a dicky heart. I’d like a taxi though. I shan’t come
+to the bank now, Leo; it’s getting late. Ask Ruslett to send me round
+the papers about that Hungarian issue to my house. I shall be there by
+five.”
+
+“But you’re going straight home, aren’t you?” exclaimed Hessel.
+
+“No, I told you I’d got a Hospital Board this afternoon. It’s nearly
+three now.”
+
+“But good heavens, man, are you out of your wits today? You’ve had a
+severe shock. You must get straight to bed and send for your doctor.”
+
+“Rubbish. I’m quite all right now. I must go to this Board meeting—I’m
+in the Chair and I’ve got to report on an amalgamation scheme.
+Besides, if I’m ill, what better place to go to than a hospital?
+They’ve even got a mortuary I believe, if the worst comes to the
+worst!”
+
+Fratten laughed at his companion’s harassed expression and took his
+arm.
+
+“Now then, lead me out to the ambulance, old man,” he said.
+
+Hessel watched his friend drive off in the taxi, and then turned and
+walked slowly off towards the bank, an anxious and very thoughtful
+expression on his face.
+
+The police-constable established himself against a convenient wall,
+took out his note-book and wetted his pencil.
+
+“At 2.45 p. m., I . . .”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+At Queen Anne’s Gate
+
+At half past four on the same afternoon, Inez Fratten walked into the
+morning-room of her father’s big house in Queen Anne’s Gate, pulled
+off her soft hat and threw it on to a chair, shook her hair loose, and
+picked up a telephone.
+
+“Wilton 0550 . . . Is that 27 Gr . . . Oh Jill! Inez speaking. Jill
+darling, come and dine with us tonight and play Bridge. Ryland’s
+dining in, as he calls it, for once in a blue moon. I’m so anxious
+that one of his dangerous tastes should have the best and brightest
+home influence to distract him from—et cetera, et cetera,—you
+know—sweet young English girlhood and all the rest of it—you’re just
+exactly it—with a small ‘i’. Yes, Golpin, I’ll have it in here. It’s
+all right, darling, I’m talking about tea. I say, did you see Billie
+last night? She was with that awful Hicking man again—you know, the
+pineapple planter or whatever it is they make fortunes out of in
+Borneo or New Guinea or somewhere. Billie’s simply fascinated with him
+because he’s got a ruby tooth—she follows him about everywhere and
+says awful things to make him laugh—he thinks he’s made a frightful
+conquest. They were at the Pink Lizard last night, but you may have
+left. Who was that exquisite young thing you’d got in tow? No—really—I
+thought he was a pet. Well, you’re coming, aren’t you? If you want a
+cocktail you must have it at home because father’s joined an
+anti-cocktail league or made a corner in Marsala or something. So
+long, my Jill. Eight o’clock—don’t be late, because we won’t wait.
+Poitry.”
+
+Inez put down the telephone and walked across to the fireplace. There
+was a small Chippendale mirror above it and she was just tall enough
+to see into it while she ran her fingers through the soft waves of her
+brown hair—peculiarly golden-brown, lighter than auburn, but in no
+sense red. A shade darker were the low, straight eyebrows which
+crowned a pair of the coolest, clearest grey eyes in the world—eyes
+that looked at you so steadily and calmly that you felt instinctively:
+“lying is going to be an uncomfortable job here.” For classic
+loveliness her chin was perhaps a thought too firm, her lips not quite
+full enough, but when she smiled there was a bewitching droop at the
+corners of her mouth that relieved it of any suspicion of hardness.
+Altogether it was a face that not only caught your eye but took your
+heart and gave it a little shake each time you looked at it.
+
+“Mr. Ryland told you he’d be in to dinner, didn’t he, Golpin?”
+
+The pale smooth-faced butler, who was making mysterious passes over a
+tea-table with a pair of over-fed hands, indicated in a gentle
+falsetto that such was indeed the case.
+
+“We shall be four altogether; Miss Jerrand is coming. Oh, I say, take
+that ghastly green cake away and bring some honey and a loaf of brown
+bread, etc. I’m hungry. And you’d better tell Mr. Mangane that tea’s
+ready—not that he’s likely to want any.”
+
+But in this respect Inez appeared to be wrong. She had hardly helped
+herself to butter, honey, and a thick slice of brown bread when the
+door opened and her father’s secretary walked into the room. Laurence
+Mangane had only taken up the post a month or so ago and as he did not
+as a rule dine with the family—Sir Garth liked to be really alone when
+he was not entertaining—Inez had seen very little of him. He seemed
+presentable enough, she thought, as he walked quietly across the room
+and dropped into a chair beside her. He was rather tall and dark, with
+a thin black moustache that followed the line of his upper lip in the
+modern heroic manner.
+
+“Afternoon, Mr. Mangane. Strong, weak, sugar, milk? I thought you
+didn’t like tea.”
+
+“I don’t. Weak, sugar, no milk, please.”
+
+Inez’s hand, waving the Queen Anne teapot, paused above a pale-green
+cup.
+
+“If you don’t like it, why on earth do you . . . ?”
+
+Mangane smiled.
+
+“Because I want some tea,” he said.
+
+Inez looked at him for a moment, the shadow of a frown flickering
+across her face. Then, with a shrug:
+
+“Distinction’s a bit too subtle for me. Anyhow, help yourself. Is
+father being kind to you?”
+
+“He’s being wonderfully patient. It must be infernally trying to a
+busy man to have to explain what he’s talking about.”
+
+“But you’ve had financial training, haven’t you? Father said you’d
+been with Sir John Kinnick. I thought you probably knew all about it.”
+
+“I thought so too; it’s been a thoroughly healthy and humiliating
+experience for me to realize that I don’t. Your father’s in a class by
+himself, so far as my experience has taken me up to now. He sees
+things from an entirely different point of view—a sort of financial
+fourth dimension.”
+
+Appreciation of her father, if Mangane had known it—and perhaps he did
+at least guess—was the surest way to win Inez’s own approval. It was
+quite evident that she regarded her father with anything but the
+tolerant contempt which many of her contemporaries thought it amusing
+to adopt towards their parents. Sir Garth was a man whom it was
+possible, and even reasonable, to admire, even if he did happen to be
+one’s own father. Playing upon this easy string, Mangane had no
+difficulty in justifying his self-sacrifice in the matter of
+tea-drinking. He was even contemplating another cup when the spell was
+broken by the abrupt appearance of a Third Player. The door into the
+hall opened suddenly and a young man slipped into the room, closing
+the door behind him with exaggerated silence.
+
+“Ry!” exclaimed Inez. “What on earth are you trying to do?”
+
+Ryland tip-toed across the room with long strides and whispered
+hoarsely in his sister’s ear.
+
+“Is the Old Gentleman, your father, to house, maiden?”
+
+“No, you idiot; of course he isn’t at this time of night. He does some
+work.”
+
+“Cruel, fair. But, oh Lord, I breathe again. A bowl of milk or I die.”
+
+Ryland slid into the big chair beside his sister and with one arm
+squeezed her to him. Mangane, watching in some amazement, had
+difficulty in repressing a stab of jealousy at sight of the flush of
+pleasure on the girl’s face. Presumably, this must be Ryland Fratten,
+her half-brother; there was nothing to worry about.
+
+“Ry, have you met Mr. Mangane? This is my brother, Mr. Mangane.”
+
+“Steady. Half-brother; give the devil his due.”
+
+Mangane nodded in acknowledgment of the introduction, but Ryland
+struggled to his feet, walked round the tea-table, and held out his
+hand.
+
+“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said. “You’re obviously human. Dune was
+a machine—and I never found the right butter to put into it. I want
+all the human beings I can get at headquarters.”
+
+The charm of his smile, rather than the flippant words, melted the
+slight chill in the secretary’s manner and for a few minutes he
+remained talking to Inez, while Ryland sat on the sofa, eating
+chocolate cake and muttering to himself.
+
+“Mangane. Permangane. What play does that remind me of? Oh, I know:
+_Potash and Perlmutter_.”
+
+Mangane laughed and rose to his feet.
+
+“You’ve been studying Mr. Pelman,” he said. “Well, I must go and earn
+my keep. Thank you so much, Miss Fratten.”
+
+When he had gone, Inez turned to her brother.
+
+“Anything the matter?” she asked.
+
+He was silent for a minute, staring at the fire. He looked very slim
+and young in his well-cut blue suit, but there were dark shadows under
+his eyes and his skin did not look healthy.
+
+“Why do you ask that?” he said at last.
+
+“Why are you dining here tonight?”
+
+“Is it as bad as all that?—Do I only dine here when something’s the
+matter?”
+
+She nodded.
+
+“That’s about what it amounts to.”
+
+“Yes, I suppose it is,” he agreed with a sigh. “And so there
+is—something the matter.”
+
+“What?” asked Inez, with her accustomed directness. Before he could
+answer the butler appeared, saying that Mr. Hessel would like to see
+Miss Fratten if she was not engaged.
+
+“Plagues of his Israel!” muttered Ryland angrily. “Who wouldn’t be a
+Pharaoh?—only I’d have done the job thoroughly.”
+
+Inez glared at him and told Golpin to show Mr. Hessel in. Fortunately
+for Ryland there was no time for her to tell him what she evidently
+thought of him before Hessel appeared in the doorway. With a sulky
+scowl on his face, Ryland muttered some sort of greeting and was about
+to edge his way out of the room when Hessel stopped him.
+
+“Don’t go, Ryland,” he said. “I’d like you to hear what I’ve got to
+say, as well as Inez.”
+
+With none too good a grace Ryland complied. Inez, with unerring
+instinct, went straight to the point.
+
+“Is anything the matter with father?”
+
+Hessel nodded.
+
+“It’s about that—no, no, my dear, there’s nothing immediately
+serious,” he interposed hurriedly, seeing the look of almost terrified
+anxiety on the girl’s face. “He’s quite all right. But something
+serious _will_ happen if you don’t both help me. How much has he told
+you about himself?”
+
+“Nothing,” said Inez. “What do you mean? Tell me quickly please.”
+
+“Hasn’t he told you that his doctor has reported badly on his heart?”
+
+“No, not a word. Is it—is he dangerously ill?”
+
+“Not immediately, no. But he will have to take great care. Surely he
+must have told you he was giving up a lot of his work?”
+
+“Yes, he did,” replied Inez. “But he said it was because he thought
+he’d earned a little peace and quiet.”
+
+“I see. So you really know nothing. I suppose I’m betraying a
+confidence, but you’ve got to know now. His heart is in a really bad
+condition—I don’t know the technical terms, but it is a case of
+disease. His doctor has told him definitely that he must avoid all
+strain or undue excitement. Now what do you think he’s done? He’s
+promised, or practically promised, some ridiculous school friend to go
+into a gimcrack business with him that will bother him and upset him
+and do more harm than all the safe, well-oiled work he’s giving up.”
+
+Hessel proceeded to outline the conversation he had had with Sir Garth
+that afternoon. Inez listened with close attention, occasionally
+asking a question that showed the clearness of her intellect. Ryland
+remained silent, but there was a look of uneasiness on his face that
+first puzzled and then comforted Inez. In spite of all the hard things
+that he said about their father, she felt that her brother really
+loved him and that this look of anxiety revealed the true state of his
+feelings.
+
+“That’s all serious enough,” continued Hessel. “But something that
+happened this afternoon makes it worse. He had a shock—a motor-bicycle
+nearly knocked him over—and he had a bad heart attack. I tried to make
+him come straight home but he wouldn’t—he was as obstinate as a
+mule—said he must go to a Hospital Board meeting, though he’d come
+home afterwards. He ought to be back at any time; I wanted to see you
+first. Take care of him, Inez,—and you too, Ryland. Don’t let him
+worry; we simply can’t spare him. Above all stop this madcap Lorne
+scheme.”
+
+He stopped and looked questioningly at Inez, who nodded.
+
+“We’ll take care of him, Uncle Leo,” she said. “Don’t you worry. Won’t
+we, Ry?”
+
+But Ryland was sitting with a very white face, glaring at his toes.
+
+“What is it, Ry?” asked Inez, slipping on to the sofa beside him and
+putting her arm round his neck. “Don’t get upset, old man. He’ll be
+all right if we take care of him.”
+
+Ryland shook himself and looked at her strangely.
+
+“I’m afraid I . . . I wrote to him last night . . . It’ll upset him if
+he reads it now . . . I wonder if I can get hold of the letter. . . .”
+
+But once more Golpin, like a figure of fate, appeared in the doorway.
+
+“Sir Garth wishes to see you in his study, Mr. Ryland.”
+
+Ryland rose to his feet and walked slowly to the door. Inez rose as if
+to follow him, but stopped.
+
+“Ry,” she said, her hand making a slight movement as if of appeal. “Be
+careful.”
+
+Her brother glanced over his shoulder.
+
+“Oh, I’ll be careful right enough,” he answered. “I can’t answer for
+the old man. This means a flogging,” he added, with a feeble attempt
+at humour.
+
+The door closed behind him and Inez turned to Hessel.
+
+“I can’t stop them,” she said. “They’re both as obstinate as pigs. I
+do wish they got on better.”
+
+“I told your father today that I thought he was hard on Ryland,” said
+Hessel, “but I suppose he is rather trying in some ways.”
+
+“Oh, he’s rather a young ass, of course. Stage doors, night-clubs, and
+that kind of thing. As a matter of fact he is really rather keen on
+the stage himself, apart from its inhabitants; he’s a jolly good
+actor. I sometimes wish he’d take it up as a profession; good hard
+work is what he wants more than anything else. He’s perfectly sound
+really you know; he’s not a rotter.”
+
+“I’m sure he isn’t, my dear,” said Hessel, patting Inez on the
+shoulder. “And he’s a lucky young man to have a sister like you to
+fight his battles. Well, I must be going; I ran away early from school
+to come and talk to you and I must go and do some overtime now to make
+up for it. Besides, I don’t want your father to catch me here telling
+tales.”
+
+When he had gone, Inez sat for a few minutes in gloomy silence, then
+jumped up, shook herself and turned on the loud-speaker. A jazz-band
+was playing ‘When father turned the baby upside down’ and Inez danced
+a few steps to its lilting tune. Suddenly, through stutter of drums
+and moan of saxophones, Inez heard the front door close with a crash.
+She stopped for a moment, as if hesitating what to do, then flew to
+the window and flung it open. Twenty yards down the street she saw the
+retreating figure of her brother.
+
+“Ry,” she called. “Ry, come back.”
+
+But Ryland, if he heard, took no notice; she saw him hail a taxi, jump
+into it and drive away. For a moment she hung out of the window,
+watching till the cab whisked round a corner out of sight; then turned
+forlornly back into the room.
+
+“_So father kissed his baby on its other little cheek_ . . .” yelled
+the jazz soloist.
+
+Inez picked up a book and hurled it at the loud-speaker. “Oh, shut up,
+you filthy fool,” she cried.
+
+The instrument crashed to the floor and was still; Inez flung herself
+on the sofa and buried her face in her arms.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+The Victory Finance Company
+
+The morning after Sir Garth’s confession to Hessel, the cause of it,
+Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., D.S.O., stepped from his car
+outside Ald House in Fenchurch Street, greeted the hall-porter
+cheerfully, refused the lift (“must keep young, you know, Canting”)
+and climbed briskly up to the offices of the Victory Finance Company
+on the fourth floor.
+
+The General was a well-built man of about five foot ten, very erect
+and extremely good-looking, with a straight nose, firm chin,
+brushed-up moustache, and dark hair only powdered with grey. There was
+nothing subtle about him; it was quite obvious that he would be an
+extremely good friend to people whom he liked and frankly contemptuous
+of those he did not understand. He had done well in command of a
+division in France (or, what was considered the same thing, the
+division which he commanded had done well) and was now confidently
+engaging in a campaign in which he would be even more dependent on the
+skill of those serving under him.
+
+The offices of this young and promising Finance Company were by no
+means pretentious. They consisted of a clerks’ room, opening on to the
+landing, a small room for the manager and secretary, and a larger
+directors’ room, which also had a door opening on to the stairs.
+
+Sir Hunter, as was his habit, entered by way of the clerks’ room,
+greeted the two young clerks, asking one about his mother’s neuritis
+and the other about the fortunes of his pet football club (“Always
+get to know your men and their interests, my lad”), and passed
+down the short passage into the directors’ room. Here he found a
+fellow-director, Captain James Wraile, a clean-cut, clean-shaven man
+of forty, with the very pale blue eyes that may mean the extremity of
+either strength or weakness and are so very hard to judge.
+
+“Morning, Wraile, my boy. Glad you’ve turned up,” exclaimed the
+General heartily. “How goes the world?”
+
+Wraile smiled quietly.
+
+“Well enough, I think, General, if you aren’t in British Cereals.”
+
+“Ah, yes, we did well not to touch that. Your advice, I think, Wraile.
+I don’t know what we should do without you.”
+
+“It was rather lucky; they looked a good thing at first sight. But one
+can generally find the weak spot when one gets down to the
+foundation—as it’s our job to do. Lessingham’s coming in this morning,
+Blagge tells me, General. He rang through last night to ask if you’d
+be here.”
+
+“Oh, he is, is he? Very good of him to come at all. I suppose if I see
+him once a month that’s about all I do, and Resston never. It’s as
+well he’s coming, though. He’s got a flair and we can do with his
+advice about the Barsington Dirt Track Racing Company. I don’t quite
+know what to say about that business, you know, Wraile. It’s a craze
+at the moment; there’s money in it now—big money. But will it last?
+Especially in the country towns—there’s a very limited public there,
+what?”
+
+“Very limited, Sir Hunter. It’s all right for a quick flutter, but a
+loan—we might find ourselves badly let in.”
+
+“Well, we’ll ask Lessingham—he may jump on it straight away. I respect
+his judgment. What time’s he coming?”
+
+“Eleven o’clock, he said—should be here any time now.”
+
+“Then I’ll keep my news till he comes—I’ve done a good stroke of
+business for the Company I think, Wraile, a very big stroke. Ah, here
+he is. Come on, Lessingham; better sometimes than never. Well, I’m
+glad to see you. We’ll have your advice first and then I’ll tell you
+my news—it might put the other out of our heads.”
+
+The newcomer was a man of medium height and rather clumsy build—heavy
+shoulders, with a suspicion of hump in the back, and a large paunch.
+His hair was black and rather curly, but his complexion was pale and
+he wore large yellow-rimmed spectacles, with tinted Crooke’s lenses.
+He was smartly dressed—rather overdressed, with a heavy cravat and
+pearl pin; he wore dark-grey gloves which he did not remove even when
+writing, a habit that grated on the well-trained senses of his
+fellow-director. He spoke in a very soft and rather husky voice, which
+yet carried a considerable impression of character. As a matter of
+fact, he talked very little, leaving Sir Hunter to supply the
+deficiency. The three men sat down at the board table and were
+presently joined by the manager, Mr. Albert Blagge. Blagge was a
+tired-looking, middle-aged man, with honesty and mediocrity written
+all over him in equal proportions. He took little part in the
+discussion that followed and it was soon evident that he was employed
+as a responsible clerk and not as an adviser.
+
+On the subject of Dirt Track Racing the General had a good deal to say
+and said it well. Lessingham sat beside him at the Board table,
+sifting through his gloved hands a sheaf of prospectuses over which he
+ran his eyes—a habit of apparent inattention which intensely annoyed
+Sir Hunter but of which he had been unable to break his partner. At
+the end of ten minutes the General had reached his climax and
+conclusion—the Barsington Dirt Track Company was unsuitable for the
+Victory Finance Company to handle.
+
+“I agree,” said Lessingham, without looking up from his papers.
+
+Sir Hunter frowned slightly and brushed his moustaches. He would have
+preferred an argument; he liked something to batter down. On this
+occasion, however, he was anxious to get on to the more important
+subject that was itching under his waistcoat. Being slightly
+uncomfortable about his ground, he assumed a more than usually strong
+and hearty voice:
+
+“Now, my boy,” he said, “I’ve got a piece of news for you that’ll make
+you sit up. I’ve done a stroke of business that not many people, I
+flatter myself, could have brought off.”
+
+Lessingham turned his spectacled eyes for a moment to his companion’s
+face, then resumed his scrutiny of the Central Motorway Company’s
+prospectus. Wraile looked at the Chairman with interest, but said
+nothing. The reception of his opening remarks had not been
+enthusiastic, but it took more than that to throw Sir Hunter out of
+his stride.
+
+“You both know Fratten—Sir Garth Fratten—head of Fratten’s Bank—one of
+the most solid and respected men in the City? You’ll hardly believe
+me, but I think I have practically persuaded him to join our Board!
+What do you think of that, eh?”
+
+Sir Hunter paused impressively and looked at his fellow-directors to
+see what effect this tremendous piece of news would have on them. The
+effect was certainly visible, but it was hardly of the nature that the
+General had expected. Wraile looked at him with raised eyebrows—a
+respectful, but hardly encouraging expression. Lessingham, on the
+other hand, wore a look of intense anger. His face retained its even
+white colour but his eyebrows were knit in a heavy frown and his lower
+lip protruded as he glared at Sir Hunter.
+
+“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “Join our Board? Fratten join our Board?
+What right have you to ask him without our consent? It’s a gross
+liberty, Lorne—a gross liberty!”
+
+Sir Hunter was palpably taken aback. He had expected enthusiasm; he
+received abuse. Not since, as a Brigadier, he had been sent for by the
+Corps Commander and, instead of receiving the praise he had expected
+for a “successful” raid, had been frigidly rebuked for squandering
+lives, had he been so thrown off his balance. He grew red in the face,
+his moustache bristled, and a line of small bubbles appeared on his
+lips.
+
+“Wh . . . what’s that?” he stammered. “A liberty! What the hell d’you
+mean, sir? It’s the best stroke of business I’ve ever done!”
+
+“I can quite believe that,” said Lessingham acidly.
+
+“But, damn it, man, Fratten’s name on our Board will draw money like a
+magnet! Think of the security it offers. Fratten! Fratten’s Bank
+practically guaranteeing us!”
+
+“Fratten’s Bank doing nothing of the kind,” exclaimed Lessingham
+angrily. “There’s a Board of directors there just as there is here;
+it’s not a one-man show, any more than this is!”
+
+Lorne was staggered. He looked to Wraile for support, but Wraile’s
+face was cold; he looked at Mr. Blagge, but the manager’s eyes were
+bent upon the papers before him.
+
+“Well I’m b——,” said the General. “Of all the ungrateful devils! Look
+here, you chaps, can’t you understand what it’d mean? Every investor
+looking through a list of Finance Companies will see Fratten’s name on
+our Board—the biggest name on the whole list—just what we want!
+Security! Ballast! We’ve got brains, we want ballast! What?”
+
+Lessingham’s reply was quiet this time, but cold, decided,
+unsympathetic as a surgeon’s knife.
+
+“It is you who don’t understand, Sir Hunter,” he said. “If Fratten
+were to come on this Board, he would want control—these big men always
+do. Why else do they come on to our small company Boards? To swallow
+them up; swamp them. Fratten’s a sound enough man in his own way, but
+he’s old-fashioned—no use to us. He would turn this Company into a
+‘safe-as-houses,’ ‘no risk’—and no result—business, with an investment
+schedule like his own Bank’s—the last thing we want. You might just as
+well close the whole thing down. His name might impress an
+unenlightened investor, but it wouldn’t impress a broker for a
+minute—a broker would know that Fratten is not the type of man to run
+an Investment Company, he wouldn’t recommend us to his clients—and the
+number of investors who deal without the advice of a broker isn’t
+worth considering. The thing’s a washout, I tell you—a rotten
+washout!”
+
+Lessingham’s anger spurted up again in his last words—his usually
+controlled voice revealed, in that sentence, the primeval qualities of
+his race.
+
+Sir Hunter sat back in his chair, a look of blank astonishment on his
+face. It lightened, however, as an idea seemed to strike him.
+
+“But Fratten wouldn’t have control,” he said. “He’s not coming into
+this to make money, but to oblige me—as an old friend. I didn’t tell
+you—we were old school friends—we met the night before last at an
+Old-Boy dinner. He wouldn’t want control—or even to interfere. I was
+going to suggest that we should each of us sell him 5%; but if you
+aren’t keen, I’ll let him have 10% of my own—that’ll leave me with
+only 50%, you and Resston’ll still have your fifteen and Wraile his
+ten. He’s only coming in to oblige me.”
+
+“He’s not coming in at all if I can stop it,” exclaimed Lessingham
+fiercely. “I don’t know what you think you are, Sir Hunter. You’re
+Chairman of the Board and you hold a majority of shares, but this
+isn’t an infantry brigade—your word’s not law. You can outvote us, but
+we can get out—and if you bring this fellow in, I shall—then see how
+you get on without me. Wraile can please himself.”
+
+As he spoke, there was a knock at the door and one of the clerks came
+in.
+
+“Gentleman of the name of Fratten to speak to you on the ’phone, Sir
+Hunter, sir, please. Shall I put him through?”
+
+“Fratten!” Lorne looked round him with momentary hesitation, then
+straightened his back.
+
+“Yes, put him through, put him through, my lad, what?” he exclaimed.
+
+There was a moment’s silence as Sir Hunter held the receiver to his
+ear, then:
+
+“Hullo, Garth, good-morning; good-morning, my dear fellow; good of you
+to ring me up. What? This morning? By all means, come when you like;
+come now.” (His eyes wandered defiantly from face to face.) “Yes, of
+course—delighted to see you, my dear fellow; delighted.”
+
+He replaced the receiver and returned the telephone to its stand on
+the wall behind his chair.
+
+“Sir Garth’s coming round now,” he said. “Going to look into our
+doings. Naturally a man in his position can’t commit himself without
+investigation.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Naturally he can’t,
+what?”
+
+Lessingham turned towards the manager.
+
+“I’ll ask you to withdraw, please, Mr. Blagge,” he said. The manager
+gathered up his papers and left the room.
+
+“Now, Chairman,” said Lessingham, speaking quietly but decisively,
+“this matter’s got to be settled here and now—you’ve invited Fratten
+to come round here and to join the Board without consulting your
+fellow-directors. You’ve got the whip hand of us in the matter of
+votes—you can put him on if you like. But if you put him on, I go
+off—that’s final. I don’t expect you to settle that in one minute, but
+you’d better have your mind made up before Fratten gets here. I’m
+going now; you can let me know what you’ve decided. Only understand,
+what I’ve said is final.”
+
+He rose and, without another glance at either of his colleagues,
+walked out the room. Sir Hunter’s face was a dark red; he was deeply
+offended—and at the same time, seriously alarmed; he knew well enough
+where the brains of the company lay; Wraile was clear-headed and
+intelligent, but comparatively an amateur like himself; Lessingham was
+a financier. At the same time he could not allow himself to knuckle
+under to a fellow of that type; he could not throw over Fratten; it
+would be a gross insult to the distinguished banker after asking him
+to join the Board. Lorne realized that he had acted hastily, perhaps
+unwisely—but he had gone too far to retire—only a really great general
+can bring himself to retire.
+
+“You’ll stand by me, Wraile?” he said gruffly. “I count on you.”
+
+“I will, of course, General, if you’re determined on it; I know well
+enough that I owe everything to you—but I’m sorry you’ve decided to
+exchange Lessingham for Fratten—I’m convinced that one’s the man for
+our job and the other isn’t.”
+
+Before Sir Hunter could reply, the door opened and Sir Garth Fratten
+was announced.
+
+“Good-morning, Lorne,” he said. “Very good of you to let me come
+round.”
+
+“Come in, my dear fellow, come in!” exclaimed the General, advancing
+to meet him with outstretched hand. “Delighted to see you. Let me
+introduce Captain Wraile to you—one of our directors. He was our
+managing-director till a year or so ago but he was enticed away to a
+more glittering post than we can afford, what? Ha, ha.” He clapped
+Wraile on the shoulder to show that he bore him no grudge. “But we
+were lucky enough to keep him on the Board. He was my Brigade Major in
+France in ’15—don’t know what I should have done without him—ran the
+whole show—most efficient fellow you ever saw—don’t blush, my boy; you
+know I mean it. Marvellous hand at inventing devilments—stink-bombs,
+rifle grenades, every sort of beastliness he used to contrive for poor
+old Jerry—long before the authorities dished us out even a ‘jam-pot.’
+You ought to have seen our catapult battery behind the Pope’s Nose at
+Festubert! Ha, ha, that was an eye-opener for Fritz.”
+
+Sir Hunter laughed uproariously, but Wraile, who was intimately
+acquainted with the moods of his old chief, knew that he was nervous.
+
+“I’m very glad to meet you, Captain Wraile,” said Sir Garth, smiling
+pleasantly at him. “A little fresh blood and ingenuity is the very
+thing that’s wanted in post-war finance. May I sit down, Lorne? I’m
+rather a crock just now and have to nurse myself.”
+
+“My dear fellow, I’m so sorry—inexcusable of me! Have a glass of port
+[the General’s panacea]—no?—a cigar, anyhow—Corona Corona, handpicked
+by myself, every one of ’em.”
+
+“I’ll leave you, sir,” said Wraile. “I expect you and Sir Garth want
+to have a talk.”
+
+“Not the least need for you to go so far as I’m concerned,” said the
+banker. “You’ve told him what I came round about, Lorne?”
+
+Sir Hunter nodded, and looked rather anxiously at Wraile.
+
+Sir Garth continued: “All I want is just to know roughly your general
+policy. Then, if you’ll give me a copy of your last Annual Report and
+Balance Sheet and a Schedule I’ll take them away and just run through
+them in my spare time. You won’t mind that, I’m sure.”
+
+The Chairman shortly, but not too clearly, outlined the history and
+activities of the company, and calling in the manager, introduced him
+to Sir Garth. Fratten looked at him with interest, and evidently
+realized at once that not here would he find what he was looking for.
+
+“The other members of your Board,” he said when Mr. Blagge had left.
+“Would you mind letting me know who they are?”
+
+“Of course, of course; I quite forgot that—stupid of me, what? There’s
+old Lord Resston—he never turns up—holds 15% of the shares and draws
+his guineas—great disappointment to me. Wraile here comes pretty
+regularly twice a week; I’m here most days. The only other director’s
+a chap called Lessingham—Travers Lessingham—very shrewd; doesn’t show
+up much, though—other irons in the fire, I suppose. Still, when he
+comes, his advice is worth having. That’s our Board. Then there’s
+Blagge, our manager, whom you’ve met; Miss Saverel, our very capable
+secretary, and a couple of junior clerks.”
+
+Fratten nodded. “And do you suppose your fellow-directors will care
+for me to join you?” he asked.
+
+For a second Sir Hunter hesitated, but before the pause could become
+awkward—or even apparent—Wraile slipped into the breach—as he had so
+often done in France.
+
+“Speaking for myself, sir,” he said, “I shall consider it a great
+honour to work with you.”
+
+The General shot him a grateful glance.
+
+“Of course, I must formally consult my colleagues,” he said, “but,
+naturally I don’t expect anything but a warm welcome.”
+
+Sir Hunter had burnt his boats.
+
+“Very well,” said Sir Garth, rising, “I’ll look into these papers and
+let you have a decision within a week or two—it’ll take me a little
+time—I’m an old-fashioned methodical man and I don’t rush my
+decisions. Good-day to you, Lorne; good-day, Captain Wraile.”
+
+“I’ll come down with you, my dear fellow—nearly my lunch time—can I
+persuade you to . . .” the door closed behind them and Wraile was
+alone. He stood for a moment in thought, then touched a handbell
+twice. The inner door opened and a young woman, tall, fair, and
+attractive, came into the room.
+
+“Dictation, please, Miss Saverel.”
+
+The secretary pulled a chair up to the table and opened her note-book.
+
+“My dear Lessingham . . .”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+The Expected Happens
+
+One evening, about a fortnight later, Sir Garth Fratten and Leopold
+Hessel walked down the steps of the “Wanderers,” in St. James’s
+Square, of which rather large-hearted club Hessel was a member, and
+turned towards Waterloo Place. Fratten usually spent an hour or so at
+his club, or that of one of his friends, in the evening and walked
+home afterwards across the Park to his house in Queen Anne’s Gate. It
+was, in fact, the only exercise that he got in the day.
+
+“Thanks for my tea, Leo,” said Sir Garth. “First-rate China tea it was
+too—I wonder where you get it?”
+
+Hessel smiled. “That’s one of the advantages of being not too
+exclusive,” he said. “We’ve got members from all parts of the world
+and in all sorts of business; it’s rather a point of pride with us
+that each member who can should help the club to get the best of
+everything. That tea is unobtainable on the market—Rowle gets it for
+us, he’s a Civil Servant in Hong Kong; we’ve got more than one
+tea-merchant, but they can’t produce anything to touch it.”
+
+He paused for a moment, then continued: “I wanted to ask you, Fratten,
+whether you’ve really settled to go into that Finance Company. Inez
+told me a couple of evenings ago that she was afraid you had, but I
+hope that she misunderstood you.”
+
+He looked questioningly at his companion.
+
+Fratten, being conscious of unspoken criticism, answered brusquely,
+“Certainly I have. I don’t know why you all make such a fuss about the
+thing—it’s quite unimportant.”
+
+“That it certainly is not, in the sense that it endangers your health.
+But I am afraid it is no use protesting further. You found the Company
+sound?”
+
+For a second Sir Garth seemed to hesitate, then: “Oh yes, sound,
+certainly sound—and interesting,” he added with a peculiar smile.
+
+“Exactly,” said Hessel, “and you will throw yourself into it with all
+your strength and wear yourself out.”
+
+“Nonsense, Leo; don’t be so fussy. Look here, I want to talk to you
+about Ryland; I want your advice.”
+
+For a few paces Hessel walked on, without seeming to attend to what
+his friend was saying; then he evidently wrenched his mind back from
+its wanderings.
+
+“Ryland?” he said. “Not another scrape, I hope?”
+
+The banker frowned. “Scrape is hardly adequate,” he said. “The young
+fool has got himself engaged to some chorus girl and now—as usual—he’s
+had enough of her and wants to break it off—naturally she wants money.
+He wrote to me the other day asking for money—I found his letter when
+I got back from the Hospital Board the day I had that shock. I sent
+for him and we had an almighty row—both lost control of ourselves, I’m
+afraid. I’m rather ashamed of that, but what shocks me so much is that
+he should have said the things he did. He’d got some queer ideas in
+his head about entail—he spoke in the most callous and unfeeling way.
+I was hurt, Leo—deeply hurt. I thought that, at bottom, he was really
+fond of me.”
+
+“So he is, Fratten, so he is, of course,” interjected Hessel. “You
+said yourself that you both lost your tempers—one says all sorts of
+things that one doesn’t mean when one loses one’s temper—then one’s
+sorry for them and probably one’s too stupid or sensitive to say so.
+Ryland’s all right really, I’m sure he is—a young ass about women, of
+course, but his heart’s all right.”
+
+Fratten sighed. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “My God, what a
+heavenly evening—what a view!”
+
+The two men had reached the top of the broad flight of steps leading
+from Waterloo Place down into the Mall. Above their heads towered the
+tall column from which the soldier-prince gazed sadly out over the
+London that had forgotten him. Daylight had gone, but the lamps
+revealed the delicate outline of the trees in the Green Park, their
+few remaining leaves gleaming a golden-brown wherever the light caught
+them. In the background it was just possible to get a glimpse of the
+delicate white beauty of the Horse Guards building, its clock-tower
+illuminated by hidden lights; beyond, on the right the sombre mass of
+the Foreign Office loomed up against the purple sky. The soft evening
+fog mellowed the whole scene to one of real beauty.
+
+Fratten stood for a moment drinking it in; his companion waited with
+him, but seemed to have little eye for his surroundings. He had
+lighted a cigar and gave some attention to the way in which it was
+burning.
+
+“Have you ever thought,” he asked as they moved on, “of getting Ryland
+to take up the stage professionally—either as an actor or producer? He
+has considerable talent, I believe. It seems to me that real work of
+any kind, however . . . hold up!”
+
+They had got about half-way down the triple flight of steps, when a
+man, evidently in a great hurry, running down the steps from behind
+them, stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, catching hold of his arm to
+recover his own balance. Fratten did not fall, though he might have
+done so had Hessel not been on his other side to steady him.
+
+“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered the intruder. “I’m in a great
+hurry; I hope I haven’t hurt you?”
+
+The speaker was a well-built man of rather more than average height,
+without being tall. He appeared to be somewhere in the thirties and
+wore a dark moustache.
+
+“Are you all right, Fratten; are you all right?” asked Hessel,
+anxiously looking in his companion’s face. Sir Garth had closed his
+eyes for a minute, and in the dim light he appeared to be rather
+white, but he soon pulled himself together and smiled at his
+companion.
+
+“Quite all right, Leo,” he said.
+
+“In that case, sir,” said his “assailant,” “if you’ll forgive me—I’ll
+be off—great hurry—important message—Admiralty . . .” and he was off,
+dashing down the steps as before and disappearing in the direction of
+the great building across the road on the left. A small group of
+people had collected but when they found that nothing really exciting
+had happened they quickly dispersed—all except one middle-aged lady
+who fluttered round Sir Garth, chattering excitedly about “dastardly
+attack,” “eye-witness,” “police,” etc., until Hessel brusquely
+requested her to take herself off. Hessel himself was not a little
+excited; he insisted on cross-examining his friend as to his symptoms,
+begged him to take a cab and, when he refused, took him by the arm and
+almost led him along, gesticulating energetically with his free hand,
+in which the lighted cigar still glowed. Sir Garth thought that he had
+never before seen his friend display so markedly the reputed
+excitability of his race.
+
+Fratten himself appeared to be very little upset by the incident; he
+listened with some amusement to Hessel’s exhortations and allowed
+himself to be shepherded across the Mall. The pair stopped for a
+second on the island in the middle to allow a car to pass and then
+crossed slowly to the other side; they had reached the footway and
+taken a step or two towards the Horse Guards Parade when Fratten
+uttered a sharp ejaculation, staggered, and then, gasping for breath,
+sank slowly down into a limp bundle on the ground. Hessel had been
+quite unable to hold up the dead-weight of the body through whose arm
+his own was linked; in fact he was nearly pulled to the ground
+himself. He threw himself on his knees beside his friend and peered
+anxiously into his face.
+
+What he saw there was deeply disturbing. Sir Garth’s face was deadly
+pale in the dim light, his eyes stared up, unseeing but agonized; his
+mouth was open and set as if in a desperate effort to breathe. But the
+gasping breaths had ceased, the body was quite still.
+
+Hessel clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
+
+“Fratten;” he said. “Fratten; can you hear me?”
+
+No answer came from the still figure on the ground.
+
+Hessel looked up at the ring of pale faces hovering above him.
+
+“Has anyone got a car?” he asked, “or a taxi?”
+
+“Shall I fetch a doctor, sir?” asked one of the crowd.
+
+“Or a policeman?” asked another.
+
+“Or an ambulance?”
+
+“No, no, a car. I want to get him to his own house—quite close here.
+His own doctor—knows all about this. Sir Horace Spavage. Heart—I’m
+afraid . . . a car . . .”
+
+“I’ve got a car here,” said a newcomer who had pushed his way through
+the crowd and heard the last words. “A limousine—he’ll be comfortable
+in that.” (“Not much use to him, though,” he muttered to himself.)
+“Lend a hand, somebody; I’ll take his shoulders. Put a hand under his
+head, will you?”
+
+Very carefully the limp form was carried to the car and deposited on
+the soft cushions of the back seat. Hessel got in beside it and took
+his friend’s hand, which felt to him deathly cold. The owner of the
+car got in beside the driver and in less than two minutes they had
+reached Queen Anne’s Gate. Fortunately, as Hessel thought, Inez was
+not in and Sir Garth was carried into the morning-room and laid on the
+big sofa. There was no lift in the house and Hessel did not like, he
+told Golpin, to risk the climb to the second floor.
+
+Within ten minutes Sir Horace Spavage had arrived. One glance at the
+white and agonized face was enough.
+
+“Dear, dear!” he said. “So soon?”
+
+Kneeling down by the sofa, he picked up one of his patient’s hands,
+held the wrist for a few seconds between his fingers and thumb, and
+laid it quietly down again. Then, undoing the front of the shirt and
+vest, he laid his hand on the bare chest and tapped it firmly with the
+rigid fingers of his other hand. Even to Hessel’s untutored ears, the
+sound produced was curiously muffled and dull. Sir Horace rose slowly
+to his feet, putting away the stethoscope which he had automatically
+slipped round his neck.
+
+“Yes; as I thought,” he said. “The aneurism has burst.”
+
+
+The funeral of Sir Garth Fratten took place on the following Monday.
+The actual burial was at Brooklands and was attended only by members
+of the family and a few close personal friends. Ryland and Inez were
+the chief mourners, Ryland looking very subdued and unhappy, and Inez
+worn out with misery but erect and calm—and very beautiful in her
+black clothes. A few distant cousins had come to establish a
+relationship which the dead man had allowed to remain distant during
+his life, whilst Leopold Hessel, Laurence Mangane, Sir Horace Spavage,
+and Mr. Septimus Menticle, the family solicitor, were also present.
+
+In London a memorial service was held at St. Ethelberta’s, one of
+Wren’s most beautiful—and threatened—City churches. The church was
+packed with City men of all types and standings. A Director of the
+Bank of England was present to represent that august institution
+officially, together with members of the committees of Lloyds and the
+Stock Exchange. All the directors of Fratten’s Bank, except of course
+Hessel, were there, and Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, a notable
+figure even among men of note, represented the Victory Finance
+Company. Every member of the staff of Fratten’s Bank, which was closed
+for the day—a unique circumstance—was there, from the chief cashier to
+the latest-joined stamp-licker. The City felt that one of its big men
+had gone—one of the fast-disappearing pre-war type—and it was, beneath
+its inscrutable surface, genuinely moved.
+
+When the burial at Brooklands was over, the party returned to Queen
+Anne’s Gate. Inez, with quiet dignity, poured out tea and then excused
+herself and retired, leaving Ryland to act as host to the rather
+uncomfortable and ill-assorted gathering. When tea was finished a move
+was made to the dining-room and as soon as the gloomy committee was
+seated round the big mahogany table, Mr. Menticle produced the last
+will and testament of his late client. Placing a pair of gold
+pince-nez upon his aquiline nose, he cleared his throat and, in a
+precise voice, read the contents of the crisp document in his hand.
+The distant cousins were all agreeably surprised by what they heard,
+the staff of Fratten’s Bank were remembered to a man—and girl, various
+charities were mentioned, though not unduly, and the residue of the
+estate was divided equally between “my two children, Ryland and Inez
+Fratten.” Leopold Hessel was appointed sole executor with a generous
+legacy and the instruction that Sir Garth’s private and business
+papers should be in the first place scrutinized by him and their
+disposal left to his sole discretion.
+
+“There, gentlemen!” said Mr. Menticle, when the reading was over,
+“that represents the attested wishes of a very big and generous man;
+if, as one who has known him and his family and affairs for many
+years, I may be allowed to say so, it represents also a very
+reasonable and well-balanced distribution of the goods which he
+largely created himself and which, as we know, it was as impossible
+for him as for any other to take with him out of this world. With your
+permission, gentlemen—yours especially, Mr. Fratten—I will now
+withdraw. I have, I am sorry to say, other work awaiting me at my
+office which this sad occasion has caused me to neglect.”
+
+When the last of the ghouls had left, Ryland Fratten returned to the
+dining-room and sank again into the chair he had just left. For
+minutes he sat there, motionless, staring at the polished surface of
+the table, his face an expressionless mask—except for the eyes, in the
+depth of which a look of some agonized emotion seemed to lurk—sorrow,
+remorse, fear?
+
+The door opened quietly and Inez’ wistful face peered round it.
+
+“There you are, Ry!” she said. “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere,
+since I heard the front door slam. I thought perhaps old Menticle had
+got his teeth into you about the will or something. What are you doing
+in here all by yourself, old man?”
+
+Ryland turned his haggard face towards her, an attempt at a smile
+quivered on his mouth, and then his head sank into his folded arms and
+a deep sob shook his body.
+
+Inez slipped on to the chair next to him and threw her arm across his
+shoulders.
+
+“Ry,” she said. “What is it? My dear, tell me.”
+
+A look of anxiety and almost more than sisterly tenderness came into
+her eyes as Ryland sat motionless, unanswering.
+
+At the same time, back at his office in Lincoln’s Inn—where also he
+lived, in considerable bachelor comfort—Mr. Menticle emptied his
+dispatch-case on to the table before him. From the heap of documents
+he selected one, a parchment, less soiled than most of the others. He
+ran his eye over its brief contents, looked for a minute out of the
+window, as if in deep thought, then slowly tore it across and across.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+Sir Leward Marradine Takes Interest
+
+The sudden death of Sir Garth Fratten, interesting and, in financial
+circles, important as it had been, was not sufficiently sensational to
+remain in the public memory more than a day or two after the funeral.
+But it was not entirely forgotten. About three days later, Sir Leward
+Marradine, the Assistant Commissioner in charge of the Criminal
+Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, called the attention of
+Chief Inspector Barrod to an advertisement in the Personal Column of
+_The Times_.
+
+  “Duke of York’s Steps. Miss Inez Fratten will be glad to hear from
+  the gentleman who accidentally stumbled against her father, Sir
+  Garth Fratten, on Thursday 24th October, some time after 6 p.m.
+  Write 168 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W.”
+
+“Make anything of that, Barrod?” asked the A.C.C.¹ “I wonder if it’s
+in any other papers.”
+
+     ¹ Assistant Commissioner (Crime).
+
+“Yes, sir, a lot of them. Many of the “pennies” have got a paragraph
+about it. It’s just the sort of thing they seize on to and try and
+work up into a ‘sensation.’”
+
+“I wonder what the girl’s got in her mind,” muttered Sir Leward.
+
+“Hardly a matter for us, is it, sir?” asked his subordinate.
+
+“No, not at—not as far as I know. You needn’t bother about it, Barrod;
+I know the girl slightly—I’ll go and see her quietly, just in case
+there’s something behind this. Now, about these Treasury note
+forgeries; has Murgate reported yet on the Goodge Street plant? I
+don’t believe myself that that outfit could have produced such
+high-class work. . . .”
+
+Soon after five that evening, Sir Leward emerged from Scotland Yard
+and crossed Whitehall in the direction of Storey’s Gate, taking off
+his hat to the delicate Cenotaph which lay on his right.
+
+The head of the C.I.D. was a squarely built man of medium height, with
+long arms and rather rounded shoulders. In spite of the fact that he
+had been a soldier, he was clean-shaven, whilst his mouth, with its
+full lips, was intelligent rather than firm. Occupying a succession of
+comfortable posts at the War Office during the last three and a half
+years of the War, he had been at hand to slip into this plum of
+ex-service civilian posts when it fell vacant, being wise enough to
+relinquish a better-paid but moribund Army appointment before the
+returning flood of warriors from sea and land glutted both service and
+civilian markets.
+
+The sight of the Cenotaph reminded Marradine that Remembrance Day was
+nearly at hand again. This annual ceremony, the heart of which lay so
+close to his own work, always filled him with an intensity of
+patriotic and heroic feeling. What a wonderful sight it must be for
+those million dead Britons to look down—if they could look down—upon
+the dense black and white sea of their comrades and descendants,
+motionless and silent in memory of them. To see the King—head of the
+greatest Empire the world has ever known—and all his ministers, his
+admirals and generals, standing there in reverence, with bared heads.
+Quaint in a way, when you thought of some of the million whose memory
+they were hallowing—scoundrels, a lot of them, cowards a good many,
+and the great bulk only fighting and dying because they had to. Still
+it was a noble death. War itself was a noble, an heroic affair, in a
+way, bringing out all that was best in a man. Sir Leward felt a thrill
+of pride that he himself had been a soldier.
+
+The great Government offices were emptying now and the hurrying crowds
+of men and women, all with the eager look of “home and supper” in
+their eyes, gave to the familiar scene an air of vitality, slightly
+romanticized by the soft haze of autumn twilight.
+
+As Marradine expected, Inez Fratten was at home and in the middle of
+tea in the comfortable morning-room next to the front door. She was
+looking even more attractive than Sir Leward remembered and he was
+glad when a dark young man who was with her, introduced by some name
+faintly resembling his own, muttered some excuse and departed.
+Marradine accepted a large cup of tea and a muffin.
+
+“How nice of you to call,” said Inez, smiling sweetly—as she would
+have called it—at him, after Sir Leward had murmured suitable words of
+consolation. As a matter of fact Inez was rather at a loss where to
+“place” her visitor; she remembered meeting him at some dinner, that
+he was something important under the Government, and that he had paid
+her rather heavy-handed attention after dinner, but she was not sure
+whether, under his official manner, he was young-old, or old-young,
+“rather a dear,” or “a pompous ass.” She didn’t even know whether it
+was worth the bother of finding out. His first words, however, quickly
+switched her mind off these trivial matters to one of, for her,
+intense interest.
+
+“I saw your advertisement in _The Times_, Miss Fratten. I wondered
+whether I could help you in any way—I daresay you know that I’m at
+Scotland Yard.”
+
+“I hadn’t quite realized it—I knew you were something important,” said
+Inez. “I hope you don’t think it was very silly of me to put that
+advertisement in.”
+
+“What was in your mind? Don’t tell me, of course, if you don’t want
+to—I’m not here officially—but if I’m to help . . .” Marradine left
+the sentence unfinished.
+
+Inez thought for a minute. She wasn’t sure that she quite liked what
+she saw of her visitor, but obviously he could find out far more for
+her than she could herself. Anyhow, she couldn’t very well do any harm
+by talking to him.
+
+“I haven’t got anything very definite in my mind,” she replied. “But
+it seems to me so odd that that man who knocked into father—who must,
+quite accidentally of course, have been the cause of his
+death—shouldn’t have shown any sign—written to me, or something.”
+
+Sir Leward waited for a moment or two to see if there was more to
+come. It was a curiously lame explanation; he felt that there should
+be more in it than that—but evidently there was not.
+
+“Don’t you think, perhaps, that you’re rather exaggerating the man’s
+responsibility?” he suggested. “I do remember something about Sir
+Garth having been jogged by somebody a little time before he fell. But
+the doctor—whoever he was—can’t have thought much of it; or at any
+rate, he was evidently expecting your father’s death at any time,
+otherwise he would hardly have given a death certificate without an
+inquest.”
+
+“Oh yes, of course he expected it,” said Inez, with a touch of
+impatience. “At least, he says so now. I knew nothing about it—about
+his being seriously ill—till about a fortnight before, and then I
+didn’t know for some time that it was an aneurism—we were told it was
+heart disease. It’s all come so very suddenly—I feel somehow that
+something’s wrong.”
+
+With most women Sir Leward would at this point have said something
+soothing and platitudinous, taken a solicitous farewell, and put the
+matter out of his mind. The whole thing seemed to him so simple—a
+storm in a tea-cup. But Inez attracted him; he liked her pale beauty,
+her calm but decided manner—he liked particularly the peculiar droop
+at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. It would be easy to see
+more of her.
+
+“I expect the chap just hasn’t noticed about your father. Those people
+live curiously localized lives—his own office stool and his circle in
+Balham. They often are quite unaware of what’s going on in the world
+outside that. Probably he’ll see this advertisement, though—or
+someone’ll talk about it in front of him. Then he’s sure to turn up or
+write. Will you let me know? I might be able to help.”
+
+Marradine rose to go—he knew the importance of brevity in any kind of
+visit—it enhanced the value, tantalized the imagination.
+
+“By the way,” he asked, as he shook hands. “Who was the young fellow I
+so unkindly drove away? Not your brother, of course?”
+
+“Mr. Mangane? He’s father’s secretary—was, I mean. There’s a good deal
+to clear up—he’ll be going soon, of course.”
+
+“Been here long?”
+
+“A month or so, I think.”
+
+Sir Leward opened his mouth to ask another question, but thought
+better of it and went away, leaving Inez, as he had intended, still
+wondering about him.
+
+Arriving at his office in Scotland Yard at about ten the next morning,
+Sir Leward sent for Chief Inspector Barrod. It wouldn’t do to let
+Barrod know how trivial he thought the matter, so he piled on the
+interest a bit.
+
+“It’s just possible that there’s something in this Fratten business,
+Barrod,” he said. “Miss Fratten is a shrewd, level-headed girl, not
+likely to make a mountain out of a molehill. She’s not at all
+satisfied with the cause of death; it seems that they’d said nothing
+to her about an aneurism, which was apparently the trouble—I confess I
+thought it was heart failure myself—shows how carelessly one reads
+things when one’s not particularly interested. Sir Garth was a rich
+man, of course, and a big man—he may have had enemies. Probably
+there’s nothing in it, but—a wisp of smoke, you know.”
+
+The Chief Inspector was not impressed; he wasn’t even interested. He
+remained silent. Sir Leward was conscious of the lack, and covered it
+by a still more decided manner.
+
+“We’ll look into it,” he said. “Put someone on who’s not too heavy in
+the foot. You know what I mean. Who have you got?”
+
+Chief Inspector Barrod allowed a faint smile to hover on his lips, but
+he spoke seriously enough.
+
+“I’ve just got the man you want, sir. Poole. Just promoted
+Inspector—you’ll remember that you put him up yourself, sir, after
+that Curzon House impersonation case. Well-educated officer,
+sir—public school and college man.”
+
+The fact of the matter was that Barrod himself thought very little of
+Detective-Inspector Poole and was delighted to have the opportunity of
+pushing him off in search of a mare’s nest. Poole was of a type that
+he did not care for—well-educated, “genteel” (Barrod thought),
+probably soft, and certainly possessed of a swelled head. A failure—or
+at any rate, a fiasco—would do him no harm.
+
+“Does he know anything about finance?” asked Sir Leward.
+
+Barrod raised his eyebrows.
+
+“Finance, sir? Do you mean accountancy, or—or what I might call ‘high
+finance’?”
+
+“I don’t know that I’d ‘fined’ the subject down so closely, Barrod. I
+meant finance generally—accountancy would certainly come into it—stock
+markets, bill-broking and so on. Hardly ‘high finance’—that’s more
+international banking, isn’t it?”
+
+“That was rather Sir Garth Fratten’s line, wasn’t it, sir? He was a
+banker, and certainly had an international reputation.”
+
+“That’s not quite the same thing, I should say, as being an
+international banker—Fratten’s was a small private bank.—I should have
+thought it was more of a family affair. Still, I confess I’m very
+ignorant on the subject.”
+
+“So am I, sir—an abstruse subject. Anyway, I’m afraid Poole won’t have
+it. I believe he did go through a course of economics sometime—I’m not
+quite sure when. I don’t know what he learnt at it.”
+
+“Probably his way about a balance sheet—which is more than most of us
+know. What about women? Can he keep his head or is he liable to be
+vamped?”
+
+“That Radinska woman didn’t put it over him in the Curzon case,
+anyhow, sir.”
+
+“No, nor she did—I remember. Good-looker, too. Bit of a St. Anthony.
+On the whole he sounds the man for the job.”
+
+“I think he is, sir,” agreed the Chief Inspector, with an inward
+chuckle.
+
+“Call him up, then, if he’s here. May as well get on with it at once.”
+
+Chief Inspector Barrod pulled the house-telephone towards him.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+Inspector John Poole
+
+Detective-Inspector John Poole had had, as Chief Inspector Barrod had
+told Sir Leward Marradine, a good education. That is to say, he had
+been to a private school, one of the smaller public schools, and to
+the University of Oxford, where he had been an exhibitioner of St.
+James’s College. It was at Oxford that the seed of his rather
+eccentric ambition had been sown in him. His father, a country doctor
+with a comfortable practice, had intended him at first to follow in
+his own footsteps, but when John began to show signs of brain power
+above the family average, without feeling any of the “call” to a
+career of healing that is so essential to success in that profession,
+he had substituted the Bar as the goal of the boy’s academical
+efforts. John had a cool, clear brain, the facility to express himself
+concisely, and a capacity for hard and persistent work—a dogged
+pursuit of results—all admirable qualities in a barrister.
+
+For a time young Poole followed the course laid down for him willingly
+enough. He took his Law Prelim. in his stride, and settled down to the
+pursuit of Final Honours—a First if possible, a Second as very second
+best. At the same time he did not neglect either the athletic or
+social side of University life. In his third year he got an Athletic
+Half-Blue, running as second string in the Low Hurdles, whilst in the
+summer he played cricket for his College and once figured, but without
+conspicuous success, in a Seniors’ Match. He began to rehearse a small
+part in _The Winter’s Tale_ for the O.U.D.S. but, finding it took too
+much of his time, mostly spent in hanging about watching the stars
+spread themselves, he gave it up and took to political and other
+debating societies.
+
+It was at a meeting of the Justice Club that he first made his mark.
+The society was debating the rights and wrongs of a certain celebrated
+criminal trial, and Poole, rising as a comparatively unknown member
+when the discussion had reached a stage of considerable confusion and
+imminent collapse, had reviewed the evidence for the prosecution from
+so original a standpoint and with such logical precision that the
+“jury” had returned an enthusiastic and overwhelming majority for the
+defence. As a result of this speech, Poole had been elected a member
+of the Criminologists Club, a much older and more reputable body, at
+whose meetings celebrated old members often attended and spoke. Here
+he had met Harry Irving, whose personality had fired John with his own
+enthusiastic interest in the fascinating subject of crime. On another
+occasion the principal speaker—not a member—was the Chief Commissioner
+of the Metropolitan Police, who, speaking on the subject of police
+work generally and criminal investigation in particular, had
+definitely opened John Poole’s eyes to the possibility of crime
+investigation as a career.
+
+At first the young undergraduate thought of becoming an independent
+investigator—a private detective—possibly after a short career at the
+Bar with the object of picking up the legal side of the work. But
+after thinking over again all that the Chief Commissioner had said,
+and reading such books on the subject as he could lay his hands on,
+Poole came to the conclusion that the powers and machinery of the
+official police gave them such an overwhelming advantage over the
+“amateurs” that in the Force itself alone lay the prospects of really
+great achievement.
+
+For the high offices in the Police Force, the Chief Constables of
+County Constabularies, the Chief and Assistant Commissioners of the
+Metropolitan and City Police, it was not of course necessary to have
+been a policeman. Such posts usually went to soldiers and sailors, or
+even occasionally to barristers, though in some of the Borough Police
+forces promotion from the ranks was becoming more common. But, from
+the first moment, Poole set his mind on one post, for which—though it
+was generally so filled—he did not consider that an army or navy
+training was sufficient. He wanted to be Head of the Criminal
+Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.
+
+He quite appreciated the commonly accepted attitude that a Chief
+Commissioner or a Chief Constable (outside Scotland Yard) needed a
+wider training, a broader outlook, than were to be obtained by
+step-by-step promotion in the police force. But for the particular and
+expert work of criminal investigation, for a degree of experience and
+proficiency such as he believed a great chief of the C.I.D. ought to
+have, he did not believe that any soldier, sailor, or barrister was
+qualified. On the other hand, he doubted, as did the authorities and
+public opinion generally, whether any policeman, as at present
+recruited, had the necessary qualifications, of the broader kind,
+either; in fact, he doubted whether, under present conditions, _any_
+individual living was properly qualified for the post he sought.
+
+Poole therefore determined to qualify himself by obtaining both the
+broad outlook and the expert knowledge which he postulated. He
+completed his time at Oxford, taking a Second Class in Law at the end
+of his third year; then, in order to get some insight into the legal
+side of his work, he was called to the Bar and was lucky enough to get
+into the chambers of Edward Floodgate, the well-known criminal lawyer,
+who afterwards leapt into fame in the course of the astounding
+Hastings trial. With Floodgate he remained for a year, working with
+great energy to acquire as much knowledge and experience as possible
+in the short time at his disposal. At the age of twenty-three he
+joined the Metropolitan Police as a recruit, and after serving for
+fifteen months as a Constable in “C” Division, succeeded in catching
+the eye of the authorities and was transferred to the C.I.D. at
+Scotland Yard. At the age of twenty-seven he was promoted Sergeant and
+soon afterwards was lucky enough to figure prominently in two
+celebrated cases, in the latter of which, known as the Curzon case, he
+had come under the notice of Sir Leward Marradine himself. The A.C.C.
+was so impressed by the intelligence and persistence displayed by the
+young Detective-Sergeant that he put his name down for accelerated
+promotion, a step, as we have seen, not fully approved by Chief
+Inspector Barrod, in whose section he worked.
+
+Barrod, however, was a fair-minded man, and though he had no high
+opinion of his new Inspector, he did not allow the latter to be aware
+of the fact. It was with no misgiving, therefore, that Poole answered
+the summons to report himself to the A.C.C. Certainly his appearance,
+as he respectfully acknowledged Sir Leward’s greeting, did not belie
+his reputation. Standing about five feet ten inches, he had the
+straight hips, small waist and wide shoulders of the ideal athlete,
+though his clothes were cut to conceal, rather than accentuate, these
+features. His face, except for the eyes, was not remarkable; the chin
+was well-moulded rather than strong, the mouth quietly firm, and the
+forehead of medium height. But the eyes were, to anyone accustomed to
+study faces, an indication of his character—grey, steady eyes that
+looked quietly at the object before them, with a curiously unblinking
+gaze that allowed nothing to escape them. They had, for a detective,
+the distinct disadvantage that, to anyone who had encountered them,
+they were not easily forgotten.
+
+“Sir Leward wants you to look into a case for him, Poole,” said the
+Chief Inspector. “It would probably save time, sir,” he added turning
+to Marradine, “if you gave him the facts and your instructions
+yourself.”
+
+Marradine repeated his account of his interview with Miss Fratten and
+his own impressions on the subject.
+
+“You’ll see, Poole,” he said, “that so far there is no real case to
+investigate; the doctor signed a death certificate without question,
+nobody has laid any information or in any way hinted at foul play. And
+yet I’m not satisfied—and clearly Miss Fratten is not satisfied. I
+want you to make one or two very quiet and discreet inquiries. It
+mustn’t get about that Scotland Yard is moving in the matter—we don’t
+want to bring a hornet’s nest about our ears. Of course, you will
+have to act in your official capacity—the people whom you question
+will have to know that we are interested—but it must not go any
+further. Impress that upon them. I would suggest your seeing the
+doctor—Spavage, I think his name was—and the solicitor. Possibly that
+chap Hessel, who was with Sir Garth when he died.”
+
+Chief Inspector Barrod had been turning the pages of a Medical
+Directory.
+
+“Sir Horace Spavage, M.D. 1902, L.R.C.B. Lond. 1910, etc., etc., Phys.
+in Ord. to H.M. the King. Cons. Phys. Heart Hospital . . . is that the
+chap?” he asked.
+
+“Yes, that’ll be him; I remember, the name now—Sir Horace Spavage. The
+solicitor you’ll have to get from Miss Fratten—I don’t know anything
+about him. When you’ve had a talk with them, come and see me and we’ll
+decide whether it’s worth while going any further.”
+
+Sir Leward nodded in dismissal and his two subordinates left the room,
+Poole following the Chief Inspector to the office which the latter
+shared with three other Chief Inspectors. Barrod sat down at his desk
+and started to go through some papers. Poole waited in silence for a
+minute and then, thinking that perhaps his superior had forgotten his
+presence, he coughed discreetly. Barrod lifted his head and looked at
+him with raised eyebrows.
+
+“Yes?” he said.
+
+“Any instructions, sir?”
+
+“You’ve had your instructions from the Chief.”
+
+Inspector Poole felt slightly uncomfortable—as if there was a hitch
+somewhere.
+
+“I report progress through you, I suppose, sir, as usual?”
+
+“Sir Leward told you to report to him. You’d better do as you’re told.
+This case has nothing to do with me.”
+
+Decidedly, a hitch. “Very good, sir.”
+
+Poole left the room, wondering just what the trouble was. He was not
+at all pleased at getting on the wrong side of Chief Inspector Barrod
+at this stage of his career, though he could not see what he himself
+had done to bring this about. Perhaps the Chief Inspector had
+forgotten his Kruschen that morning—or taken an overdose. More
+probably, he had been himself ticked off about something and this was
+just a case of the office-boy taking it out of the cat. Anyway, Poole
+did not propose to allow himself to be put out by this little cloud on
+the horizon.
+
+The story that he had heard had rather intrigued him. For the moment,
+of course, there was very little in it; from a criminal point of view
+there would probably prove to be nothing in it at all. But the chief
+characters concerned were undoubtedly interesting. In the first place,
+Sir Garth Fratten, the great banker, whose reputation for financial
+ability amounting almost to genius had penetrated well beyond the
+bounds of the City. Then there was his daughter, Miss Fratten. Sir
+Leward had not, of course, revealed the physical side of his
+attraction to her—he had not referred in any way to her appearance or
+qualities; but it was quite clear that she was a girl of character and
+determination; she would almost certainly be an interesting person to
+meet. Finally there was the doctor, Sir Horace Spavage—a man of
+established reputation, “Physician in Ordinary to the King.” If it
+turned out that there had been foul play—and he had given a death
+certificate of “natural causes”—he would be in a funny position.
+
+Poole decided first of all to visit the doctor. If there was anything
+questionable about Sir Garth’s death it was essential to find out the
+actual cause. So far he was very vague on this subject.
+
+Leaving Scotland Yard, the detective crossed Whitehall, automatically
+raising his hat to the Cenotaph as he did so. Having been too young to
+serve in the Great War, and having himself lost no near relations in
+it, he naturally did not feel the same personal interest in the
+national memorial as those who had, but he liked the custom of this
+quiet salute and always observed it. Taking a S.C. Bus, he was soon
+crashing down the wide thoroughfare from which the Empire is governed.
+Past the delicate Horse Guards building, nestling between the sombre
+Treasury and the great barrack of the Admiralty; past the pretentious
+_massif_ of the new War Office, its grossness shamed by the dignified
+beauty of its small neighbour “Woods and Forests”; through the lower
+part of Trafalgar Square, threatened now by the shadow of
+architectural disaster; into the whirl of one-way traffic round the
+Guards Crimean Memorial; through the blatant vulgarities of Piccadilly
+Circus and up between the glaring new commercial palaces of Regent
+Street; Poole at most times had an eye for London, for its beauties
+and its tragic blunders, but today his mind was upon the problem in
+front of him.
+
+Automatically he got down at Oxford Circus, disengaged himself from
+the “monstrous regiment” of female shoppers, and cutting across
+Cavendish Square, turned into the long and sombre avenue of Harley
+Street.
+
+“This dates him a bit, doesn’t it?” Poole muttered to himself, as he
+glanced up at the name of the street.
+
+Fortunately for him, Sir Horace’s house was at the Cavendish Square
+end, so that he was saved a possible ten minutes walk of infinite
+dreariness. Only one plate was on the massive door, he noticed as he
+rang the bell. Probably that meant that Sir Horace lived here, poor
+devil. The door was opened by a man-servant in a white jacket. Poole
+explained that he had no appointment but that, if Sir Horace had a
+quarter of an hour to spare in the near future, he would like to
+consult him upon a matter of some importance. The man-servant showed
+Poole into a waiting-room faintly redolent of mutton and retired,
+bearing with him Poole’s private card. After the customary twenty
+minutes wait, the man-servant returned to say that, owing to the
+failure of a patient, Sir Horace was fortunately able to see Mr. Poole
+at once—the usual formula of the unengaged.
+
+Poole was shown into a large room, full—or so it seemed—of dark heavy
+furniture and a countless array of signed photographs; on the big
+writing-table, Their Gracious Majesties; on the mantelpiece, Their
+various Royal Highnesses—mostly ten or twenty years younger than life;
+on occasional tables and round the walls the lesser, but still noble
+fry: Caroline Kent, Minon Lancashire, Grace Wilbraham-Hamilton, George
+Gurgles—“truthfully yours,” leaders of fashion, men and women of the
+world, actors and actresses—of the type eligible for “birthday
+honours”—sportsmen, financiers—yes, prominently now, though probably
+retrieved by recent notoriety from comparative obscurity, an
+indifferent portrait of “Garth Fratten.”
+
+Naturally, Inspector Poole did not take in all these photographic
+“warrants” at one glance, rather they impressed themselves upon his
+sub-conscious notice and gradually presented themselves one by one,
+during the course of the interview, to his observant eye. At the
+moment he was engaged in taking in the principal feature of the room,
+Sir Horace Spavage himself. Sir Horace was not a tall man, he was in
+fact, about five foot six, but he was, as he liked to put it, a man of
+good proportions and of a noticeable presence. His hair was now white
+and rather long, he had a curling white moustache, good teeth—too good
+to be true—and more than a suspicion of side-whiskers. He wore a
+frock-coat and a double cravat embellished by a fine pearl pin.
+
+When Poole entered, Sir Horace was standing behind his desk, tapping
+the former’s card against his well-kept nails. After a quick glance at
+his visitor, to see perhaps if he looked sufficiently noble to be
+shaking hands with, Sir Horace abandoned any such intention that he
+may have fostered, and waved to a chair.
+
+“Sit down, Mr.—er—Poole. What may I have the pleasure of doing for
+you?”
+
+The detective remained standing. He handed across the table his
+official card.
+
+“That will explain who I am, sir. I thought it better not to send it
+in by your servant; the matter is confidential.”
+
+Sir Horace frowned. He also remained standing.
+
+“What is it you want, Inspector? I have only a few minutes. My next
+patient . . .”
+
+“I quite understand, sir. I have been instructed to make one or two
+enquiries about the death of Sir Garth Fratten. Some question has been
+raised about the actual cause of death—about the circumstances, too,
+that led up to it. As regards the first question, you, naturally, can
+give us the information we want.”
+
+“You will find the necessary information in my death certificate,
+Inspector. I don’t understand the necessity for your coming to me
+about it. The matter was all in order.”
+
+“Quite so, sir, but I shall be glad, all the same, if you will tell me
+about it in your own words. Possibly some amplification of the
+information contained in the certificate may clear things up.”
+
+“What do you mean, ‘clear things up’? There is nothing to clear up, so
+far as I know.”
+
+“Probably not, sir, but we want to be quite certain on that point. I
+understand that the cause of death was the rupture of an aneurism. Can
+you tell me how long Sir Garth had suffered from this—disability?”
+
+The physician stood for a moment looking down at the writing-pad in
+front of him, his fingers playing an irritated tattoo on the woodwork
+of the table. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he sat down,
+signing to the detective to do the same.
+
+“Very well,” he said, “I suppose I had better do what you want, though
+it seems a complete waste of time—yours as well as mine. Sir Garth
+Fratten had been suffering from a thorasic aneurism for about a year.
+It was very slight at first, and I had hoped by treatment—the
+injection of gelatine solution—to cure it. Within the last three
+months, however, the dilatation had noticeably increased. I ordered
+complete rest—owing to the position, in the chest, an operation was
+out of the question—but Sir Garth was a self-willed man and would not
+listen to reason. He preferred, he said, to die in harness rather than
+lead an idle and useless life, though he did agree to knock off a
+certain amount of his work. There was always great danger of the
+aneurism bursting in the event of sudden shock and, though I hadn’t
+expected it quite so soon, I was in no way surprised when it
+occurred.”
+
+“I’m afraid I’m very ignorant, sir,” said Poole. “Would you mind
+telling me, not too technically, what an aneurism is?”
+
+This was pie to Sir Horace and he answered with a better grace than he
+had yet shown.
+
+“An aneurism is a blood-containing cavity, the walls of which are
+formed from the dilatation of an artery, or of its surrounding
+tissues. The dilatation is due to local weakness, caused by injury or
+disease. You might say that the general effect was rather like the
+ballooning of an inner tube through the outer cover of a motor tire.
+Naturally, if the aneurism bursts, the blood escapes from the artery
+into the pleura and death rapidly ensues. Do I make myself clear?”
+
+“Quite, sir. Now can you tell me if it is the case that Sir Garth’s
+family was in ignorance of this condition?”
+
+“Certainly not. Not, that is to say, at the time of his death. It is
+true that for some time Sir Garth told his family and friends that it
+was his heart that was troubling him—he considered that deception, I
+believe, to be a euphemism. But he made no stipulation to me about it
+and I myself told his son what was the matter with him. The boy and
+his sister were worried by a slight accident that had occurred to Sir
+Garth—only a week or two before his death, it was, as a matter of
+fact—and young Fratten came up here to see me about it. I wrote him
+out a note of explanation to show his sister—he wasn’t sure that he
+could explain it to her himself. It was obviously desirable that they
+should know, so that they could use their influence to restrain him
+from overdoing himself.”
+
+Poole felt a slight stirring of interest as he listened, though he was
+not sure exactly what had aroused it. But he was now coming to the
+awkward part of his interrogation.
+
+“About the actual cause of Sir Garth’s death, sir. I understand about
+the aneurism bursting, but what exactly caused it to burst?”
+
+Sir Horace fidgeted with a paper-knife.
+
+“Surely,” he said, “your people read the papers? There was a slight
+accident, very slight. Someone stumbled against Sir Garth, upset him
+to a certain extent. No doubt it was a shock, as it was on the
+occasion of which I have already spoken—he was nearly run over in the
+City by a motor-bicycle. The shock and excitement were quite
+sufficient to burst the aneurism. I had no difficulty in deciding the
+cause of death and in giving a certificate to that effect.”
+
+Poole took the plunge.
+
+“You will forgive me, sir,” he said, “but I shall be glad if you will
+tell me whether you are quite sure that there is no possibility of
+mistake. Is it impossible that death was due to some other cause, such
+as a blow? Some deliberate cause, that is to say?”
+
+Sir Horace sat up abruptly.
+
+“What on earth do you mean, sir?” he exclaimed. “Are you throwing
+doubts upon my diagnosis?”
+
+“Not for a minute,” Poole hastened to assure him. “I fully accept the
+cause of death as being the rupture of the aneurism, but I would like
+to know whether it could possibly have been deliberately brought
+about—by a blow, for instance. May I ask whether you examined the body
+for any signs of a blow—any wounds or bruising?”
+
+Sir Horace sprang to his feet, his face flushed, his eyes congested
+with anger.
+
+“This is beyond sufferance!” he exclaimed. “You come here and
+cross-question me about the way I carry out my duties! Me, a Physician
+to His Majesty the King! Sir Wilfred (he was referring to the Home
+Secretary) shall hear of this! It is preposterous!”
+
+He struck a hand-bell angrily:
+
+“Of course there was no wound or bruising. The cause of death was
+quite simple and in accordance with my certificate. The whole of this
+questioning is ridiculous. Have the goodness to remove yourself, sir.
+Frazer, show this man out.”
+
+Inspector Poole retired with what grace he could, but with a smile at
+the back of his mouth. As the front door closed sharply behind him, he
+said to himself:
+
+“That chap’s got the wind up.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+Significant Information
+
+After a quick luncheon and a visit to the library of the Yard to look
+up “Aneurism” in the Encyclopedia Britannica, in order to check Sir
+Horace’s description, Inspector Poole presented himself at 168 Queen
+Anne’s Gate. On this occasion he did not present his private card, as
+he thought it unlikely that Miss Fratten would see him on that alone,
+and he certainly did not intend to entrust his official card to a
+butler or footman, who would certainly start talking about “a visit
+from the police”; instead, he enclosed his official card in an
+envelope with a note explaining that Sir Leward Marradine had
+instructed him to call.
+
+Poole was standing in the large and comfortable hall, waiting for the
+return of the butler, when a door on one side opened and a tall young
+man with a dark moustache came out into the hall and walked towards
+the staircase. Throwing a glance at Poole, the newcomer hesitated, a
+puzzled expression on his face, then stopped abruptly and exclaimed:
+
+“Good God; Puddles! What on earth . . . where have you sprung from?”
+
+For a moment Poole struggled with an effort of memory; then a smile
+broke on his face, and he took a step forward with extended hand:
+
+“Mangane! Laurence Mangane!”
+
+Suddenly he checked himself and his hand dropped to his side, a
+peculiar expression replacing the smile on his face.
+
+“Good-afternoon, sir,” he said.
+
+A look of amazement came into Mangane’s face and he, too, checked his
+approach.
+
+“‘Sir’?” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you talking about?”
+
+Poole glanced round to see if anyone else was present.
+
+“I’m Detective-Inspector Poole, sir,” he said.
+
+Slowly Mangane’s face cleared and he broke into a broad grin.
+
+“Good Lord, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about your quaint
+career. So you’re a detective, are you? And an Inspector at that?
+Jolly good work. I . . .”
+
+Poole made a gesture to stop him. The butler was coming downstairs.
+
+“Miss Fratten will be down in a few minutes, sir. Will you step this
+way, sir, please?”
+
+He led the way into the morning-room; Poole followed and Mangane
+brought up the rear. When the door had closed behind the butler,
+Mangane took the detective’s arm and gave it a friendly shake.
+
+“Now, Puddles,” he said, “tell me all about it, and drop this ‘sir’
+nonsense.”
+
+“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” replied Poole. “If I don’t sink
+myself completely in my identity as a policeman it may make my
+position impossibly difficult if I run across any of my old friends in
+an official capacity. I thought at one time of changing my name when I
+joined the Force but that seemed making rather a mystery of the
+business. It’s possible, for instance, that I may have to question
+you, among other people. That’s absolutely confidential at the moment,
+please. But if I do, you can see for yourself that I can only do it as
+an unidentified policeman. You understand that, don’t you—sir?”
+
+Mangane slowly nodded his head.
+
+“Yes, I see,” he said. “You’re probably right, though I don’t like it.
+If at any time you do relax your . . .”
+
+He was interrupted by the opening of the door into the hall. Inez
+Fratten walked in, Poole’s note in her hand. Her eyebrows lifted
+slightly as she saw the two men talking together. Mangane evidently
+divined at once what was passing in her mind—the suspicion that he
+might be trying to “pump” the detective as to his business there.
+
+“Inspector Poole and I are old friends, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I
+haven’t seen him for a great many years, though.”
+
+Inez’s face at once cleared and broke into a smile.
+
+“How jolly,” she said. “Then I shan’t be afraid of him. It makes me
+feel fearfully inquisitive though; I can’t help imagining that he ran
+you in at some time in your indiscreet past.”
+
+She laughed lightly, and Poole fell an instant victim to her charm.
+Mangane threw a glance of enquiry at the detective, who nodded.
+
+“We were at Oxford together,” said Mangane.
+
+Inez just checked herself in time from an exclamation that would have
+been hardly polite to the policeman.
+
+“Better than ever,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve met again.”
+
+“I’m afraid it’s not much use to us,” said Mangane. “Poole insists
+upon remaining a policeman with a number and no old friends. I’ve no
+doubt he wouldn’t have let me tell about Oxford if he hadn’t known
+that you must be wondering why we were talking to each other. But I
+mustn’t stop here talking; you’ve got business, of course.”
+
+He touched Poole’s shoulder and walked quickly out of the room. Inez
+made a mental note that he had gone up a step.
+
+Poole’s interview with Inez Fratten did not reveal anything fresh. She
+talked about her advertisement and told him that she had not yet had
+any reply to it. She explained how Mr. Hessel had told her and her
+brother of the accident to their father in the City, and had warned
+them to stop him, if they could, from taking on some fresh work that
+he was contemplating; she did not tell him of the stormy interview
+that Ryland had had with her father on the same evening nor of the
+difficulty she had had in getting into touch with her brother again
+after that unfortunate occurrence; she explained how she had
+cross-questioned her father about his illness and how the latter had
+at last testily advised her to find out all about it from Sir Horace
+Spavage; finally, how Ryland had, at her request, gone up and
+interviewed Sir Horace—she was laid up with a chill and could not go
+herself—and had brought her back a note explaining all about the
+aneurism.
+
+“I was horribly frightened about it,” she said, “but father was quite
+hopeless—you couldn’t turn him, once he had made up his mind to a
+thing. I feel pretty sure that he would have killed himself with
+overwork, even if it hadn’t been for this accident. That doesn’t make
+me any the less want to get hold of the rotter who knocked into him,
+and hasn’t the decency to come and say he’s sorry,” she added
+vindictively.
+
+“I expect we shall find him, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “In the
+meantime, will you tell me the name of your father’s solicitor?”
+
+And with the name and address of Mr. Septimus Menticle of Lincoln’s
+Inn, Poole took his departure.
+
+Mr. Menticle, however, was not in, and Poole was wondering what else
+he could do to further the enquiry when it occurred to him that Sir
+Leward had added the name of Mr. Leopold Hessel to the list of his
+preliminary investigations. The detective had gathered that Mr. Hessel
+was a director of Fratten’s Bank, so turned his steps now in that
+direction. He was lucky enough to find Mr. Hessel still in the bank.
+As soon as Poole had explained his business, the banker motioned him
+to a chair and sent for an extra supply of tea.
+
+“Now, just what is it you want to know, Inspector?” asked Hessel.
+“About the accident—though it was scarcely as much as that
+really—before Sir Garth’s death? I’ll tell it you as well as I can,
+though it’s extraordinarily difficult to be clear in one’s mind, even
+about the most trivial happenings, when one has to be exact. We were
+walking from my club in St. James’s Square towards Sir Garth’s house
+in Queen Anne’s Gate—you know it, I expect. He always walked home
+across the Park in the evening, though generally from his own club. On
+this occasion he happened to have had tea in my club and I was walking
+part of the way home with him; we got absorbed in a topic of
+conversation and I went on with him past the Athenæum and the Duke of
+York’s column, though I had not at first intended to go that way. As
+we went down the steps, some man, who was apparently in a hurry,
+stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, who in his turn knocked against
+me.”
+
+“Just one minute, sir, please,” interrupted Poole. “I’d like to get it
+quite clear. You say that the man stumbled and fell against Sir Garth.
+Could you define that rather more closely? What was the actual degree
+of force with which he struck into Sir Garth?”
+
+Hessel thought for a minute.
+
+“It’s just as I said,” he replied—“so difficult to be exact. I was
+talking, of course, and not noticing very much what was going on
+around me. I think I was just conscious of some slight noise or
+commotion—an exclamation, perhaps, and then Fratten staggered against
+me. Not very heavily—I don’t think he would have fallen if I had not
+been there. But he was upset—clearly shaken—I suppose it was a shock.
+The man was very apologetic—seemed quite a decent fellow. As Fratten
+appeared to be really none the worse there seemed to be no point in
+detaining him—he was in a hurry—and said something about the Admiralty
+and a message. He ran on down the steps in that direction and Sir
+Garth and I walked slowly on—I took his arm in case he was still
+feeling shaken. Just after we had crossed . . .”
+
+“May I interrupt again one minute, sir? Before you leave the incident
+on the Duke of York’s Steps—can you say definitely whether or not the
+man who stumbled against Sir Garth actually struck him? Struck him
+with his fist, that is to say, or some instrument, with sufficient
+force to cause his death?”
+
+Hessel stared at the Inspector with surprise.
+
+“I see,” he said. “That’s what you’ve got in your mind? I wonder what
+put the idea there—still, I suppose that’s not my business. No, I
+should say myself pretty definitely that such a thing did not occur. I
+feel quite sure that I must have been aware if any force of that kind
+had been used. Besides, there were any number of people about—there is
+always a stream of them going that way towards Victoria and Waterloo
+at that time of day. Some of them must surely have noticed if any blow
+had been struck.”
+
+Poole thought over this point for a moment; it seemed unanswerable.
+
+“I see, sir,” he said. “There really were, then, a lot of witnesses of
+the occurrence?”
+
+“Any number. A small crowd collected round us at once.”
+
+“You didn’t take any of their names, I suppose?”
+
+“I didn’t; it never occurred to me to—the whole thing was a pure
+accident and at the time I thought it unimportant. If Sir Garth had
+fallen dead at once, it might have been different; but, as you know,
+he did not do so till after we had crossed the Mall. By that time they
+had probably all dispersed, and in any case I am afraid I was so upset
+that I didn’t think of it—only of getting him home as quickly as
+possible.”
+
+“I quite understand, sir,” said Poole. “Now about the actual death.
+You said that you had crossed the Mall.”
+
+“Yes, we crossed the Mall all right and were walking towards the
+Guards Memorial when he suddenly staggered, made a sort of choking,
+gasping sound and sank to the ground. He nearly pulled me down with
+him. I had my arm linked through his, as I told you. I believe he died
+almost at once, though I did not realize it at the time.”
+
+“It must have been a great shock for you, sir. I suppose there was no
+further accident just before the fall?”
+
+“Oh no, nothing. Evidently it was the result of the shock he received
+on the steps. After all, it was only a hundred yards or so away.”
+
+“And the man concerned, of course, had disappeared by then?”
+
+“Absolutely. I never saw or heard of him again.”
+
+Poole thought for a while, trying to find some fresh line of approach.
+
+“It’s probably quite immaterial,” he said at last, “but could you by
+any chance tell me what was the subject of your conversation with Sir
+Garth that evening? You said that you were so engrossed in it that you
+went out of your way.”
+
+The slight raising of Hessel’s eyebrows had a curious effect of rebuke
+upon the detective.
+
+“If it is material, I can tell you,” he replied. “We were talking of
+Sir Garth’s son, Ryland Fratten. He was worried about him. They were a
+case of father and son, both very charming people, not understanding
+one another. I always thought Sir Garth rather unjust to Ryland.”
+
+Poole had pricked up his ears.
+
+“What was the trouble between them, sir?”
+
+But Hessel evidently thought that he had said enough.
+
+“Ah, Inspector,” he replied, “I don’t think I can enter into what
+amounts to little more than gossip—it’s not quite my line. So far as
+our conversation that evening went, it concerned Ryland’s affection or
+apparent lack of affection for his father. That is what I can tell you
+of my own knowledge; beyond that I am not prepared to go.”
+
+Poole decided not to press the point. He tried a fresh tack.
+
+“Sir Garth was a rich man, Mr. Hessel, and of course, in his way, a
+powerful man. I suppose it is possible that he may have made enemies?”
+
+But Hessel was not to be drawn. He smiled and shook his head.
+
+“Aren’t we verging a little bit on the melodramatic, Inspector?” he
+said. “I suppose your suggestion is that some City magnate hired an
+assassin to put a hated rival out of the way. That may have been the
+custom a couple of centuries ago, but hardly today—quite apart from
+the fact that I can’t see how you make the death out to be anything
+but accidental.”
+
+Poole realized that he had now lost the sympathy of his audience; he
+wisely decided to go. Thanking the banker for his help and courtesy,
+as well as for his tea, the detective made his way out into the
+street. When he called upon Mr. Menticle in the afternoon he had
+learned that the latter lived in Lincoln’s Inn, as well as working
+there, and might well be at home later in the day. He decided now to
+try his luck again.
+
+He arrived at Mr. Menticle’s chambers at about six o’clock and found
+that the owner had “sported his oak.” In ordinary circumstances Poole,
+as an Oxford man, would have respected this appeal for privacy, but as
+it was he felt that the chariot wheels of justice must roll through
+even this sacred tradition. He knocked firmly on the outer door.
+
+There was no answer to his first knock, but he had the curious feeling
+that the silence within had become even more silent. He knocked more
+sharply and soon heard footsteps approaching, followed by the opening
+of the inner door; he stepped back a pace and the heavy outer door
+swung slowly out towards him. In the doorway stood a curious figure,
+which might have stepped out of a page of Dickens; an elderly man,
+dressed in baggy subfuscous trousers, a worn velvet jacket, and a
+tasselled cap, such as Poole imagined to have been extinct since
+Balmoral lifted its ban upon smoking. The face underneath the cap,
+however, was by no means Victorian; the nose certainly was aquiline
+and carried a pair of gold pince-nez, but the skin was clear and
+healthy, the mouth sensitive, and the eyes bright and intelligent.
+Probably Mr. Menticle amused himself in his solitude by posing as a
+participator in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
+
+At the moment there was a frown of displeasure on the lawyer’s fine
+brow. He remained in the doorway, waiting for his visitor to explain
+his presence.
+
+“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Poole. “My card will
+explain my insistence.”
+
+Mr. Menticle took the card, glanced at it, and, with a short nod,
+signed to Poole to come in.
+
+“Shut the outer door behind you,” said Mr. Menticle. “It may prevent
+our being disturbed.”
+
+Poole thought he caught a slight emphasis on the “may” and a faint
+chuckle from the retreating figure of his host. He followed, and found
+himself in a remarkably comfortable room, with a soft carpet, two
+easy-chairs, and a blazing wood fire. The walls were lined with
+bookcases, with an occasional well-balanced engraving, whilst over the
+fireplace hung a photograph of an O.U. Cricket Eleven. Poole checked
+with difficulty his natural inclination to go straight up and look at
+it.
+
+“Take a chair, Inspector,” said the lawyer, pointing to the least worn
+of the two. “You’ve come just in time for a glass of sherry.”
+
+He opened an oak corner cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter,
+two tulip sherry-glasses, and a tin of biscuits.
+
+“Amontillado,” he said. “Sound stuff. Not to be found everywhere in
+these days.”
+
+The two men lifted their glasses to each other. Poole’s glance lifting
+for an instant to the photograph over the fire, Mr. Menticle allowed
+his gaze to rest for a time upon his visitor’s face, before he spoke.
+
+“What year were you up?” he asked.
+
+Poole stared at him, then broke into a laugh.
+
+“You’re very quick, sir,” he said. “’17 to ’19. St. James’s.”
+
+“Get a blue?”
+
+“Half-blue, sir—Athletic. I played in a Seniors match once, but didn’t
+get any further in cricket.”
+
+“’Tics, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“And now you’ve taken to police work—C.I.D. Very interesting career.
+And I suppose you want to forget all about Oxford when you’re on your
+job?”
+
+“That’s exactly what I do want, sir. Curiously enough it’s come out
+twice today, and I’m rather annoyed with myself for letting it.”
+
+“Well, Inspector, I’ll forget about it now. What did you want to see
+me about?”
+
+“It’s about the death of Sir Garth Fratten, sir.”
+
+Poole was watching the lawyer very closely when he said this, and he
+thought he saw a shadow of distress or anxiety come into his eyes. He
+gave no other sign, however, and the detective continued.
+
+“We have been given to understand that there are some grounds for
+uncertainty about the circumstances of the death. I must say frankly
+that so far we have very little to go on, but I have been instructed
+to make certain preliminary investigations, in which you, sir, as the
+family solicitor, naturally take a prominent place.”
+
+Mr. Menticle nodded but did not volunteer any statement.
+
+“There are one or two points, sir,” Poole continued, “which I thought
+might help us. In the first place, the will. I could of course, get
+particulars from Somerset House, but I shall get a very much clearer
+idea of it if you will go through the principal features of it with
+me.”
+
+Mr. Menticle gave the suggestion a moment’s thought, then nodded his
+head.
+
+“Yes,” he said. “I think I can do that. I might refuse, of course, but
+you would get the information just the same, by using your powers, and
+I should merely have established an atmosphere of hostility.”
+
+He rose, and, leaving the room, presently returned with a bundle of
+papers which he laid on the table beside him. Poole could not help
+admiring the cool common sense with which his host made a virtue of
+necessity.
+
+“The will is a very simple one,” said Mr. Menticle, laying it out on
+his knees, and running over its clauses with his finger. “Sir Garth
+left comfortable though not large legacies to various distant
+relations, to his employees at the bank and to his domestic staff.
+There are various bequests to charities and two special legacies of
+£5000 each, one to myself and one to his intimate friend, Mr. Leopold
+Hessel, whom he appointed his sole executor. But taking all these
+together, the total forms a very small portion of his fortune, the
+residue of which, after paying all duties, was divided equally between
+Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten.”
+
+“His son and daughter?” said Poole and, as Mr. Menticle made no
+comment, took silence for consent.
+
+The detective had jotted down the outline of the will as Mr. Menticle
+sketched it. He ran his eye over it again.
+
+“And the residue will amount to?” he asked.
+
+“Impossible to say yet. Sir Garth had very wide interests. The death
+duties, of course, will vary according to the total amount dutiable.”
+
+“But roughly?”
+
+“Roughly, between four and five hundred thousand pounds, I should
+say.”
+
+“So that Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten will each get over
+£200,000.”
+
+“Presumably.”
+
+“Large sums,” said Poole, “even in these days. Very large compared
+with the other legacies, I gather. What was the largest of those?”
+
+“Mine and Mr. Hessel’s. None of the others amounted to more than an
+annuity of £100.”
+
+“Hardly enough to invite murder—still, one never knows. Now, Mr.
+Menticle, I am going to ask you a straight question. Do you believe
+that any of these legatees, residuary or otherwise, had any inducement
+to bring about the premature death of the testator?”
+
+Mr. Menticle rose abruptly from his chair and, walking over to the
+window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out on to the November
+night. Coming back into the room, he stood in front of the fire, with
+one foot on the fender, seeming to seek for inspiration from the
+blazing logs.
+
+“That is a very direct question,” he temporized.
+
+“It is,” said the detective, “and I want your answer, please, Mr.
+Menticle.” The expression of Poole’s face would have told anyone who
+knew him that, having got his grip, nothing now would cause him to
+relax it.
+
+At last the lawyer straightened his shoulders and, turning his back to
+the fire, looked down at his interlocutor.
+
+“I think I must tell you,” he said, “that a week or so before his
+death, Sir Garth instructed me to draw up a new will. I was to have
+brought it to him to sign the morning after he actually died.”
+
+“There were important alterations?” Poole’s voice was tense.
+
+“There was one. Ryland Fratten was cut out of the will as a residuary
+legatee.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+Ryland Fratten
+
+Poole sat for a while in silence, allowing this significant piece of
+information to sink into his mind.
+
+“That means, then,” he said at last, “that if Sir Garth had died on
+the evening of the 25th of October instead of the 24th, Miss Inez
+Fratten would have inherited the whole of the residuary estate of her
+father—nearly half a million pounds—and her brother would have had
+nothing?”
+
+“Not nothing. He was to have received an annuity of £300; Sir Garth
+did not want him to be quite destitute—he doubted Ryland’s ability to
+earn a living for himself, and to a certain extent he blamed himself
+for bringing the boy up in the expectation of idle riches.”
+
+“Still, it meant £300 a year instead of £10,000?”
+
+“Exactly.”
+
+“That,” thought Poole to himself, “may be considered to be a motive
+for murder.”
+
+Aloud, he said: “Did Mr. Ryland Fratten know of this new will?”
+
+“That I cannot say for certain,” replied the lawyer. “I gathered that
+Sir Garth had made use of some expression—something about ‘cutting
+off’ or ‘disinheriting,’ perhaps—that might have given Mr. Ryland an
+idea of what was in the wind.”
+
+“But did he know that the new will was to have been signed on the day
+you say it was—25th October?”
+
+“That again I don’t know—I should doubt it.”
+
+Evidently that was a point that must be looked into; Poole made a
+mental note of it and turned to another line of approach.
+
+“And the cause of the change, sir?”
+
+Mr. Menticle, who had been standing all this time, returned to his
+chair on the other side of the fireplace and slowly filled and lit a
+long-stemmed brier pipe. Poole got the impression that the lawyer was
+taking time to arrange his ideas. After a draw or two, and the use of
+another match, Mr. Menticle replied to the question that had been
+addressed to him. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
+
+“It was, I think, the culmination of a long series of disagreements
+and even quarrels between the two. Sir Garth was a man of very strict,
+perhaps narrow, views, particularly as regards women and money.
+Ryland, on the other hand, though an attractive and charming boy—in my
+opinion—is very weak on both these points. His head is turned by every
+girl he meets, with the inevitable consequence of entanglements, and
+he has no idea of the value of money. When I tell you that he was very
+keen on everything to do with the theatre and moved in—shall I
+say—rather Bohemian circles, you can understand what those two
+weaknesses led him into.”
+
+Poole nodded. “Definite trouble?”
+
+“Definite trouble. About two years ago he got engaged to a young lady
+of the name of Crystel—Pinkie Crystel—that was her stage name; her
+real name was Rosa Glass—I know because I had to negotiate the ransom,
+so to speak. That cost Sir Garth £10,000. He was very angry—not
+without reason. Ryland was repentant, swore to leave chorus girls
+alone, promised definitely not to get engaged again without his
+father’s consent. Within a month the chorus girl business had begun
+again—he could not keep away from them—and they cost him money—more
+than his allowance. From time to time Sir Garth had to hear of it, had
+to stump up—comparatively small sums, it is true; still the irritation
+was there. At the same time Ryland, who really, I am sure, was devoted
+to Sir Garth, felt his affection being chilled by repeated rebukes. He
+saw less and less of Sir Garth, ceased living in the house—steered
+clear of him as far as possible. Miss Inez, naturally, was miserable
+about it—did everything to bring them together, but without
+success—they were both obstinate men.
+
+“Finally, about a fortnight before Sir Garth’s death, he received a
+letter from Ryland saying that he had got entangled with another
+girl—I don’t know the name in this case—and that she was asking for
+£20,000 or matrimony—and Ryland was straight enough to say that he had
+found he didn’t like her after all and simply couldn’t marry her.
+Naturally there was a flare up; unfortunately Sir Garth read the
+letter when he got back to his house just after having an unpleasant
+shock—a narrow escape from being run over—in the City. No doubt he was
+feeling unwell; he sent for Ryland, who happened to be in the house—as
+a matter of fact I believe the boy had come there to face the
+music—had a first-class row with him and finally packed him off with a
+‘curse and a copper coin,’ as it used to be called. Ryland left the
+house and never returned to it in Sir Garth’s lifetime, and then only
+at Miss Inez’ urgent entreaty, as she herself told me.”
+
+Mr. Menticle turned to the table beside him and began rummaging among
+the papers that he had brought in.
+
+“That, Inspector,” he said, “is all I have to tell you—and I have not
+enjoyed telling it. Here, if you wish to see it, is the revised—and
+unsigned—will. After the funeral and the reading of the effective
+will, I so far forgot myself as to tear this one across—I was upset.
+But here are the four pieces, they are still quite good as evidence if
+required—though only corroborative evidence—of mystery, of course.
+Being unsigned, they are no absolute evidence of Sir Garth’s
+intention; I might have drafted the will out of my own head, for all
+anyone knows. There are also, of course, the rough draft and my own
+notes taken at the time of Sir Garth’s instructions to me, but none of
+them bears Sir Garth’s signature, nor, I believe, any of his
+handwriting—he made no corrections.”
+
+Poole felt that, for the moment, he had got as much out of Mr.
+Menticle as he could expect, though he would almost certainly have
+some more questions to ask him later on. It was by now nearly eight
+o’clock and the detective felt he had done a fairly full day’s work.
+In any case, he wanted time to think over things before going any
+further. Being a single man, living in cheap rooms in Battersea—(he
+had refused to allow his father to supplement his professional
+earnings)—he had formed the habit of taking his meals at a variety of
+inexpensive restaurants in different parts of London. Without
+revealing his professional identity, he made a point of getting into
+conversation with the proprietors and waiters, and sometimes with the
+habitués of these places, with the result that he had picked up a good
+deal of valuable knowledge about London life, and had made a number of
+potentially useful friends.
+
+On this occasion, he made his way to the “Grand Couronne” in Greek
+Street, Soho, and after ordering himself a special risotto and a large
+glass of Münchener—which had to be fetched from “over the way,” the
+restaurant possessing no licence—set himself to review the progress he
+had made. In the first place he knew fairly thoroughly the nature of
+the disease which had resulted in Sir Garth Fratten’s death, together
+with the circumstances which had led up to it; he had a fairly clear
+picture of the scene on the Duke of York’s Steps, when the accident
+which caused his death had occurred; he had, he thought, solved the
+mystery surrounding the nature of the disease—the ignorance of the
+family and friends was evidently a foible of Sir Garth’s, and even so,
+not very closely adhered to; finally he had discovered that one person
+at any rate had a very strong motive indeed for desiring the death—and
+the death within very narrow limits of time—of the late banker.
+
+Not very much perhaps, but still, more than was known twenty-four
+hours ago.
+
+His satisfaction was somewhat modified when he turned to a
+consideration of the progress he had _not_ made.
+
+He did not know, in the first place, whether a crime had been
+committed at all—a rather vital point! Assuming that it had, he did
+not know who had committed it, nor how it had been committed. If he
+had found one person with a motive, he had by no means eliminated all
+possible alternative suspects—in spite of Mr. Hessel’s chaff, he still
+believed that rich and powerful men often made dangerous enemies. On
+that line alone he had a great deal of ground to cover. He had, in
+fact, a long way still to go before he even created a case, let alone
+solved it.
+
+Finishing his modest dinner, he invited the manager, Signor Pablo
+Vienzi, to join him in a cup of coffee and a cigar. Signor Vienzi was
+only too willing, but was unable to repay this hospitality by any
+useful information. Poole’s discreet pumping revealed only the fact
+that the proprietor had never heard either of Mr. Ryland Fratten or of
+Miss Pinkie Crystel—though Poole did not expect much help from the
+latter line. The detective paid his bill, said good-night, and went
+home to bed.
+
+Arriving at Scotland Yard soon after nine the next morning, Inspector
+Poole went through the small amount of routine work that awaited him
+and made his way to the room of the Assistant Commissioner. On his way
+there, he hesitated outside the door of Chief Inspector Barrod. He
+felt that the correct procedure was for him to report in the first
+place to his immediate superior, and through him, if necessary, to Sir
+Leward. But Chief Inspector Barrod had been very curt and decided on
+the point, and Poole, with some misgiving, complied with this
+short-circuiting of established routine.
+
+Sir Leward himself had only just arrived and was going through his
+letters when Poole reported, but, remembering the charms of the young
+lady who had inspired this investigation, the Chief sent away his
+secretary and listened to the detective’s report.
+
+“Does Mr. Barrod know about this?” he asked, when Poole had finished.
+
+“No, sir. He told me to report direct to you.”
+
+“Better . . .” Sir Leward checked himself, remembering the Chief
+Inspector’s obvious lack of interest. “All right, we’ll keep it to
+ourselves for the moment. Now what’s the next step?”
+
+“That’s as you decide, sir. If I might make a suggestion, I think I
+ought now to interview Mr. Ryland Fratten and find out whether he knew
+about that will and the date of its signature.”
+
+“He’d hardly tell you, would he?”
+
+“He might, if he were off his guard; or at any rate he might make some
+statement which might later be proved false. Assuming, that is, for
+the moment, that he is guilty. And that’s a big assumption, sir, when
+we don’t even know that there has been a crime.”
+
+“No. I suppose we don’t. Still, it looks more like it than it did.
+You’ve done very well, Poole, to get so far with so little to go on.”
+
+Poole shook his head.
+
+“I didn’t do well with the doctor, sir. I don’t know now whether he
+examined the body for marks of violence or not; he only said that
+there weren’t any.”
+
+“A different thing, eh?”
+
+“Yes, sir; he was angry and wanted to get rid of me. I oughtn’t to
+have let him get angry. He wasn’t an easy subject though, sir.”
+
+“I’ll bet he wasn’t; I know those knighted physicians—benighted, most
+of them.”
+
+It took Poole the better part of the day to find Ryland Fratten. He
+had not the heart to go and ask Inez Fratten for her brother’s
+address; it was so like asking her to help in putting an halter round
+his neck. He did not care, either, to ask the butler at Queen Anne’s
+Gate; he did not want to start any gossip yet in that quarter. He ran
+him to earth at length, by dint of trying all the theatrical and
+semi-theatrical clubs in London in turn.
+
+The “Doorstep” Club, in Burlington Gardens, caters for a mixed
+clientele—(it is a proprietary affair, and a very profitable one at
+that)—of young bucks interested in boxing, horse-racing, and the
+stage. Apart from the young bucks themselves, many of the leading
+jockeys, the more amusing actors, and the least unsuccessful boxers,
+were members of the club, though their subscriptions were in many
+cases “overlooked” by the intelligent proprietor. Poole was admitted,
+presumably on the strength of his good looks or his athletic figure,
+by a hall porter who ought to have known better. He was shown into the
+small and dark room on the ground-floor-back which was reserved for
+visitors, and his private card: “John Poole, 35 Vincent Gardens,
+S.W.”—a guileless looking affair—sent up by a “bell-hop” to Mr.
+Fratten.
+
+Ryland Fratten appeared after about ten minutes, with a half-finished
+cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
+
+“Sorry to keep you waiting. Have a cocktail. Here, boy, wait a minute.
+What’ll you have? Strongly recommend a ‘Pirate’s Breath.’”
+
+“No, thanks,” said Poole, omitting the “sir” in the presence of the
+boy. “I won’t keep you a minute.”
+
+“Quite sure? All right; hop it, Ferdinand.”
+
+When the door had closed behind the boy, Poole held out his official
+card.
+
+“I’m sorry to bother you in your club, sir,” he said. “I didn’t quite
+know where to find you.”
+
+Ryland Fratten looked with surprise at his visitor. His first
+impression of him had suggested anything but a policeman.
+
+“What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Not the usual car-obstruction rot?”
+
+Poole smiled.
+
+“No, sir. It’s rather a confidential matter. I wondered if I might
+have a talk with you somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed—your
+rooms, perhaps.”
+
+“I haven’t got much in the way of rooms,” said Fratten, “and they’re a
+long way off. No one’s in the least likely to barge into this
+coal-cellar. I wish you’d have a drink. Have a cigarette, anyway.”
+
+“No, thank you, sir. I’ve been instructed to ask you for certain
+information regarding the death of your father, Sir Garth Fratten.”
+
+Poole watched his companion closely as he said these words. He saw the
+light-hearted, careless expression on his face change to one of
+serious attention—Ryland Fratten was listening now, very carefully.
+
+“To be quite frank,” the detective continued, “we are not quite
+satisfied with the circumstances surrounding Sir Garth’s death; there
+really should, strictly speaking, have been an inquest, though Sir
+Horace Spavage informs us that he was perfectly satisfied that death
+was due to natural causes, arising out of his disease, and that he had
+no hesitation in giving a certificate. Can you by any chance throw any
+light on the matter?”
+
+“I don’t think so. What sort of light?”
+
+“You weren’t with your father, or near him, when the accident
+occurred?”
+
+“No, I wasn’t,” said Fratten. “I didn’t hear anything about it till my
+sister got on to me at Potiphar’s in the middle of supper. I’d been to
+a show—she didn’t know how to find me.”
+
+Poole noticed that he did not give any indication of his lack of touch
+with his father; still, he had not been definitely untruthful on the
+subject.
+
+“Were you surprised when you heard of your father’s death?”
+
+“It was a great shock, naturally, but I wasn’t really surprised; I
+knew that he was very ill—that he had something the matter with him
+that might cause his death at any time.”
+
+“Heart trouble, wasn’t it?”
+
+“Yes—no. That is to say, I used to think it was heart trouble, but
+actually it was a thing called an aneurism—something wrong with an
+artery.”
+
+Poole wondered whether the sudden correction was a slip or a lightning
+decision that deception was too dangerous. For all his careless
+manner, Fratten had intelligent eyes and Poole was not at all
+convinced that he was a fool. He decided to try fresh ground—and to
+take a risk over it.
+
+“There’s a point I wanted to ask you about the will,” he said. “When
+did you discover that your father was making a fresh will?”
+
+“When he . . . Good God, what do you mean? What are you suggesting?”
+Fratten had sprung to his feet and his dark eyes blazed out of a white
+face. “Are you trying to make out that I killed my father? You damned
+swine! You can take yourself straight to hell!”
+
+He stood for a moment glaring down at Poole, then swung on his heel
+and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The
+detective rose slowly to his feet. A glow of satisfaction was
+spreading over him. This was something better than he had hoped. That
+second correction, within a bare minute of the first, was
+unmistakable. Fratten had begun automatically to answer the question
+about his knowledge of the new will, had pulled himself up with a jerk
+and, to cover the slip, had put up a display of righteous indignation.
+He had been extraordinarily quick, too, at picking up the implication
+of Poole’s question. It was obvious, of course, but only a clever man
+could have picked it up so instantaneously. Undoubtedly the plot was
+thickening.
+
+Poole picked up his hat and had taken a step or two towards the door
+when it opened and Ryland Fratten came back into the room. His face
+was still white but his eyes were calm.
+
+“I’ve come to apologize,” he said. “I had no right to say that to
+you—I didn’t really mean it to you personally—of course you’re only
+doing your duty. Will you please forgive me?”
+
+When Poole left the club a minute or two later, most of the
+satisfaction had died out of him. Instead, he had a curious sensation
+of shame at ever having felt satisfaction.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+Silence
+
+Thinking over his interview with Ryland Fratten, Poole felt rather
+uncertain as to what deduction to draw from it as to his character.
+Undoubtedly he was a much more intelligent—and consequently a
+potentially more dangerous—man than he had expected to find. On the
+other hand, without any practical justification, Poole realized that
+he rather liked what he had seen of him. Obviously, he must not build
+on such slender material and he cast about in his mind for the best
+means of studying Fratten’s character more closely. His sister, Inez,
+was out of the question; Mangane was possible, but Poole did not quite
+like the idea of pumping him. Finally it occurred to him that his own
+past history might provide a key to the problem.
+
+In his undergraduate days, and to a lesser extent as a young
+barrister, he had not been above a little mild stage-door flirtation,
+during which he had made the acquaintance of various stage-door
+keepers, and especially that of Mr. Gabb of the “Inanity.” It was
+probable that Mr. Gabb knew the life-stories of more lights of the
+musical-comedy stage, together with their attendant moths, than any
+man in London. It was more than probable that he would know Ryland
+Fratten, and quite likely the history of his entanglement. Anyhow it
+was worth trying.
+
+Returning quickly to his lodgings, Poole invested himself in the suit
+of immaculate evening clothes, the light black overcoat, and “stouted”
+top-hat, which were the carefully preserved relics of his less sombre
+past. There had always seemed a possibility of their coming in useful,
+and now Poole was glad of his foresight in keeping them by him and in
+good order. After standing himself a good, though light, dinner and a
+half-bottle of Cliquot at the Savoy Grill, with the object of imbibing
+the necessary “atmosphere,” Poole strolled round to the stage-door of
+the “Inanity” a little before nine. He knew that the interval would
+not take place before a quarter past at the earliest, so that he had
+plenty of time for a heart-to-heart with Mr. Gabb.
+
+The result more than fulfilled his expectations. Gabb knew Ryland
+Fratten well, and all about his various affairs of the heart. He liked
+him, but he clearly felt a certain contempt for a man who, no longer a
+callow boy, wasted his life in fluttering about these tinsel
+attractions. Fratten’s latest flame was Miss Julie Vermont; she had a
+small speaking part in the piece now on. The affair had lasted about
+six months—longer than usual—and more serious than usual, though there
+had been a hitch in it lately.
+
+At this moment, the swing-door leading into the theatre was pushed
+open and a girl in the exaggerated dress of a parlour-maid so popular
+on the lighter stage, stood for a moment in the doorway. She was
+extremely pretty, in a rather hard way, with closely-shingled auburn
+hair; Poole noticed a diamond and platinum ring on the third finger of
+the well-manicured hand that held open the door.
+
+“Oh, Gabb,” she said, “if Mr. Gossington comes round tell him I can’t
+come out tonight, will you?”
+
+Gabb made an inarticulate grunt and scribbled upon a pad in front of
+him. With a quick glance at the attractive figure of the detective,
+the girl vanished.
+
+“‘Talk of the devil,’” said Gabb; “that’s his girl—Mr. Fratten’s that
+is—Miss Vermont. At least she was, but it’s cooled off a bit lately, I
+think, diamond ring and all. Maybe something to do with his father’s
+death. Anyway he hasn’t been round lately and she’s been going out
+with this young Gossington—Porky Gossington’s boy in the Blues, he is.
+Here’s the interval now, sir.”
+
+Poole drew back as a trickle of young men in evening clothes, mostly
+bareheaded, came round from the main entrance. Poole watched with
+sympathetic amusement the well-remembered and unchanging scene: the
+confident assurance of the accepted cavalier, chaffing Gabb and
+exchanging pleasantries with the little cluster of girls who
+occasionally poked their heads through the swing-door; the shy
+diffidence of the fledgling presenting his first note, his blush of
+delight when it returned to him with an evidently favourable answer,
+his crestfallen retreat at the verbal message: “Miss Flitterling is
+sorry she’s engaged,” or, worse still: “No answer, sir.” It was all
+very laughable, and very pathetic, thought the emancipated Poole.
+
+Feeling that, for the moment, the stage-door keeper had yielded as
+much information as could be extracted without arousing suspicion,
+Poole said good-night and walked out into the Aldwych. He had not gone
+far when he felt a touch on his arm and, looking down, saw a small and
+shabby individual ambling along beside him.
+
+“Beg pardon, guv’nor,” said his new acquaintance, “but if yer wants
+hinformation abaht the Honerable Fratten, I’m the chap with the
+goods.”
+
+Wondering how this seedy creature could know of his question, the
+detective looked at him more closely and presently remembered that he
+had seen him come in with a note for Gabb when he and the latter had
+been talking together. Probably the man had picked up the name then;
+possibly he had hung about outside and caught a bit more—and was now
+out to take advantage of his eaves-dropping. Probably whatever
+information he proffered would be worthless, if not purely imaginary,
+but it was never safe to turn one’s back upon the most unlikely source
+of news.
+
+“Well, what is it?” he asked carelessly.
+
+The man smiled. “It’s sumfing worf ’aving, sir,” he said. “’Arf a
+Fisher’d do it.”
+
+Poole, of course, in his official capacity, had no need to pay for
+information, but he did not wish yet to reveal himself as a
+police-officer. His informant probably took him for a jealous rival—if
+not an injured husband.
+
+“How am I to know it’s worth paying for?” he asked.
+
+“Dahtin’ Thomas, ain’t yer? S’posin’ I tells yer one bit an’ keeps the
+other up me sleeve till yer pays? Then yer’ll know what quality yer
+buyin’.”
+
+“All right,” said Poole, “fire away.”
+
+His companion leant closer to him and said in a husky whisper.
+
+“E’s paid ’er off!”
+
+“Paid her off? Who? What d’you mean?”
+
+“Fratten. E’s paid off that Vermint gurl—blood-money, breach-o’-prom.,
+alimony—whatever yer calls it. Five bob a week she’d ’a bin lucky to
+git if she’d moved in my circles—at the _worst_,” he added with a
+leer.
+
+“How do you know?” asked Poole, who was now definitely interested.
+
+“’Eard ’er buckin’ about it to ’er pals. Not much I don’t see an’ ’ear
+rahnd the ‘Hinanity’—worf sumfin’ sometimes. That’s the first part,
+mister—the rest’s better.” He held out his hand.
+
+With some repugnance Poole slipped a ten-shilling note into the grimy
+palm. The man spat on it and tucked it into his belt.
+
+“I knows where ’e got it from—the spondulics to pay ’er with.” He
+paused for encouragement, but receiving none, continued: “I ’eard ’im
+this time, it was, arstin’ a pal where ’e could raise the wind—said
+’e’d tried all the usual—father, ‘uncles,’ Jews, Turks an’ other
+infidelities—nuthin’ doin’—’ad enough of ’im. This pal put ’im on to a
+new squeezer—chap called ‘Silence’ in Lemon Street, back o’ the
+Lyceum. Seen ’is place meself—neat an’ unpretenshus. That’s the chap.
+That’s worf anover, ain’t it?”
+
+Poole shook his head.
+
+“We’ll stick to our bargain for the moment,” he said. “What’s your
+name, in case I want you again?”
+
+But that was asking too much.
+
+“That ain’t part o’ the bargain,” he said. “If yer wants me, yer can
+alwys find me—round the ‘Hinanity’—Mr. Gabb’ll give yer a reference.”
+
+And with a peck at his cap the man was gone.
+
+Poole felt that this might well be a useful line of inquiry; he turned
+his steps automatically towards the Lyceum—of course, it was long past
+business hours but he might as well have a look at the place.
+
+Lemon Street proved to be a very short and very dark alley that ran
+out of Wellington Street almost immediately behind the Lyceum Theatre.
+There were not more than half a dozen houses in it, all gloomy and
+nondescript. On the third of them, Poole descried a small black plate
+over an electric door-bell, inscribed in white with the one word:
+Silence. It looked more like an injunction than a name. The detective
+was conscious of being intrigued. Stepping back across the street to
+get a better view of the house he became aware of a glimmer of light
+over the fanlight of the door—it appeared to come from a room at the
+back—possibly in this queer neighbourhood and with an unusual
+clientele, office hours might be so unconventional as to include ten
+o’clock at night. Deciding to put this theory to the test, Poole went
+back to the door and touched the bell. He heard no answering trill;
+but in a moment or two the door opened silently and at the same time a
+light, shaded so as to throw its beam upon anyone on the doorstep
+while leaving the passage in darkness, was switched on.
+
+Poole could just make out a dim figure beyond the door, then the light
+was switched off, and a hand beckoned to him to enter. He did so and
+the door closed quietly behind him whilst the figure led the way down
+the passage to a room at the back. Poole could see now that the man
+who had admitted him was short and slightly hunchbacked, and, when he
+turned to motion Poole to a chair in the inner room, that his face was
+sallow and covered with faint pockmarks, whilst his hair was black and
+meagre. Truly a figure worthy of its setting.
+
+“Silence?” said Poole, by way of opening the interview. The man bowed
+but did not speak.
+
+Feeling that this was an occasion when his diplomacy would probably be
+outmatched, the detective produced his official card.
+
+“I am Inspector Poole, of the Criminal Investigation Department,
+Scotland Yard,” he said in a crisp voice. “I have come to ask you for
+information regarding a sum of money advanced by you to Mr. Ryland
+Fratten.”
+
+This was banking rather heavily upon the slender framework of his late
+informant’s credibility. Poole was relieved to see an unmistakable
+flutter of apprehension pass over the otherwise inscrutable features
+in front of him. Following up his advantage, Poole assumed his most
+official manner.
+
+“You will probably realize,” he said, “that you will be well advised
+not to attempt to conceal any phase of this transaction. The
+consequences of any deception would be very serious for you.”
+
+He paused to let these words sink in.
+
+“What precisely do you want to know?” Silence asked, in a low but
+curiously refined voice.
+
+“I want to know how much you lent Mr. Fratten, on what security, and
+at what rate of interest?”
+
+The man remained silent, his fingers beating a tattoo, his eyes cast
+down upon the writing-pad before him.
+
+“My business is supposed to be confidential,” he said at last.
+
+“I realize that, but if the police require information it will be
+advisable for you not to withhold it.”
+
+Poole knew that this was a delicate point as between police and
+public, but a man engaged in such a business as this probably was,
+could afford to run no risks. He was not mistaken.
+
+“I lent Mr. Fratten £15,000 for three months only, at 10% per month.
+The rate of interest is high but Mr. Fratten’s reputation is not good.
+I know well what trouble others in my profession have had to recover
+their advances. I could only do business on very special terms.”
+
+“And the security?”
+
+“A note of hand only.”
+
+“Surely something more? If Mr. Fratten’s reputation is so bad, what
+expectation could you have had of being repaid within three months?”
+
+The moneylender fidgeted uneasily.
+
+“He showed me a letter,” he said at last, “a letter from his father’s
+(Sir Garth Fratten’s) doctor. I gathered from it that Sir Garth’s
+expectation of life was very short; Mr. Fratten was his heir. I took a
+risk; it came off.”
+
+A shadow of a smile crossed the pale face. Poole felt a shudder of
+repugnance—this gambling upon a man’s life was an ugly business. Ugly
+enough, from the moneylender’s point of view—hideous when applied to
+father and son.
+
+He learnt nothing more of interest from the rather melodramatic
+moneylender, except the significant fact that the transaction was
+affected on 17th October, exactly half-way between the date of Ryland
+Fratten’s threatened disinheritance by his father and the latter’s
+death. After a thoroughly blank and unpromising beginning, Poole felt
+that the day had ended well. He went home to bed, carefully folding
+his evening clothes before putting them away until next time.
+
+The following day was a Sunday, but on Monday morning Poole reported
+again to Sir Leward and the latter, after hearing what he had to say,
+decided that the time had come to call Chief Inspector Barrod into
+their councils. Barrod listened with attention to the précis of the
+case given by Poole, but showed no sign of making any amends for his
+former scepticism.
+
+“Yes, sir,” he said, “you’ve got the motive all right; you’ve probably
+got the murderer; but have you got the murder?”
+
+Sir Leward looked at Poole. The latter nodded.
+
+“I agree,” he said, “that’s the missing link up to date. So far there
+is nothing to prove that a murder has been committed.”
+
+“And how are you going to prove it?”
+
+“In the first place, we ought to have a look at the body.”
+
+“Exhumation?”
+
+“That’s it, sir.”
+
+“Do you agree, Barrod?” asked Sir Leward, turning to the Chief
+Inspector, who had remained silent.
+
+“If you want to go any further, sir, yes.”
+
+Marradine was not quite so sure now that he did want to go further;
+the chances of “seeing more of” Inez Fratten, under favourable
+conditions, whilst pursuing her brother for murder, were hardly
+promising. Still, he had gone too far now to turn back.
+
+“Very well,” he said, “get an exhumation order and let me have the
+surgeon’s report as soon as possible.”
+
+“What about re-burial, sir? If it’s to be done without attracting
+attention it’ll be much better to do it straight-a-way—that is to say,
+if you decide not to proceed with the case. On the other hand, if you
+do proceed, there’ll have to be an inquest and, if it’s not too far
+gone, the jury’ll have to view the body. In that case it had better
+come straight up to the mortuary here.”
+
+“Well,” said Sir Leward testily, “what do you suggest, Barrod?”
+
+“Either that you come to Woking yourself, sir, and have the
+preliminary examination there—in which case, if there’s nothing you
+can give the order for the re-burial on the spot; or else that you
+authorize me to take the decision in the same way.”
+
+“But I don’t know that there need necessarily be visible signs on the
+body, even if a murder has been committed. The cause of death was the
+rupture of an artery due to shock—the shock need not necessarily have
+left marks.”
+
+“I think you’ll find it difficult, sir, to persuade a coroner’s jury,
+let alone a petty jury, to bring in a verdict of murder if there
+aren’t any marks. Personally I don’t see how your murderer could count
+on death ensuing from a mere push—there must have been a blow—and if
+there was a blow, there must be a mark.”
+
+So it was eventually decided, that Barrod, Poole and a surgeon should
+proceed to Brooklands Cemetery that night, exhume the body by
+arrangement with the Cemetery authorities, and carry out a preliminary
+investigation on the spot. If there was the smallest suspicious sign,
+the body was to be brought to London and subjected to expert
+examination. If not, it was to be re-buried at once and a further
+conference would be held the next day to decide whether or not to drop
+the case.
+
+As the three officials travelled down to Brooklands by the 5.10 train
+that evening, Poole thought that Chief Inspector Barrod was treating
+him with more respect than he had previously done, but he did not
+discuss the case upon which they were engaged. Probably, thought
+Poole, he did not want to commit himself. Instead, the talk turned
+entirely on another case which had just closed, and in which the
+police-surgeon had been actively engaged. The train reached Brooklands
+at 5.55 and as soon as it was dark the work of the exhumation began.
+It took nearly an hour to bring the coffin to the surface and even
+then the actual exposure of the body took some time, owing to its
+being enclosed in a lead shell, a possibility which neither Barrod nor
+Poole had taken into account.
+
+At last the grisly work of unwinding was completed and the body laid
+upon a table. Naturally, after ten days, the flesh was beginning to
+show signs of decomposition, and to Poole’s untrained eye it appeared
+as if these marks might conceal what he was looking for. But the
+doctor had no such misgivings. Running his eye and his fingers rapidly
+over the chest, he shook his head.
+
+“Nothing here,” he said. “Turn it over.”
+
+“It would be on the back,” muttered Poole.
+
+The nauseating odour emitted by the moving of the body drove Poole to
+the door for a breath of fresh air. When he returned, he found the
+more hardened Barrod and the surgeon closely examining a mark upon the
+left centre of the back. The whole surface was stained, as was
+inevitable, but in one spot there was a deeper and more clearly
+defined stain. The surgeon pressed it gently with his sensitive
+fingers, then, producing a magnifying-glass, turned the beam of a
+powerful electric torch on to the spot and examined it with minute
+attention. After a couple of minutes he straightened his back.
+
+“Yes,” he said, “this is more than ordinary post-mortem staining;
+there clearly has been rupture of small capillary vessels. That means
+a blow, and from the look of it, a violent and concentrated blow.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+The Inquest
+
+The inquest on the exhumed body of Sir Garth Fratten was held at
+Scotland Yard, as any unnecessary movement was considered undesirable
+in view of the stage of decomposition that had been reached. For a
+similar reason it was arranged to hold the first stage of the inquest
+at once, without waiting for the collection of further evidence. After
+the inspection of the body by the jury, evidence as to identity, cause
+of death, and other preliminaries, an adjournment could be obtained
+and the body decently re-buried.
+
+As can be imagined, the news of the prospective inquest was received
+with intense interest, and even excitement, by the press and public.
+The applications for the few available seats ran into hundreds, and
+for every curious spectator who found a place in the body of the
+court, twenty were turned away. When the Coroner, Mr. Mendel Queriton,
+took his seat at eleven o’clock on Wednesday 6th November, the room
+was packed to suffocation—so much so, indeed, that the jury, filing
+back from their unpleasant duty, demanded and obtained a wholesale
+opening of windows.
+
+After the preliminary formalities, the first witness to be called was
+Sir Horace Spavage. Sir Horace identified the body and gave evidence
+as to the cause of death. He explained the nature of the disease,
+using very much the same terms and similes as he had done to Poole,
+but the detective noticed that the distinguished physician did not now
+display the same confidence and impatience as he had done on the first
+occasion.
+
+“Knows he’s skating on thin ice,” thought Poole.
+
+Having listened to what Sir Horace had to say, the Coroner caused to
+be handed to him a narrow sheet of paper, on which were visible both
+printed and written words.
+
+“That, Sir Horace, is the certificate of death signed by you
+immediately after Sir Garth Fratten’s death?”
+
+“It is.”
+
+“In it you certify that death was due to natural causes arising from
+the rupture of a thorasic aneurism?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“You still hold that view?”
+
+“Certainly. I know of no facts which would cause me to alter my
+opinion.”
+
+“That death was due to natural causes?”
+
+Sir Horace inclined his head.
+
+“Did you examine the body?”
+
+“Naturally. I exposed the chest and percussed it, and finding it dull,
+knew that the aneurism had burst and that the chest was full of blood.
+It was exactly as I had expected—I may say that it was inevitable.”
+
+“You found no signs of violence?”
+
+“Certainly not.”
+
+“Did you examine his back?”
+
+“I did not. Why should I?”
+
+“You knew there had been an accident.”
+
+“The gentleman who had been with Sir Garth, Mr.—er—Hessel, certainly
+told me that there had been some slight _contretemps_—that someone had
+stumbled into Sir Garth and upset him; I should not have described it
+as an accident.”
+
+“Do you mean by that that it was intentional?”
+
+“Certainly not. I mean that it was too slight to be described as an
+accident. Still, I will accept the word, if you like.”
+
+The Coroner bowed.
+
+“And in spite of all this you did not consider it necessary to hold a
+post-mortem or to ask for an inquest?”
+
+“I did not. As I have already said, I had known for a considerable
+time that Sir Garth had been suffering from an aneurism of dangerous
+size that was liable to rupture at any time in the event of shock or
+sudden violent physical exertion. When I was summoned and found that
+the aneurism had burst and that there was a history of shock—that this
+slight—er—accident had occurred, I had no hesitation in signing this
+certificate.”
+
+“And you still hold that view?”
+
+“Certainly. As I have said, no fresh facts have been brought to my
+notice which might cause me to alter it.”
+
+“Possibly, Sir Horace, the course of this inquiry may cause you to
+reconsider the correctness of your action. That is all, thank you; you
+may stand down.”
+
+Sir Horace glared at his tormentor, but, finding nothing to say, stood
+down.
+
+Ryland Fratten was now called. After identifying the body and
+answering a few formal questions about himself and his father he was,
+at a sign from the Coroner, about to stand down when Chief Inspector
+Barrod rose to his feet.
+
+“May I ask this witness some questions, sir, please?”
+
+The Coroner looked rather surprised, but signified his consent. He had
+been given to understand that the police did not intend to press the
+inquiry beyond preliminaries at the present hearing—certainly not as
+regards their suspect. Still, presumably Chief Inspector Barrod knew
+what he was about.
+
+The fact was that Barrod, after watching Ryland Fratten give evidence,
+had formed the opinion that this was just the type of young and
+attractive gentleman whom his rather inexperienced colleague—of a
+similar type himself—might find it difficult to tackle successfully.
+It will be remembered that the Chief Inspector, while appreciating
+Poole’s education and qualifications, did not set great store by
+them—even thought them rather dangerous. He decided, therefore, to
+take this opportunity to examine Fratten himself.
+
+“You are your late father’s heir, Mr. Fratten?”
+
+“I was one of his heirs.”
+
+“Quite so. You and your sister—your half-sister, that is—Miss Inez
+Fratten, are joint residuary legatees?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You each inherit a very large sum of money?”
+
+“I suppose it is.”
+
+“How much?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“But approximately how much? You must know that.”
+
+“It is very difficult to say, till all the accounts are in and probate
+granted. My solicitor would be able to tell you better.”
+
+Mr. Menticle half rose from his chair near the Coroner’s table, but
+Barrod signed to him to sit down.
+
+“I am asking you, please, Mr. Fratten. Roughly, now; somewhere about a
+quarter of a million, eh?”
+
+There was a gasp from the crowded court; it sounded a vast sum.
+
+“Roughly, perhaps it is.”
+
+“Thank you. Now would you mind telling me, what were your relations
+with your father?”
+
+Ryland seemed to draw back into himself. He was clearly distressed by
+the question; but he answered it.
+
+“They were not good, I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice. “I was a
+pretty rotten son. I got into debt and displeased my father in other
+ways. He had very little use for me.”
+
+“You had a serious quarrel a week or so before your father’s death?”
+
+At this point Mr. Menticle, who had been showing increasing signs of
+indignation, scribbled on a piece of paper and had it passed to the
+Coroner. The latter read it and nodded to him, but, possibly because
+the Chief Inspector had shifted on to fresh and less dangerous ground,
+took no immediate action.
+
+Barrod questioned Fratten as to his knowledge of the nature of his
+father’s disease, as Poole had done, but this time eliciting a quite
+straightforward reply. He did not touch on the question of the new
+will. Finally:
+
+“There is just one formal question I must put to you, Mr. Fratten.
+Where were you personally at the time of your father’s death?”
+
+Ryland Fratten’s hesitation was barely noticeable before he answered.
+
+“As a matter of fact I was in St. James’s Park,” he said.
+
+A glint shone in the Chief Inspector’s eyes.
+
+“What were you doing?”
+
+Mr. Menticle sprang to his feet.
+
+“Mr. Coroner!” he exclaimed.
+
+The Coroner held up his hand.
+
+“You need not answer that question unless you like, Mr. Fratten,” he
+said. “I do not know where this examination is trending, but I think
+it probable that you would be wise to consult your solicitor, and to
+be represented by him.”
+
+Fratten gave him a smile of gratitude.
+
+“Thank you, sir,” he said. “It isn’t really a case of a solicitor. I
+am not afraid of incriminating myself, but I do rather dislike
+exposing myself to ridicule. I was waiting in St. James’s Park, at the
+Buckingham Palace end of the Birdcage Walk, to be picked up by a
+girl.”
+
+“Picked up by a girl! Do you mean . . . ?”
+
+“I mean,” interrupted Fratten, blushing hotly, “that a girl—a lady—had
+arranged to pick me up there in her car.”
+
+Barrod held him for nearly a minute under his stare.
+
+“And who, sir, was this—er—lady?”
+
+“I can’t tell you.”
+
+“Do you mean you can’t or you won’t?”
+
+“I can’t tell you,” Fratten repeated.
+
+Barrod opened his mouth as if to renew his interrogation, but,
+apparently changing his mind, resumed his seat, with a sardonic
+expression.
+
+“That’s all, sir,” he said, rising and bowing to the Coroner.
+
+Mr. Menticle had boldly walked across to Ryland’s side and engaged him
+in a whispered conversation. The Coroner indulged him by writing up
+his notes. Having finished his colloquy, Mr. Menticle turned to the
+Coroner.
+
+“Mr. Fratten has asked me to represent him, sir,” he said. “I trust I
+have your permission.”
+
+The Coroner looked at him, a curious expression on his face.
+
+“It occurs to me, Mr. Menticle,” he said, “that such a course may give
+rise to some difficulty. I understand that you are yourself to give
+evidence before this inquiry. Under the circumstances would it not,
+perhaps, be better . . .” he left the sentence unfinished.
+
+Mr. Menticle turned slowly red and then deathly white.
+
+“I . . . I had forgotten, sir,” he stammered. Pulling himself together
+he turned to his client and after a further consultation, asked leave
+to have Mr. Raymond Cullen called to represent Mr. Fratten in his
+place.
+
+“Very well,” said the Coroner, “let it be so. We will adjourn now for
+the luncheon interval.”
+
+When the Court re-opened, a clean-shaven and acute-looking young man
+was seen to be sitting next to Ryland Fratten—evidently Mr. Raymond
+Cullen. Hardly had the Coroner taken his seat when a small,
+quaintly-dressed woman rose from her seat at the back of the Court.
+
+“Mr. Coroner,” she said, in a high, penetrating voice. “I want to give
+evidence in this case. I saw the whole thing. A brutal outrage it was,
+a . . .”
+
+“Order, order,” called the Coroner’s Officer, glaring fiercely at the
+interrupter.
+
+“If you wish to give evidence, madam,” said the Coroner, “you should
+communicate with the police, or with my Officer, in the proper manner.
+In the meantime, I will call the witnesses as I require them. Dr.
+Percy Vyle.”
+
+Dr. Vyle, the police-surgeon who had been present at the exhumation,
+described his share in the proceedings at Brooklands. He explained the
+nature of the marks which he had discovered and his reasons for
+believing them to have been caused by a blow before death. In his
+opinion the blow had been a severe one, caused not by the flat of a
+hand or even a doubled fist, but rather by a blunt instrument, such as
+the knob of a stick. In answer to a question by Mr. Cullen he had no
+hesitation in saying that the blow could not have been delivered after
+death—the appearance of the bruise was not consistent with post-mortem
+injury.
+
+Dr. Vyle was succeeded by Inspector Poole, who corroborated the
+surgeon’s account of the exhumation. After him came distinguished Home
+Office experts enlarging, at an enlarged fee, upon what had already
+been said about the bruising on the dead man’s back. Cullen’s
+questions beat upon this weight of official testimony with as much
+effect as rain upon a steam-engine.
+
+There followed the important testimony of Mr. Leopold Hessel. The
+banker repeated the account of his last walk with his friend that he
+had given to Poole. He said nothing, and was not asked, about the
+subject of the conversation that had so engrossed them, but otherwise
+Poole could notice no discrepancy. Hessel repeated his assertion that
+he did not see how a blow could have been struck without his being
+aware of it, though he admitted that he could not be absolutely
+positive. Still, there had been a number of other witnesses present
+and none of them had given any signs of having seen violence used.
+
+“I did!” exclaimed the same shrill voice from the back of the room. “I
+told you at the time that I saw—a murderous attack—a gang of . . .”
+
+“Order, there,” roared the Coroner’s Officer.
+
+“Remove that person,” exclaimed the Coroner himself sharply.
+
+The quaint little figure was led from the room by a large policeman,
+protesting loudly.
+
+Proceeding, Mr. Hessel told of how his friend had pulled himself
+together, seemed to be really quite recovered, how they walked on
+slowly, arm-in-arm, and then of the sudden collapse and, as was now
+known, almost instantaneous death of Sir Garth.
+
+“And he said nothing before he died?” asked the Coroner.
+
+“Nothing. He seemed to gasp—more than once, as if he was choking. And
+then he collapsed, almost pulling me down with him. He never spoke.”
+
+Mr. Hessel himself spoke in a quiet, restrained voice, but it was
+evident that he was deeply affected.
+
+“You are—you were Sir Garth’s closest friend, were you not, Mr.
+Hessel?”
+
+“In a sense, I suppose I was. He was very good to me.”
+
+“You are his sole executor?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And he left particular instructions that his papers were to be
+committed to your charge?”
+
+“That is so.”
+
+“Have you been through them?”
+
+“Cursorily only.”
+
+“From what you have seen or from what you know, have you formed any
+opinion as to who could have wished to bring about his death?”
+
+“Absolutely no. Even now, even after what all these expert medical
+witnesses have said, I find it difficult to believe that Sir Garth was
+murdered, or even that there was an attack upon him. I know it must
+sound unreasonable in the face of such testimony, but I simply cannot
+bring myself to believe it.”
+
+The Coroner gave an almost unnoticeable shrug of the shoulders.
+
+“Fortunately the unpleasant duty of finding a verdict on that point
+does not fall to your lot, Mr. Hessel,” he said. “I have no more to
+ask you.”
+
+It was now late in the afternoon and the lights had been lit some
+time. Mr. Queriton glanced at his watch.
+
+“There is time to take one more witness,” he said, “and that will be
+the last—we will then adjourn—Mr. Septimus Menticle.”
+
+The lawyer looked anything but at his ease as he took his stand. As
+his examination proceeded, however, his face gradually cleared. He was
+asked about the will—the effective will, for which probate was now
+being applied. He gave its outline from memory and handed a copy of it
+to the Coroner, who, after a brief glance, passed it on to the jury.
+He gave a rough estimate of the figures concerned and explained the
+difficulty of stating them accurately at the moment. He was not—to his
+intense relief—asked about the new will, the will that was never
+signed; probably it was only an agony deferred but he was human enough
+to be thankful for the reprieve. It looked as if his evidence, and the
+day’s work itself, were finished when the Coroner, blotting his notes,
+put a careless question, apparently as an afterthought.
+
+“Practically,” he said, putting his papers together, “Sir Garth’s two
+children divide the estate, so that, had he died intestate, the result
+would have been approximately the same?”
+
+Mr. Menticle did not answer. The Coroner looked up.
+
+“Eh?” he said, “that is so, is it not?”
+
+Mr. Menticle hesitated.
+
+“Am I obliged,” he asked, “to answer hypothetical questions?”
+
+“You are obliged to answer the questions I put to you,” said Mr.
+Queriton sharply.
+
+The lawyer slowly nodded his head.
+
+“In that case,” he said, “the answer is in the negative.”
+
+“What? They would not have divided it? Why not?”
+
+“The whole—or practically the whole—would have gone to Miss Inez
+Fratten. Mr. Ryland Fratten is not Sir Garth Fratten’s son.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+The Intervention of Inez
+
+As the room cleared, at the adjournment of the Inquest, Chief
+Inspector Barrod turned to his subordinate.
+
+“There you are, Poole,” he said. “I’ve given you a start on that young
+fellow. You stick to it now and don’t leave go till you’ve got him.
+You’ll have to keep him shadowed now.”
+
+“Very well, sir, I’ve arranged to go round and see him at his house
+this evening—I’ll go into that girl question then. If you’ll excuse
+me, sir, I just want to catch Mr. Menticle to get a bit more out of
+him about this parentage business.”
+
+“Yes, you’ll want that. I slipped a line to the Coroner not to press
+it too far in Court; we’ve done enough for the moment, as far as the
+public’s concerned.”
+
+The Inspector caught Mr. Menticle before he had left the precincts of
+the Yard and the latter invited him to walk down the Embankment with
+him towards the City.
+
+“All in my way,” he said, “and a minute’s tram run back for you. I
+always walk down this bit of the Embankment on an autumn evening if I
+can—one of the loveliest views I know—London at its best.”
+
+“Yes, sir; I wonder how many of us would have realized that if it
+hadn’t been for Whistler.”
+
+They walked on for a minute or so in silence.
+
+“You want me to amplify about Sir Garth and Mr. Ryland,” said the
+lawyer.
+
+“I do, sir, but in the first place I’d like to know why you didn’t
+tell me when I came to see you on Friday,” said the detective dryly.
+
+“You didn’t ask me, Inspector,” replied Mr. Menticle with a chuckle,
+“and yet I told you no lies. If you could review our conversation now
+you would find that I never referred to them as father and son—always
+as Sir Garth and Mr. Ryland.”
+
+“I see, sir. I suppose you had some object. It seems a pity.”
+
+“I still hoped that there was nothing behind your inquiries—that you
+would drop the case.”
+
+“It makes it harder than ever for us to drop a case, sir, when we find
+that information is being withheld from us,” said Poole quietly.
+
+“Yes, yes, Inspector. I accept your rebuke; it would have been wiser
+to have been quite frank. Now about the past; there is really not much
+that I did not say in Court, though I noticed that the Coroner was not
+pressing me. Sir Garth Fratten was, as you know, married twice, his
+first wife dying in 1902 and his second in 1918. By the second wife he
+had one daughter, Miss Inez Fratten, born in 1905, but by his first
+wife he had no child. A child was, however, born to her a short time
+before their marriage. Sir Garth was, I believe, aware of what was
+about to occur before he asked her to marry him—he was deeply attached
+to his first wife, almost worshipped her—and, he adopted the child as
+his own son. That was Ryland Fratten. Sir Garth could, of course, make
+him his heir or co-heir, but that is quite a different thing to his
+becoming the automatic heir in the event of intestacy. It was for a
+similar reason, I believe, that Sir Garth refused the suggested offer
+of a baronetcy—he did not wish it known that Ryland was not his son.
+That is all, I think.”
+
+“Did Ryland know that he was not Sir Garth’s son?”
+
+“To the best of my belief he did not. Unless in that last quarrel that
+they had, Sir Garth divulged the fact to him; he did not tell me one
+way or the other, but evidently the break was very complete.”
+
+“Can you tell me who was Ryland’s father?”
+
+Mr. Menticle shook his head.
+
+“I never knew. I doubt if anyone does know, unless the man himself is
+still alive.”
+
+As there appeared to be nothing more to be learnt in this direction,
+Poole said good-night to Mr. Menticle and returned to the Yard. After
+arranging for the shadowing of Ryland Fratten, the detective made his
+way to Queen Anne’s Gate to keep his appointment. The butler, who
+evidently recognized him and had had his instructions, showed him
+straight into the morning-room, which was empty. He had not been
+waiting a minute, however, when the door opened and Inez Fratten came
+in. Poole inwardly cursed the butler for his stupidity, but Inez’s
+first words explained what had happened.
+
+“I’m so sorry to butt in, Mr. Poole,” she said. “I know you’ve come to
+see Ryland but I want to see you first. Ry came back from the
+inquest—I wasn’t there, you know; Mr. Menticle said I wasn’t needed—in
+an awful state. He seems to think that the police suspect him of
+murdering father. I needn’t tell you what nonsense that is, but I do
+want to know what has made him get that impression.”
+
+Poole fidgeted from one foot to the other. This was a new experience.
+Inez looked at him with growing wonder.
+
+“Good heavens, Mr. Poole,” she said, “surely _you_ don’t think that?”
+
+Her voice was strained and anxious, but her eyes were full of courage.
+Poole thought what a glorious creature she was and how much he would
+like to have such a sister to stick up for him when he was in trouble.
+
+“It isn’t what I think, Miss Fratten,” he said, realizing that he must
+say something. “The investigation has not got very far yet—we
+certainly haven’t reached the stage of accusing anybody.”
+
+“But you are frightening Ryland; you must be, or he wouldn’t be in
+such a state. I don’t mean that he’s _frightened_,” she hurried to
+correct an unfortunate impression, “but he’s frightfully miserable.
+What is it?”
+
+“I’m afraid I really can’t tell you, Miss Fratten. I’m not at liberty
+to . . .”
+
+“Oh, rot!” Inez tapped the floor impatiently with her foot. “I don’t
+want any deadly secrets, but I must know why you have got your knives
+into Ry. Come, Mr. Poole, you must see that I’ve got to know—put
+yourself in my place. He’s my brother—all I’ve got now. And who can I
+ask except you? You must tell me.”
+
+Poole took a minute to think over his position. Obviously he could not
+give away the cards that the police held. Still, he would like to help
+the girl if he could do so consistently with his duty, and it was
+possible that he might get useful information at the same time.
+
+“I’ll do what I can, Miss Fratten,” he said at last, “and you might be
+able to help. As you yourself appear to have suspected from the first,
+your father’s death was not due to an accident—it was deliberately
+brought about—and apparently by somebody who knew and took advantage
+of his dangerous state of health. Having established that much, we
+have to look about for a probable author of the crime. When there is
+nothing more direct to go on, one usually turns first to two
+considerations: motive and opportunity. Taking motive first, the most
+direct line to follow is pecuniary advantage—the will. In Sir Garth’s
+will, the only people who benefit largely are yourself and your
+brother, Mr. Ryland Fratten. That is nothing in itself, but there are
+one or two other points that make it impossible for us to overlook Mr.
+Fratten in our search.”
+
+“And me, I suppose,” said Inez.
+
+“The ‘other points’ that I spoke of don’t refer to you, Miss Fratten.”
+
+“What are they?”
+
+“I can’t tell you that. That’s motive—not so important by itself, but
+combined with opportunity, very vital. Now, this is where you may be
+able to help, Miss Fratten—your brother as well as us. At the inquest
+this afternoon Mr. Fratten was asked where he had been at the time
+that your father was killed. He answered that he was in St. James’s
+Park—not half a mile from the spot—waiting for a lady to pick him up
+in a car. He wouldn’t give her name.”
+
+“Good Lord,” said Inez, “sounds thin doesn’t it?”
+
+“It does.”
+
+“But then you don’t know Ryland. He’s a hopeless fool about women. You
+want me to find out about her?”
+
+“I’m not asking you to, Miss Fratten. But if your brother really has a
+sound explanation of what certainly sounds like a very poor alibi—the
+sooner we know about it the better.”
+
+“I’ll do what I can. But look here, Mr. Poole, why should you put so
+much emphasis on the will as a motive? Surely there may be plenty of
+others?”
+
+“Plenty. I only gave that as the first step. If you know of anything
+else—if you can make any other suggestion that would give us a line to
+work on, I should be only too grateful.”
+
+Inez curled herself into one corner of the big sofa.
+
+“I wish you’d smoke or something,” she said—“while I’m thinking.”
+Poole did not fall in with this suggestion but he sat down on the
+nearest chair. He was not sure what his chief would think of the line
+he was taking, but for the moment, it was very pleasant to sit and
+look at this delicious young creature, with the attractive frown of
+thought on her brow.
+
+“There’s just one thing that occurs to me,” she said at last. “For
+more than a week before he died, my father seemed rather worried about
+something. He’d given up working after dinner for some time, but
+during the time I’m speaking of, he used to go off to his study soon
+after dinner and stay there till nearly bedtime. I went in once to see
+what he was up to and try to get him out of it—it wasn’t good for him.
+He’d got a whole pile of papers on his desk—balance sheets and things,
+and he was making a lot of notes on some foolscap. It wasn’t like him
+to be worried—he always took business so calmly. I don’t suppose
+there’s anything in it.”
+
+“You don’t know what the papers were?”
+
+“I don’t. Mr. Mangane might, of course.”
+
+“I’ll ask him. Thank you, Miss Fratten. Now what about your brother? I
+ought to see him.”
+
+Inez slipped off the sofa to her feet and came towards Poole.
+
+“Let me speak to him first,” she said. “You have a go at Mangane. I
+promise he shan’t run away.”
+
+The steady gaze of those calm grey eyes, so close to his, intoxicated
+Poole. He felt for a moment an overpowering impulse to say: “Oh don’t,
+please, bother any more; I won’t do anything to hurt your brother or
+you.” With a wrench he recalled himself to his duty. He must do it,
+however unpleasant it was—still, there might be something in the idea
+of her seeing her brother first—she might make him talk. He decided to
+take the risk.
+
+“Very well, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
+
+Guided by Inez, Poole found Mangane in his slip of an office on the
+other side of the study. When the girl had departed Mangane turned to
+his visitor with a sardonic smile.
+
+“Well, Inspector, what can I do for you? Shall I be out of order if I
+ask you to sit down and have a smoke?”
+
+“I’d like to smoke a pipe more than I can say,” replied Poole with a
+smile. “I haven’t had one since breakfast. Not even when I took the
+jury into the mortuary. I’m very glad to find you, sir.”
+
+Mangane shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“If you must, you must,” he said.
+
+“I want to ask you about Sir Garth’s business affairs. Have you any
+reason to suppose that one can get a line there as to the motive of
+his murder?”
+
+“You’re convinced that it was murder?”
+
+“Must have been—look at the wound—the bruising.”
+
+“Couldn’t it have been done when he fell?”
+
+“Hardly. The localized nature of . . .” Poole checked himself.
+“Anyhow, for the moment we are assuming that. Now, had he any business
+enemies?”
+
+“Heaps I should think. But I don’t know of any. What I actually mean
+is that he must have run up against people from time to time, but I’ve
+never heard of anyone bearing him any malice.”
+
+“You can’t suggest anything?”
+
+“I can’t.”
+
+“About his business papers—his personal ones; what’s become of them?”
+
+“So far as I know, they are all here. Mr. Hessel is his executor; he
+has the keys.”
+
+“Has he been through them at all, or taken any away?”
+
+“I don’t think so. He locked the study up and except for a short time,
+nobody’s been in there since. The housemaids are getting rather
+restive.”
+
+“And no one else could have got at them?”
+
+“No. He sent for me directly the body was carried upstairs—Sir Garth
+was brought into the morning-room first, you know, and as soon as the
+doctor had finished his examination, the body was carried upstairs.
+Hessel sent for me at once and said that he knew Sir Garth had
+appointed him sole executor and that it would be well to lock up all
+the papers and so on at once. I took him into the study—it’s next door
+to the morning-room, you know—between that and this. I took him into
+the study and showed him where everything was. We locked everything
+up—we got Sir Garth’s keys, by the way—the wall safe was locked
+already and so were some of the drawers in his desk. I was able to
+show Mr. Hessel pretty well what the different drawers contained—Sir
+Garth was a very methodical man. After that we locked all three doors
+of the room—the one into the hall, the one into the morning-room, and
+this one.”
+
+“So that after that, nobody could have got into the study without Mr.
+Hessel’s knowledge and consent. But before that, was the door leading
+from the study to the hall locked?”
+
+“Oh no.”
+
+“So that anyone could have got into the study from the hall?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Or, of course, from this room?”
+
+Mangane smiled.
+
+“Or, of course, from this room.”
+
+“But as far as you know, no one did go in there between the time of
+Sir Garth’s being brought back and your going in with Mr. Hessel to
+lock up?”
+
+“No. Nobody went in through this room, because I was in here myself,
+and I certainly didn’t hear anyone go in from the hall.”
+
+“Thank you, sir,” said Poole. “I expect you think I’m being very
+fussy, but I want to examine those papers presently and I like to know
+first what chance there has been of their being disturbed.”
+
+“Oh they’ve been disturbed. I told you they had, once. The day after
+the will was read, Mr. Hessel came here with Menticle, the solicitor,
+and we went into the study and together ran through the papers in the
+table and in the ‘In’ and ‘Pending’ baskets—just in case anything
+wanted attending to at once. There was nothing of importance.”
+
+“You were all three together in the room all the time?”
+
+“Yes; we were only there about a quarter of an hour. Mr. Hessel said
+he hadn’t time to do more then. I’ve been trying to get him to come
+along and tackle the job but he keeps on putting it off. I believe the
+old chap’s really rather upset.”
+
+“I can quite believe it. He told me that Sir Garth had been
+extraordinarily good to him.”
+
+Poole paused for a minute to jot something down in his note-book.
+“There’s just one thing more I want to ask you,” he continued. “Miss
+Fratten says that her father was working rather hard every evening
+latterly on something that seemed to worry him. Do you know what that
+was?”
+
+“Oh yes,” replied Mangane. “That was about a finance company he
+thought of going into—he was looking into its dealings to see if it
+was sound. I don’t quite know why he wanted to go into it—beneath his
+notice I should have thought. There may have been some personal
+reason, of course. I shouldn’t have said he was particularly worried
+about it—he was interested, certainly—he always was in anything he
+took up.”
+
+Poole nodded.
+
+“What was the company?”
+
+“The Victory Finance Company—quite a small affair, as those things go
+nowadays.”
+
+“Did you come across the papers when you went through with Mr. Hessel
+and Mr. Menticle?”
+
+“Oh yes, they were all there—with his notes.”
+
+“Could I see them?”
+
+“I should think so—but you’d have to ask Hessel—he’s got the keys.”
+
+The detective nodded and rose to his feet.
+
+“Now if I could just see the butler for a minute,” he said, “and then
+perhaps Miss Fratten . . .” He slurred the sentence off; it was better
+not to let Mangane know about his allowing the girl to talk to her
+brother first.
+
+The dignified Golpin, interviewed in the morning-room, was able to
+assure Poole that there were no duplicate keys to the study, that no
+one had entered it from the hall between the time of Sir Garth being
+brought back and Mr. Hessel locking it up with Mr. Mangane—he had been
+in the hall himself all the time, telephoning for the doctor from a
+box under the stairs, waiting to admit Sir Horace, etc.—and that Mr.
+Hessel had not been back to the house, except for the reading of the
+will—when he had certainly not entered the study—and on the occasion
+when he, Mr. Menticle and Mr. Mangane had all been into the study
+together. The detective thanked him and was asking him to go and
+enquire whether Mr. Fratten could now see him, when the door opened
+and Inez came in. Poole thought that the girl looked paler than when
+she had left him an hour or so before, and there were shadows under
+her eyes. But her voice was firm enough.
+
+“Mr. Poole,” she said, when Golpin had disappeared, “I’m going to ask
+you for another favour. Will you leave my brother alone tonight? You
+won’t get anything more out of him; I haven’t myself—anything really
+useful—and I terribly want him not to be more upset. I’m going to find
+out more as soon as ever I can, and if you will leave him alone now, I
+give you my word of honour that I will tell you everything I find
+out—_everything_, even if it doesn’t look well for him. Will you trust
+me?”
+
+Poole looked at her. He was taking a big risk if anything went wrong
+now—if the man slipped away, unquestioned. But he felt absolutely
+certain that the girl was straight and meant what she said. He nodded
+his head.
+
+“All right,” he said with a smile. Then, remembering his position,
+added more formally: “Very well, Miss Fratten, I will do what you
+ask.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+“Breath of Eden”
+
+When Inez left the detective on the first occasion, she found her
+brother, where she had left him, in her own sitting-room, hunched up
+in an arm-chair and staring gloomily at the fire. If environment has
+the effect upon human spirits with which it is now popularly credited,
+there was no excuse for the expression on Ryland’s face—Inez’ room was
+as cheerful as any London room in November can possibly be. The walls
+and ceilings were painted in three shades of peach, the floor covered
+with a thick carpet of chestnut brown. The small Heal sofa, and two
+arm-chairs, were upholstered in an old-fashioned cretonne, with
+cushions of green and brown loosely flung in unsymmetrical profusion.
+A rosewood baby-grand piano, a sofa-table, acting now as a
+writing-table, a small china cabinet, two or three delicate Sheraton
+chairs and old tray tables, and a walnut fire stool completed the
+furniture of the room. Over the mantelpiece hung a Chippendale mirror,
+while a pair of exquisite girandoles and two coloured Bartolozzi
+engravings were the only other ornaments on the walls. Vases of
+chrysanthemums and autumn foliage, Florentine candle-lamps, and a
+brisk coal and wood fire gave the finishing touches to a very charming
+effect.
+
+Inez herself, in a dark grey georgette which made a perfect background
+for a single string of exquisitely graded pearls, was very far from
+detracting from the beauty of her surroundings as she slipped on to
+the arm of the chair beside her brother. Her beauty was only enhanced
+by the sombre colour of her clothes and her face now showed none of
+the anxiety which her interview with the detective must have
+engendered.
+
+“Ry,” she said softly, while her fingers gently caressed her brother’s
+shoulder, “who was the mysterious lady of the Birdcage Walk?”
+
+Ryland looked up at her quickly.
+
+“Who told you about that?” he asked sharply.
+
+Inez smiled.
+
+“Anybody who had been at the inquest might have, I suppose; but as a
+matter of fact, the handsome but earnest Mr. Poole did.”
+
+Ryland tried to jump up from the chair, but Inez pressed him gently
+back.
+
+“Blast the fellow! Has he been bullying you again?” he said angrily.
+
+“He hasn’t; I bullied him. He came to see you but I waylaid him.
+I . . .”
+
+“But why should he . . .”
+
+“Don’t interrupt, Ry; let me tell my simple story in my own
+old-fashioned way. Odd as it may seem, I wanted to know what had been
+happening today that had worried you so much. You didn’t tell me
+anything worth hearing so I went to the _fons et origo mali_ and
+turned it on. It was a bit sticky—‘not at liberty to divulge’ and all
+that sort of eyewash—but it’s a nice young man really and responded to
+my womanly appeal—as one sister to another effect, you know.”
+
+Ryland snorted.
+
+“It’s quite all right, Ry; I didn’t vamp him—at least, not much. He
+told me what you seem to have told the Coroner, and pretty thin we
+both thought it. He naturally wanted to hear a bit more; that’s what
+he came here for—to put you through it—third degree—in quite a nice,
+gentlemanly sort of way. Well, knowing what sort of a Ryland my
+brother Ryland is, I thought I saw him getting a bit mule-headed and
+sticking his toes in and giving a general representation of a man who
+has got nothing good to tell and won’t tell it. So I told him to go
+off and apply third, fourth and even fifth degrees to the pantry boy
+while I asked you what it was really all about. You see, I start with
+the advantage of knowing that you are telling the truth, however thin
+it may sound, so I . . .”
+
+“Inez, did you know that father wasn’t—wasn’t my father?”
+
+Inez started.
+
+“Ry!” she said. “Haven’t you been listening to what I was saying?”
+
+“Did you know, Inez?” repeated her brother.
+
+Inez looked at him, in a curious expression on her face.
+
+“Yes, Ry, I knew,” she said quietly.
+
+“Who told you?”
+
+“Mother—but she made me promise not to breathe a word about it to
+anyone.”
+
+“Why should you know, and not me? Surely I had a right to know if
+anyone had.”
+
+“I think father didn’t want anyone at all to know—out of kindness
+really—people of that generation—Victorians—had odd ideas about its
+being shameful to be the child of an unmarried mother.”
+
+There was silence for a minute or more as Ryland sat with a look of
+deepening bitterness, staring into the fire.
+
+“Then I’m not your brother?” he said at last.
+
+Again that curious expression, half contemptuous, half tender, came
+into Inez’ face.
+
+“Fancy that!” she said lightly, slipping from her place on the arm of
+Ryland’s chair.
+
+Ryland, catching the ironical note in her voice, looked up
+questioningly, but Inez only returned to her original attack.
+
+“Now then, what about this Birdcage lady?” she asked. “It wasn’t Julie
+Vermont was it? I thought you were off her.”
+
+Ryland shook his head impatiently.
+
+“Oh dry up about her,” he said.
+
+Slightly changing her tactics, Inez gradually coaxed the story out of
+him. It was a curious story; in the first place he did not know who
+the girl was, nor where she lived, but he was none the less very much
+in love with her (he always thought that—for a month or two). It
+appeared that about ten days previously he had been leaving his rooms
+in Abingdon Street when he noticed, just outside his door, a girl
+struggling to change the back tire of a Morris saloon car. A glance
+had been enough to show him that she was attractive and therefore a
+fitting subject for a good deed. He had offered his services, which
+were accepted, and—in not too great a hurry and with a maximum of
+mutual help—the task had been accomplished. An offer of a wash and
+brush up had followed (fortunately Ryland had a well-kept bath-room,
+with lavatory basin, clothes-brush, etc., that Inez sometimes used
+when she came to see him) and was laughingly accepted. The girl was
+uncommonly pretty—prettier than he had at first realized—with dark
+hair, large dark eyes, and small, well-kept hands. The whole interlude
+having lasted nearly half an hour, she had offered to drive Ryland
+wherever he had been going—she herself not being in any hurry. Ryland
+had made a feeble attempt to pretend that he was going to lunch alone
+and tried to induce her to join him, but she had laughingly pointed
+out the time—it was half past eleven—and firmly dropped him at the
+“Doorstep” Club—but not before he had extracted a promise from her to
+have tea with him at Rumpelmayer’s on the following day.
+
+“That was a good tea, as teas go,” said Ryland, reminiscently, “but
+the drive afterwards was much better. We went out in her car to
+Richmond Hill and sat there, looking out over the river—devilish
+romantic in the twilight, I can tell you. We must have been there an
+hour or more.” Ryland was smiling now; the memory of that evening had
+momentarily blotted out much that had happened since.
+
+“You sat there for an hour or more,” said Inez, “talking about—what?”
+
+“Oh I don’t know; nothing in particular.”
+
+“I only ask,” said Inez airily, “because I want to know what one does
+talk about when one picks up a young man and takes him out to
+Richmond. You might be more helpful; anyhow, what do you _do_?”
+
+“What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Ryland. “_You_ can’t
+do that.”
+
+“And why not?”
+
+“Because you . . . oh, it’s this silly sex equality stuff you’ve got
+in your head, I suppose. Let me tell you, it doesn’t work—not where
+that sort of thing’s concerned anyhow.”
+
+“I suppose you hold each other’s hands,” went on Inez inexorably. “Do
+you kiss? Rather familiar with a complete stranger, isn’t it?”
+
+“Shut up, will you? I don’t like to hear you talking like that.”
+
+“All right, all right. Go ahead with your love’s young dream.”
+
+Ryland frowned at her, but Inez’ face bore an expression of such
+innocent appeal, that he burst into a laugh.
+
+“Curse you, Inez; you’re pulling my leg. Well, as a matter of fact we
+didn’t get much forwarder really that evening—self-possessed young
+person she was. I tried to fix up something for next day but she said
+she was going away. The best I could get out of her was that she would
+take me for another drive on the following Thursday. She said she’d
+pick me up in St. James’s Park—at the end of the Birdcage Walk—as soon
+after five as possible. It sounded rather surreptitious and jolly and
+of course I agreed. I got there at a quarter to five and waited till
+nearly seven, but she never came. I haven’t seen her since—as a matter
+of fact, I’ve hardly thought about her.”
+
+The gloomy look had returned to Ryland’s face; the story had brought
+him back to grim facts.
+
+“But who is she, Ry? Where does she live?” asked Inez.
+
+“I tell you I don’t know. Daphne—that’s all she’d tell me in the way
+of a name. And she wouldn’t tell me where she lived. I believe she’s
+got a job somewhere—that was why she wouldn’t come to lunch—but where
+or what it is I don’t know and she wouldn’t tell me.”
+
+“Can you get hold of her? How did you propose to meet again? I suppose
+you were going to?”
+
+“I can’t get hold of her. She was going to meet me, and as she didn’t
+I don’t know in the least where she is.”
+
+“Good Lord,” said Inez. “It is a blank wall—and a thin story. What was
+she like?”
+
+“I told you—dark hair, dark eyes, about your height.”
+
+“Dark eyes? What colour?”
+
+“Oh I don’t know—brown, I suppose. Or it may have been her eyelashes
+that were dark.”
+
+“What a rotten description. What did she wear?”
+
+“Oh the usual sort of thing. Brownish-grey coat and skirt and one of
+those small hats—reddy-brown I should think. Brownish stockings.”
+
+“That identifies her precisely,” said Inez sarcastically. “You’re
+quite hopeless. Wasn’t there _anything_ to distinguish her from
+twenty-thousand other shop-girls?”
+
+“She wasn’t a shop-girl! She was . . .”
+
+“Oh yes, a princess in disguise of course—especially the disguise. But
+wasn’t there anything?”
+
+Ryland thought for a minute. Suddenly his face brightened.
+
+“There was! Scent! Marvellous stuff—simply made you feel wicked all
+down your spine.”
+
+“Pah! Patchouli, I should think—fines it down to ten thousand,
+perhaps. Look here, Ry, you’ve got to find this girl. Put a notice in
+the Agony Column—‘Daphne, Birdcage Walk. Broken-hearted. Write Box
+something. Boysie’—or whatever silly name you let her call you.
+Seriously, you _must_ find her. It’s not the least use your seeing
+this detective with a story like that. I’ll put him off. And just you
+get your nose down to it and do some finding.”
+
+So it was that Inez returned to the morning-room with her tale of woe.
+It wasn’t true, of course; but on the other hand, her promise to tell
+Poole everything that she found out was honestly given; she had
+pledged her word of honour—a mysterious distinction, surviving perhaps
+from schoolroom days.
+
+The period of grace won for him by his sister’s diplomacy did not at
+first appear likely to be of great benefit to Ryland Fratten. He spent
+most of the evening in almost voiceless gloom, growled at Inez
+whenever she talked to him—especially when she tried to get him to
+take some interest in his own predicament—and left the house for his
+lodgings soon after half past nine.
+
+On the following morning, however, he appeared in time for breakfast,
+looking much more his usual, cheerful self. Inez was already in the
+breakfast-room, brewing coffee; Ryland went up to her, put his arm
+round her waist, and kissed her affectionately.
+
+“I suppose I’ve no right to do that now,” he said.
+
+“Just as much as ever you had,” replied Inez.
+
+“Yes, but I didn’t know it before. Where ignorance is bli . . . I
+mean,—no, I don’t; I’m getting muddled. What I really mean is, that
+there’s no fun in breaking a rule if you don’t know you’re breaking
+it. In other words, now I’ve no right to kiss you—I really want to.”
+
+A faint flush appeared on Inez’ usually calm face.
+
+“You’d better get yourself something to eat,” she said crisply. “Your
+mind’s not very clear before food.”
+
+Ryland laughed.
+
+“My mind’s been working to some tune since I saw you last. I’ve got a
+clue!”
+
+Inez turned quickly.
+
+“What?” she exclaimed.
+
+“That scent! You remember, I told you that Daphne used a very
+attractive scent; well, I’ve found it. That’s to say I’ve found a
+handkerchief of hers that still smells of it. I remembered last night
+that she’d dropped her handkerchief getting out of the car and I’d
+pinched it—rather romantic—something to remind me of her—that sort of
+thing.”
+
+“So as not to get her muddled up with half a dozen others?” said Inez.
+“How thoughtful of you, Ryland. Let’s smell the beastly stuff.”
+
+If Inez had expected the usual cheap sickly scent that she had spoken
+of, she must have been greatly surprised. The handkerchief—a fine
+cambric, with a thin edging of lace—gave off a very faint bitter-sweet
+perfume which was quite unlike anything she had met before. She at
+once became interested. The scent was so unusual that there seemed
+quite a possibility that it might be traced. She suggested to Ryland
+that he should take the handkerchief to one or two of the leading
+perfumers—Rollinson in Bond Street, Duhamel Frères, Pompadour in the
+Ritz Arcade—and ask them whether it was one of their creations. But
+Ryland seemed to have lost interest in the subject as soon as his
+sister took it up; he declared that the whole thing was nonsense—he
+wasn’t going to traipse round London making a fool of himself, just
+because some silly detective was getting excited about a mare’s nest.
+
+Inez was furious with him, but neither gibes nor entreaties could stir
+him to make the suggested enquiries. Eventually she declared that she
+would do it herself, thinking perhaps that that might move him; he
+merely told her that she could if it amused her.
+
+Put on her mettle by this cavalier treatment, Inez ran up to her room,
+put on a hat and a pointed fox fur, and was soon bowling along in a
+taxi to Rollinson’s. With an air of considerable _empressement_ she
+demanded to see the manager and, as her appearance and her card were
+sufficiently important to open such an august portal, she soon found
+herself in that aristocratic gentleman’s room. Having already divulged
+her name, Inez knew that it was no good trying to invent some
+cock-and-bull story to cloak her inquiry; the report of the inquest
+was in all the papers that morning, including, of course, the account
+of Ryland’s abortive liaison with an unknown young lady in St. James’s
+Park. Very wisely, Inez decided to take the manager entirely into her
+confidence. Needless to say, the poor man was easy game for Inez, who,
+when she chose to exert her full powers, could wring sympathy out of a
+University Professor; had she not, only a few hours previously,
+derailed an ambitious young detective under full steam? Mr.
+Rodney-Phillips (in private life, Rodnocopoulos) became at once her
+ardent collaborator in the search for truth—and “Daphne.”
+
+Inez produced the handkerchief.
+
+“This is our only clue,” she said. “Is it possible to identify the
+scent? If anyone can do it, I know you can.”
+
+Mr. Rodney-Phillips bowed and held out a fat white palm. The
+handkerchief being placed on it, he conveyed it to within about six
+inches of his fine nose, closed his eyes, and gave a long, slow, and
+utterly refined sniff.
+
+Instantly he opened his eyes.
+
+“Why, certainly, madame,” he exclaimed. “This is one of our own
+perfumes—one of our choicest, and most ‘chic’ conceptions—‘Breath of
+Eden.’ It is, of course, exclusively purveyed by ourselves; there is
+every hope of our being able to identify the purchaser by the help of
+your description of the lady—though, of course, a certain amount is
+sold over the counter to casual purchasers. I will send for Miss
+Gilling, our head assistant.”
+
+Miss Gilling, however, was less hopeful—was, in fact, rather bored by
+the enquiry. There were, she declared, a number of ladies among their
+clientele, answering broadly to the vague description which was all
+that Inez could produce. The scent was a popular one and was sold in
+considerable quantities to both regular and occasional customers.
+
+Inez’s hopes were dashed by the uncompromising and unhelpful
+pronouncement, but the manager was not going to allow his promises to
+be so lightly upset.
+
+“But we must enquire, Miss Gilling,” he exclaimed. “The books must be
+examined. I have promised Miss Fratten that we will identify the
+purchaser.”
+
+Instantly Miss Gilling pricked up her ears and discarded the pose of
+supercilious languor that she had hitherto adopted.
+
+“Miss Fratten?” she exclaimed. “Are you Miss Fratten? Oh, then I think
+I can help you. I have myself on more than one occasion supplied this
+very perfume to the order of your . . . of Mr. Ryland Fratten!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+Eye-Witnesses
+
+Poole realized that before pinning the crime of murdering Sir Garth
+Fratten to any individual, he must first find out, or at any rate try
+to find out, how that murder had been committed. It was clear enough
+_when_ it was done but, so far, in spite of the presence of a number
+of witnesses, it was not at all clear _how_ it was done.
+
+In addition to Hessel, a number of witnesses had written to or
+communicated in other ways with the police, offering to give evidence
+at the inquest as to the “accident” on the Duke of York’s Steps.
+Preliminary investigations had suggested that none of these witnesses
+had any very different story to tell than had already been provided by
+Hessel, and it had not been thought necessary to call them for the
+initial stages of the Coroner’s enquiry. Poole, however, had their
+addresses and, on the morning after his interview with Inez
+Fratten—and his failure to interview Ryland—he determined to make a
+round of visits and go exhaustively into the question of what the
+eye-witnesses of the accident had seen.
+
+The first name on his list was that of Mr. Thomas Lossett, of 31
+Gassington Road, Surbiton, employed at Tyler, Potts and Co., the
+Piccadilly hatters. Mr. Lossett proved to be what was popularly known
+as the “hat-lusher” at this celebrated establishment—that is to say,
+he wore a white apron and a paper cap and ironed or blocked the hats
+of the firm’s aristocratic clients. By permission of the manager, whom
+Poole took into his confidence, the detective was allowed to interview
+Mr. Lossett in a small room set aside for the storage of customers’
+own silk hats when out of town—from the comparative emptiness of the
+shelves Poole deduced that the practice of silk-hat farming was in
+decline.
+
+Mr. Lossett was a loquacious gentleman of about fifty. He was, it
+appeared, in a position to give an exact account of the incident
+because he had been only a few yards away from Sir Garth when the
+accident occurred. He had first noticed the gentlemen as they stood
+underneath the Column before beginning the descent of the steps. He
+was on his way from Piccadilly to Waterloo—he often walked, if it were
+a fine evening, being a firm believer in the value of pedestrian
+exercise—and his attention had been attracted to the two gentlemen by
+the fact that they both wore top-hats—a comparatively rare phenomenon
+on a week-day in these degenerate times. Descending the broad steps a
+little behind and to the side of them, his attention had never really
+left them and he had been fully aware of the hurried descent of a man
+in a light overcoat and a bowler hat, who stumbled just as he was
+passing the two gentlemen and knocked against Sir Garth Fratten—as Mr.
+Lossett had afterwards discovered the taller of the two to have been.
+
+Poole questioned Mr. Lossett closely on the actual impact, and
+obtained a very clear statement. Lossett had seen the man before he
+actually struck against Sir Garth and was perfectly certain that no
+blow had been struck with the hand or with any instrument. He had
+stumbled against Sir Garth’s side, rather than his back, and had
+clutched the banker’s arm to prevent himself from falling. As for his
+appearance, he was decidedly tall and wore a black moustache. He had
+spoken in what Mr. Lossett described as a “genteel” voice, had
+apologized handsomely, saying that he was in a great hurry to get to
+the Admiralty, and, as Sir Garth appeared to be all right, had hurried
+off in the direction of that building. Lossett had not himself waited
+to see what became of Sir Garth, as he had not too much time in which
+to catch his train; he had been intensely surprised to read of the
+fatal outcome of the accident, as it had seemed to him so trivial. He
+put the time of the accident at somewhere between 6.15 and 6.30.
+
+The detective was distinctly disappointed by this account. It
+was so very clear and certain, and gave no indication as to how
+the banker had received the fatal blow in his back. No amount of
+cross-questioning could shake the hat-lusher on that vital point.
+
+Pondering over the problem which this evidence provided, Poole made
+his way to the Haymarket, where he found Mr. Ulred Tarker, a clerk in
+the offices of the Trans-Continental Railway Company. Mr. Tarker,
+interviewed in the manager’s own room, had not a great deal of light
+to throw on the subject. He had not noticed either the two bankers or
+the man who had stumbled against them before the occurrence; then,
+hearing a commotion behind him, he had looked round and seen what he
+believed to be two men supporting a third between them. Two of the
+figures were evidently elderly gentlemen of good standing, the third a
+younger man, dressed very much as ninety-nine men out of a hundred at
+that time and place, in the evening rush to one of the stations, would
+be dressed—a dark suit and either a bowler or a trilby hat—Mr. Tarker
+was not sure which. Although he had stopped for a second or two to see
+what the excitement was about, Mr. Tarker had soon realized that it
+was nothing interesting and had gone on his way, not noticing anything
+more about any of the three figures concerned. He had not seen any
+blow struck, but then he had not looked round till after the accident.
+The third man, the one not wearing a top-hat, had appeared to him
+middle-aged or getting on that way, and probably had a moustache. He
+had left the office soon after 6.15 and walked straight to the Duke’s
+Steps and so on to Westminster.
+
+That was all, and Poole felt that he had wasted his time.
+
+Katherine Moon, a cashier at the Royal Services Club, Waterloo Place,
+proved more interesting. She had waited for a minute or two in
+Waterloo Place for a friend to join her; half-past six was the time
+arranged; during that time she had noticed a man in a light overcoat
+waiting at the corner of Carlton House Terrace, to one side of the
+Steps; she had noticed him because for a second she had thought he
+might be the friend for whom she was waiting, though she had quickly
+seen that he was taller than her friend and wore a moustache, which
+her friend did not. That was all that she had seen; she had no real
+reason for connecting him with the tragedy and had not at first done
+so, but on hearing of the exhumation and having previously read Miss
+Fratten’s advertisement, she had put two and two together and wondered
+whether they could possibly make four. Poole thought her a
+particularly smart girl; there had been so very little really to
+connect the two incidents in her mind, and yet the detective felt that
+she might well be right.
+
+Four more names remained on the Inspector’s list—three from the
+Haymarket neighbourhood, and one from Paddington Square. Poole was
+puzzled for a moment to find practically all the witnesses coming from
+such a conscribed area, till he realized that the number of people who
+would use the Duke of York’s Steps as a homeward route after the day’s
+work must be closely limited—it was a distinctly long way to Victoria
+or Waterloo and not too close even to St. James’s Park Underground
+Station.
+
+Mr. Raffelli, owner of a small antique shop in Haymarket Passage, had
+not, it transpired, seen the accident at all, but had been present
+when Sir Garth’s body was carried to the car, arriving on the scene
+probably five minutes after he fell. More wasted time, thought Poole.
+
+After a hurried luncheon at Appenrodt’s, the detective called on Mr.
+Julian Wagglebow, employed in the London Library. Mr. Wagglebow, a
+precise old gentleman who disliked being hurried, described how, after
+finishing his day’s work, which consisted of indexing a number of
+newly-purchased books, at 6 p. m., he had proceeded to Hugh Rees’s
+shop in Lower Regent Street, to buy a copy of _The Fond Heart_ for his
+daughter, whose birthday it was. Leaving Hugh Rees’s he had walked
+down past the Guards Crimean Memorial and the new King Edward statue—a
+misleading representation, Mr. Wagglebow thought—to the Duke of York’s
+Steps. Being rather short-sighted he was descending the Steps slowly
+and carefully when he was startled by someone rushing down past him.
+“That man will have an accident if he isn’t careful,” he had thought
+to himself, and sure enough, at that very moment, the man had stumbled
+and lurched against a gentleman in a top-hat who was walking with
+another gentleman, similarly attired, just in front of him, Mr.
+Wagglebow.
+
+Poole interrupted at this point, to impress upon his informant the
+extreme importance of an _exact_ description of the accident. The
+exact description was forthcoming and it was as disappointing as that
+of Mr. Lossett, the hat-lusher. The man had _lurched_ against Sir
+Garth—rather heavily, it is true, but he had not struck him. No, his
+shoulder had not struck Sir Garth in the back; it had been more of a
+sideways lurch against Sir Garth’s arm—perhaps at an angle of
+forty-five degrees, if the Inspector knew what he meant by
+that—between the back of the arm and the side of the arm. That was
+natural, because the lurch, although to a certain extent sideways—as
+if the ankle had turned over—had also been forwards, because of the
+pace at which the man was descending the steps. Mr. Wagglebow was able
+to be so precise because, as he had already explained, he had at that
+very moment been thinking to himself that if that man were not more
+careful he would have an accident, and sure enough he did have one—as
+Mr. Wagglebow was watching him.
+
+This certainly was clear evidence and the detective saw that Mr.
+Wagglebow would be a difficult man to shake in a witness box. As to
+the man’s appearance, Mr. Wagglebow was less clear—he had not been
+particularly interested by the individual but rather by the incident,
+which had so exactly borne out his warning. He believed that the man
+wore an overcoat—he could not say of what colour, but probably not
+quite black—and a bowler hat. He had appeared to be of ordinary size
+and appearance—a young man, undoubtedly. At the foot of the Steps, Mr.
+Wagglebow had turned to the right towards St. James’s Park Suspension
+bridge, and had seen no more of the parties concerned. Allowing for
+the time spent in buying the book at Hugh Rees’s Mr. Wagglebow thought
+that he could not have reached the Steps before 6.30.
+
+The last name in this neighbourhood was that of Hector Press, of
+Haymarket Court. Haymarket Court proved to be a block of bachelor
+flats just behind His Majesty’s Theatre, and Mr. Press, a valet
+employed in the flats by the management, to look after such of the
+residents as had not their own men to valet them. Mr. Press wore a
+neat black suit, well oiled hair, and blue chin. His voice was
+carefully controlled and he displayed a slight tendency to patronize a
+“policeman.” He had, he said, submitted his name as a witness since
+reading the account of the inquest in last night’s evening paper,
+because he had been struck by a possible discrepancy between the
+evidence there given and his own observation. On the evening in
+question (something after six—he couldn’t say nearer), he had been
+going from Haymarket Court to visit an acquaintance in Queen Anne’s
+Mansions—he usually had an hour or two off, between five and seven if
+he had got the gentleman’s dress clothes ready—but on reaching the top
+of the Duke of York’s Steps, he suddenly remembered that Captain
+Dollington required his bag packed for a visit to Newmarket. Shocked
+by his forgetfulness, he had whisked quickly round and had been nearly
+cannoned into by a gentleman walking just behind him. This gentleman
+had evidently been startled or annoyed by the check to his progress
+because he had sworn at Mr. Press in a manner that caused the valet to
+stare at him as he hurried on. So it was that Mr. Press had seen the
+gentleman break into a run down the steps and, a few seconds later, to
+stumble and knock against two gentlemen in tall hats who were about
+half-way down. The particular point that Mr. Press wished to make was
+that this gentleman had been referred to in the evidence as an
+Admiralty messenger, or, if not quite that, at any rate the impression
+had been given that he was a man of the clerk class, taking a message
+to the Admiralty. Now Mr. Press had had great experience of gentlemen
+and he not only knew one when he saw one, but still more when he heard
+one. The particular oath which had been hurled at him had
+unquestionably been a gentleman’s oath and the voice was a gentleman’s
+voice. Of that Mr. Press had no doubt at all and he was prepared to
+state his opinion on oath. Questioned by Poole, the valet was not
+prepared to say for certain that a blow had not been struck but he had
+certainly not seen one, though he had been watching the gentleman
+right up to the moment of the collision. As to appearance and clothes,
+he had no hesitation in saying that the gentleman was of medium
+height, about thirty-five years of age, and wore a dark moustache,
+together with a bowler hat and an overcoat of medium-grey cloth—the
+latter by no means new or well cared for. He had not gone down the
+Steps to see what had happened, as he was in a hurry to get back and
+pack Captain Dollington’s bag.
+
+Poole felt that this might prove to be the most useful information
+that he had yet received, though it still left him in the dark as to
+how Sir Garth had come by his injury. His last remaining witness, who
+had written from an address in Paddington Square and wished to be
+interviewed there, was a clerk employed in the Chief Whip’s office at
+the House of Commons. Probably Mr. Coningsby Smythe did not wish it to
+get about in the House that the police had been interrogating
+him—perhaps he feared that it might damage the credit of the
+Government, but Poole did not feel inclined to wait till a late hour
+and journey all the way up to Paddington when his information was
+waiting for him so close at hand. Accordingly he made his way to the
+House and, by the good offices of one of the officials, obtained a few
+minutes’ conversation with Mr. Smythe in a corner of the Visitors’
+Lobby.
+
+Mr. Smythe, it appeared, had been returning to the House after
+delivering an important note to a Minister (Mr. Smythe was very
+discreet) at the Carlton Club. As he walked down the Duke of York’s
+Steps, he had noticed two gentlemen in top-hats about to cross the
+Mall. He had wondered, such was the rarity of the “topper” in these
+degenerate days (Mr. Smythe was unconsciously echoing the hat-lusher)
+whether the two gentlemen were Members, and had hurried his steps in
+order to satisfy his curiosity. They had checked on an island in the
+middle of the Mall and he was within ten or fifteen yards of them when
+they crossed the second half. His view of them had been interrupted
+for a moment by a passing car and the next he saw of them, the taller
+of the two was just sinking to his knees, and so to the ground, while
+the shorter—Mr. Hessel, it now appeared—tried to hold him up. Mr.
+Smythe had hurried to the spot—had, in fact, been the first there—but
+Sir Garth had not spoken, nor even moved again. Mr. Hessel was
+evidently deeply distressed, and kept wringing his hands and calling
+his friend’s name. He, Mr. Smythe, had suggested calling a doctor, but
+at that moment a gentleman had offered a car and he had helped to lift
+Sir Garth into it.
+
+Poole was getting impatient, but concealed his feeling.
+
+“Yes, sir,” he said. “But what about the accident; did you see that?”
+
+“But I’ve just told you, Inspector!”
+
+“No, sir; I don’t mean that. The accident on the Steps, when Sir Garth
+was knocked into.”
+
+“Oh, no, Inspector, I didn’t see that. I saw Sir Garth practically
+die—I thought you would wish to know about it.”
+
+Smothering his annoyance, the detective thanked Mr. Coningsby Smythe
+for his information and released him to his important duties. As he
+left the House, Poole remembered that there was one name that he had
+not got on his list—that of the woman who had caused a disturbance at
+the Inquest. It was a hundred to one against her having anything of
+importance to say—probably she was one of the many half-witted people
+whose object in life is to draw attention to themselves; still, Poole
+had been in the Force long enough to learn that it was never safe to
+turn one’s back upon the most unpromising source of information.
+
+Returning to the Yard, he obtained the name and address which the
+woman had given to the Coroner’s Officer: Miss Griselda Peake, 137
+Coxon’s Buildings, Earl’s Court. It was now nearly five o’clock and
+Poole felt that the lady would almost certainly be at home for the
+sacred office of tea-drinking. He proved to be right; Miss Peake was
+at home—in a small room on the seventh floor (no lift) of Coxon’s
+Buildings, and received him with great dignity and the offer of
+refreshment.
+
+“I have been expecting to hear from Scotland Yard, Officer,” she said.
+“I have important information to give and I should have been heard by
+the Coroner. I thought him an ill-mannered official, but still I
+understand that red-tape is red-tape and I am prepared to meet the
+wishes of the authorities.”
+
+Miss Peake spoke calmly, with none of the excited shrillness of her
+appearance at the Inquest. Perhaps the environment of her home was
+soothing. She was a very small woman, of about fifty-five, dressed in
+the period of the nineties. Her long, tight-sleeved dress was youthful
+in cut and ornament and probably represented a well-saved relic of her
+young days. Possibly her mind had never advanced beyond that age—she
+both looked and spoke like a figure from the _Strand Magazine_ in the
+days of L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace.
+
+“I was present at the time the outrage was committed on Sir Garth
+Fratten,” she said, impressively. “I was standing—two lumps,
+Officer?—at the foot of the Steps at the time, or rather, I should
+say, half-way between the foot of the Steps and the carriage-way—the
+new carriage-way, you know—it has all been altered—Germanized—a grave
+mistake I always feel. I happened to be waiting there, watching the
+Members on their way from the Cartlon to the House—Mr. Balfour often
+passes that way—a great man, Officer, a charming speaker, but I fear
+that he will never be a leader. I saw two gentlemen, evidently
+Members, coming down the Steps, and the next moment I saw it all. A
+dastardly outrage, Officer!”
+
+Miss Peake’s voice rose suddenly in a shrill cry of excitement. Her
+eyes blazed and she rose to her feet, nearly pushing over the
+tea-table as she did so. Evidently the poor lady’s mind could not
+stand excitement.
+
+“A brutal attack!” she cried. “Ruffians—a gang of ruffians—Fenians!”
+
+Suddenly she sank back into her chair, looked dazedly about her, and
+passed her hand over her eyes. After a moment, she spoke again in a
+dull, level voice.
+
+“The man rushed down the Steps after committing his fell deed,” she
+said. “I saw him leap into a waiting vehicle and drive away. The
+villains! The cowards! Nihilists! Radicals!”
+
+Once more the excitement had seized her and she broke into shrill
+cries, only half intelligible. Poole saw that it was useless to expect
+any lucid account from her. Waiting only for a quiet moment in which
+to take his leave, he thanked poor little Miss Griselda for her
+valuable help, and left her to finish her tea in peace.
+
+“Please tell the Secretary of State that I am at his service at any
+time,” said Miss Peake as she ushered him out of the door.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+Sir Garth’s Papers
+
+Although he had had a hard day’s work and it was nearly six o’clock,
+Poole felt that he had made so little progress that he could not leave
+things as they were. Consequently, he returned to the Yard, and taking
+his note-book and a sheet of foolscap, set himself to analyse the
+evidence that he had obtained during the day. As was only to be
+expected, there were discrepancies in the accounts of the incident
+which the various eye-witnesses had given him. In the first place, the
+“time” was very vague—varying from “some time after six” by Press, to
+“not before six-thirty” by Wagglebow. The evidence of Tarker and Miss
+Moon, however, made it fairly certain that the time was well after
+6.15. Referring to his note-book Poole discovered that he had not got
+a definite statement by Mr. Hessel on the subject—he made a note to
+get it at the first opportunity.
+
+Then, as to the appearance of Sir Garth Fratten’s assailant, there was
+much difference of opinion. Tarker had described him as “getting on
+for middle-age,” while Wagglebow thought him “undoubtedly young”; but
+then Tarker was himself a young man and Wagglebow an old, which would
+probably account for the difference, each judging from his own
+standpoint. The observant Press was probably near the mark in putting
+him at thirty-five.
+
+The consensus of opinion pointed to a bowler hat, but the overcoat
+varied from “light” (Lossett), through “medium grey” (Press), to “not
+quite black” (Wagglebow). All seemed agreed on the subject of a
+moustache, but whereas Press and Wagglebow thought him of “medium” or
+“ordinary” size, Lossett had described him as “decidedly tall.”
+
+The question of the man’s “class” was unsatisfactory. Poole had not
+questioned his earlier witnesses specifically on this point—he blamed
+himself for not doing so—but he had certainly gathered the impression,
+both from them and previously from Mr. Hessel, that he was of middle
+class, a clerk or responsible messenger. Press, however, probably an
+expert witness on this subject, had been absolutely certain that the
+man was a “gentleman”—by which he probably meant someone accustomed to
+command obedience. It was a point which might be of the very first
+importance and Poole made a note to question Lossett, Tarker,
+Wagglebow, and possibly Miss Moon, as well as Mr. Hessel, about it in
+the near future.
+
+On the really vital point of the blow, however, there was remarkable
+unanimity of opinion; not one had seen a blow struck or believed it
+had been struck, whilst two—Lossett and particularly Mr. Wagglebow
+(who might be regarded as a most reliable witness)—were absolutely
+certain that a blow had _not_ been struck. This was a most serious
+matter; it left a really vital gap in the chain of evidence.
+
+For some time the detective sat pondering over this problem and
+gradually the glimmerings of an idea took shape in his mind. They were
+so vague, however, that he deliberately put them aside until he had
+got more information by which to test them. In the first place he
+determined to try and see Mr. Hessel again that evening and with that
+object in view, put a call through to the Wanderers’ Club to enquire
+whether that gentleman was in. While waiting for a reply, he sent for
+Sergeant Gower, who had been detailed to work under him in this case.
+Before starting out that morning, Poole had detailed Sergeant Gower to
+go to the Admiralty and make enquiries about the identity of any
+possible messenger, either to or from the Admiralty, answering the
+description given by Mr. Hessel, on the evening of 24th October. The
+task had not, it appeared, taken Gower long; every incoming message
+would automatically go through the Registry, as would all outgoing
+messages, except those sent privately by very senior officers who
+could afford to ignore, and did sometimes ignore, the regulations. The
+number of plain-clothes clerks who could be so employed was strictly
+limited, and when it was further reduced by the condition of a
+moustache—in a naval office such appendages were as scarce as its
+marines—it did not take long to discover that no such messenger had
+been either from or to the Admiralty on the evening in question. As
+Poole had expected, the Admiralty message was nothing but a myth.
+
+At this point, the hall porter of the Wanderers’ rang through to say
+that Mr. Hessel was not in the Club—and would not divulge whether he
+had been in it that day or was expected. Cursing the ultra-discretion
+of Clubland, Poole determined to try Hessel’s rooms, of which he had
+previously obtained the address. No reply could be extracted from the
+flat in Whitehall Court. Nothing daunted, Poole determined to walk
+round there; it was just possible that Mr. Hessel was at this hour
+himself walking home from club or office. He was right; when he got to
+the great block of flats behind the War Office, he found that the
+banker had just come in.
+
+Mr. Hessel received the detective with a friendly smile. At Poole’s
+request, he repeated his account of the accident, but without throwing
+any fresh light on the question of the blow. He had not actually seen
+the man knock against Sir Garth, but he felt sure that he must have
+been conscious if anything so definite as a blow had been delivered.
+As to time, he had no means of fixing precise limits, but he would say
+soon after six. Poole thanked him for his information and turned to
+the question of appearance.
+
+“Would you say that the man was a gentleman, sir?” he asked; “perhaps
+I ought to put it rather differently: did he appear to be a man of
+leisure, a business or professional man, a clerk—or what?”
+
+Hessel thought for a time, before answering.
+
+“Now you press me,” he said. “I find it rather difficult to answer.
+From his remarks—something about a message to the Admiralty, as I told
+you—I certainly formed the unconscious impression that he was of the
+clerk type. But I am not really at all sure. He was quite a
+nice-looking, pleasant-spoken young fellow; he might really quite well
+have been a professional man, I suppose. His clothes were not very
+smart, so far as I remember—but of course that tells one little in
+these hard times.”
+
+“You saw him quite clearly, sir?”
+
+“Oh, yes—quite.”
+
+“Is it possible that he was someone that you know by sight—disguised?”
+
+Hessel stared at the detective.
+
+“Who do you mean?” he asked.
+
+“I am not for the moment suggesting that he was anyone in particular,
+but I should just like to be certain whether such a thing was or was
+not a possibility. If, as we think, this man made a deliberate attack
+upon Sir Garth, he would almost certainly be disguised. The old idea
+of the false beard and glasses is rather played out now—partly because
+beards are so little worn, partly because false ones seldom look real,
+and partly because it is now realized that a very slight alteration of
+a face can completely change it. This man wore a dark moustache;
+probably he was a clean-shaven man. I rather gather that his voice was
+‘refined,’ but not quite that of a gentleman.” (For the moment, Poole
+thought it better to keep to himself Press’s evidence about the
+“gentlemanly oath.”) “A lower or middle class man would have
+difficulty in counterfeiting a gentleman’s voice, but a gentleman
+could easily convey the other impression—especially if he knew
+something about acting.”
+
+Slowly an expression of astonishment, almost of horror, crept into
+Hessel’s face.
+
+“Good God, Inspector,” he said. “You are suggesting that—that it might
+be Ryland!”
+
+“Is it impossible, sir?” pressed Poole, leaning forward eagerly.
+
+“Ryland! Ryland! His height, yes, perhaps—even his figure. But—oh no,
+it is impossible, Inspector. I should have recognized him, of course.
+Besides, the whole idea is unthinkable; he is a charming boy, devoted
+to his father. . . .”
+
+“Was he?”
+
+“Why, yes; why, of course he was!”
+
+“The first time I spoke to you, Mr. Hessel, you told me that on that
+very evening, a few minutes before his death, Sir Garth was talking to
+you about some trouble with his son—about the son’s lack of affection
+for his father. You said yourself that they did not understand one
+another, that Sir Garth was unjust to his son—his adopted son, it now
+appears.”
+
+Hessel looked pale and troubled.
+
+“Yes, yes, Inspector,” he said. “That may be so. But what I said in no
+way implied that there was _serious_ trouble between them; at bottom,
+I am quite certain, they were both deeply attached to one another.”
+
+“I happen to know, sir,” the detective persisted, “that there _was_
+serious trouble between them. I also know that Mr. Ryland Fratten has
+not satisfactorily accounted for his whereabouts at that hour—and I
+know other things. Now I want, sir, direct answers to two questions,
+if you will be so good as to give them to me. First, do you believe
+that the man who knocked into Sir Garth on the Steps that evening was
+Mr. Ryland Fratten?”
+
+“No, I do not!” exclaimed Hessel emphatically.
+
+“Very well, sir; now, do you give me your assurance that, beyond all
+reasonable doubt, it was _not_ Ryland Fratten?”
+
+Poole’s steady eyes searched into the depths of the harassed face of
+the banker; they saw doubt, anxiety, and, finally, determination.
+
+“I . . . I . . . yes, I am sure—absolutely sure—that it was not
+Ryland,” said Hessel.
+
+Poole looked at him quietly for a second or two, as if to give him
+time to change his mind; then, with some deliberation, made an entry
+in his note-book.
+
+“Now, sir, if I may, I want to ask you about a quite different point.
+When I first spoke to you—last Friday, I think it was—I asked you
+whether you thought Sir Garth had any enemies; you rather naturally
+pooh-poohed the idea, or at any rate the implication, and said that of
+course the death was accidental. I was not in a position to press you
+on the point at that time—it was before we had definite information to
+work on—but now that we know for certain that Sir Garth was murdered I
+must return to that point. You are, I believe, Sir Garth’s executor,
+and have sole control of his business affairs—his papers and so on. No
+doubt you have been through them; can you tell me whether you have
+found anything to indicate that Sir Garth was threatened, or in
+danger, or likely to be in danger, or engaged in any work which was
+bringing him into opposition with dangerous people? I am afraid I am
+being rather vague, but you probably see what I am trying to get at.
+We are trying to establish a motive for this crime, and, of course, to
+find out a possible author of it.”
+
+Mr. Hessel answered at once, quietly but firmly.
+
+“In the first place, Inspector, I cannot agree with your assumption
+that murder has been committed—that of course is only my personal
+view. Leaving that—assuming your view for the moment—you implied just
+now that Ryland Fratten had killed his father; now you are asking me
+to provide you with an entirely different type of murderer—if I may
+say so, a rather melodramatic type. What am I to understand by this
+sudden change of front?”
+
+“I think that you misunderstood me, sir,” said Poole. “I did not imply
+that Mr. Ryland Fratten _was_ the murderer; I asked you for your
+opinion as to whether he possibly _might_ be; I am looking into
+various alternatives. Perhaps you will let me have a reply to my
+questions.”
+
+Hessel frowned; Poole’s remark hinted at a rebuff.
+
+“I don’t think I can help you, Inspector—not by direct information,
+that is. As a matter of fact, I have not been through Sir Garth’s
+papers, except very cursorily with Mr. Menticle and Sir Garth’s
+secretary—Mangane. I am afraid I have been rather remiss; Mangane has
+been pressing me to do it—I have rather shirked a task that is very
+unwelcome to me—prying into my dead friend’s affairs. Now, if you
+like, we will go round to the house this evening, and look into them
+together—then you can get the information you want directly from the
+source. Let me see, it’s not far off eight o’clock; will you come and
+have some food with me? In the meantime, we will warn Mangane that we
+are coming round. Yes? Capital.”
+
+The arrangement suited the detective well. He would, as Hessel had
+said, get direct access to Sir Garth’s papers—untouched, as seemed
+fairly certain, except for the hurried survey that Menticle, Hessel
+and Mangane had all supervised. Secondly, he would, by dining with
+him, get an excellent opportunity of sizing up Mr. Hessel himself, and
+Poole always liked to form a personal opinion of the chief characters
+in a problem—Hessel was obviously a very important character, with his
+first-hand evidence that he was able to give and his intimate
+knowledge of the dead man’s affairs. Poole realized that Mr. Hessel
+was not altogether in sympathy with him—probably he had been too
+brusque in pressing him for answers to difficult questions; this would
+be an opportunity of gaining the banker’s confidence.
+
+By tacit consent, the case under investigation was not referred to
+during the meal at Rittoni’s, that quiet but very high-grade
+restaurant below one of the great shipping offices in Cockspur Street.
+Hessel was an excellent host, not pressing hospitality upon his guest,
+but seeming to understand by instinct the type of food and wine to
+suit both taste and occasion. He was a good talker, too, full of quiet
+but extremely interesting information, and with an individual sense of
+humour. He did not in any way monopolize the conversation, but drew
+the detective out—not on the subject of his work, but in an expression
+of opinion and experience on the general affairs of life. Undoubtedly,
+both men felt an increased respect for one another by the time they
+had walked across St. James’s Park—passing, without reference, the
+scene of Sir Garth’s death—to the Fratten’s home in Queen Anne’s Gate.
+
+Mangane was waiting for them, together with a severe-looking
+head-housemaid ready to remove—as soon as Hessel unlocked the
+neglected room—the outer coverings of dust; it was patent from her
+expression that she regarded men’s methods with anything but approval.
+
+As soon as the housemaid had finished and gone, Hessel, who kept
+Mangane in the room to help him find his way about, took out his keys
+and unlocked the writing table drawers. It was at once apparent that
+Sir Garth had been an extremely methodical man. Each drawer was
+labelled to show the general subject with which it dealt. “Bank,”
+“Hospital,” “Private Accounts,” “Personal,” “Company Boards,”
+“Investments” etc., and in each drawer the different subdivisions of
+the same subject were filed in paper jackets. Quickly but methodically
+Poole examined each drawerful in turn; in that labelled “Company
+Boards,” he at once found a jacket marked “Victory Finance Company,”
+the concern which Mangane had told him had been the subject of Sir
+Garth’s investigations each evening up to the time of his
+death—investigations which his daughter had thought were causing him
+considerable worry. Poole said nothing about this jacket at the moment
+but passed on to another drawer until he had been through them all.
+
+“He kept everything of importance in these drawers, did he, sir?” he
+asked, looking up at Hessel.
+
+“So far as I can see, everything, except that there’s a certain amount
+of money, notes and silver to the value of £200 or £300, some old
+private account ledgers, and a bundle of private letters in that safe
+in the wall.”
+
+Poole pricked up his ears.
+
+“Private letters?” he said. “May I have a look at them?”
+
+“If you like—or rather, if you must. They are all old letters; from
+what I could see they are all in the same hand—a woman’s—and the
+signature—a Christian name only—is that of Sir Garth’s first wife.”
+
+Poole nodded.
+
+“I see, sir,” he said. “Perhaps I should just look through them. It
+will take a little time; if you will just count the letters—initial
+them if you like—I will give you a receipt for them and let you have
+them back in a day or two. I need hardly say that unless they have any
+bearing on the crime they will remain absolutely private. May I also
+take Sir Garth’s private account book and those company jackets?—I
+will give you a receipt for those too. The Fratten’s Bank papers, I
+take it, are all in order, sir? You would know about that.”
+
+Hessel smiled.
+
+“Perfectly, I think, Inspector, but don’t take my word for it. You had
+better take them too—we shall have to get you a cab.”
+
+Having made out the necessary receipts, Poole declined Mr. Hessel’s
+chaffing offer of transport, but borrowed an attaché case from
+Mangane, and made his way home. Late as it was, he still did not give
+up the day’s work, but sat down to examine his booty.
+
+Turning at once to the subject that interested him most, he took up
+the jacket of the Victory Finance Company; he found that it contained
+a copy of the company’s last Annual Report, to which was attached a
+type-written schedule of investments and advances, and three sheets of
+notes in the dead man’s handwriting.
+
+The Annual Report was in places underscored in pencil; Poole could not
+see any particular significance in these markings. The list of
+investments and advances was not marked at all, but corresponding
+headings appeared on Sir Garth’s sheets of notes, with the banker’s
+comments upon each.
+
+Apparently, so far as Poole’s limited knowledge of the subject took
+him, the Victory Finance Company was in the habit of investing a
+certain proportion of its money and lending the remainder. The list of
+investments appeared to have passed Sir Garth’s scrutiny with little
+criticism, most items having a simple tick against them, and a few the
+words “discard,” “enlarge,” “concentrate,” “doubtful” and so on. The
+list of advances was more fully annotated; evidently the banker had
+been at pains to scrutinize the antecedents and activities of each of
+the concerns to which the Victory Finance Company had lent money. In
+all but three cases—the South Wales Pulverization Company, the Nem Nem
+Sohar Trust, and the Ethiopian and General Development Company—there
+was a tick against the name, as if Sir Garth had been satisfied of its
+soundness; in the case of the S. W. Pulverization Company and the Nem
+Nem Sohar Trust there was a separate sheet of notes for each, ending
+with the underscored words “_overcapitalized_” in the first case, and
+“_too political_” in the second. In the case of the Ethiopian and
+General Development Company there were no such notes.
+
+Poole sighed as he finished his scrutiny.
+
+“This is going to be deep water for me,” he muttered.
+
+A quick scrutiny of the other “Company Boards” jackets showed the
+detective that Sir Garth had either resigned his seat or was
+contemplating doing so, or else that the work was of so simple or
+nominal a character as to be of no importance. The jacket dealing with
+Fratten’s Bank was clearly too big a subject to be tackled that
+night—and Poole was extremely doubtful of finding the clue that he was
+looking for in that well-established concern.
+
+There remained the personal letters—the bundle of faded letters in a
+woman’s hand. Poole felt a guilty sense of intrusion as he opened the
+first. For nearly an hour he sat, not noticing how the time went on,
+reading the beautiful and tragic story of a woman’s life—her
+humiliation, her courage, her love, her deep gratitude to the
+big-hearted man who had given her a new life. There was nothing in the
+letters that Poole did not already know, no scrap of help to him in
+his difficult task, but rare tears of sympathy stood in the
+detective’s eyes as he reverently returned the last letter to its
+carefully-treasured envelope.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+“Eau D’Enfer”
+
+Inez Fratten, on hearing from the sedate Miss Gilling that the scent
+she had been trying to trace to Ryland’s mysterious charmer had been
+actually bought by Ryland himself, felt a chill of apprehension creep
+over her—a chill so vivid as to be almost physical. What could it
+mean? It was possible, of course, that Ryland had given it to the girl
+himself, but from the way he had spoken of it—as a possible clue to
+her identity—that seemed quite out of the question. A reference to
+Miss Gilling confirmed this view; the last purchase had been made
+several weeks—possibly two months—ago, and Ryland had said that he had
+only met the girl about a fortnight previously.
+
+Was Ryland lying, then? The thought sickened her. That he should lie
+to her, and at such a time, would have seemed to Inez impossible had
+she not known, only too well, the streaks of baser metal in Ryland’s
+alloy—he was weak, if not worse, about both women and money; might he
+not also be a liar—a liar of this calibre? And if a liar, a liar to
+her, Inez, about so desperately serious a subject, might he not be
+even worse? Inez shuddered again as the thought forced itself upon
+her.
+
+Thanking, though perfunctorily, Mr. Rodney-Phillips and Miss Gilling
+for their help, Inez made her way out into the street. The same chain
+ran repeatedly through her head and she had walked as far as the
+bottom of St. James’s Street before realizing where she was going.
+Having got so far on the way home, she decided to go straight back and
+have it out with Ryland—if he was still at home. But why—the thoughts
+kept turning over in her head—why should he have told her this silly
+lie? Was it just to put her off? If so, why again? To gain time? If
+so, what for? The thought flashed into her like a stabbing knife—to
+get away? To get her out of the way while he made off?—made off from
+her, who had practically given her word as bail to Inspector Poole! It
+was a terrible thought; she forced herself to stop thinking till she
+could get face to face with the truth.
+
+To her intense relief, she heard that Ryland was still in the
+house—Golpin had seen him go into the morning-room only a few minutes
+previously. Inez walked straight to the door, opened, and shut it
+firmly behind her. Ryland was sitting at the writing table, with
+several sheets of foolscap, covered with what appeared to be aimless
+scribblings, in front of him. Inez walked across the room and dropped
+the handkerchief on the table in front of him.
+
+“You bought that scent yourself,” she said. “Why did you tell me the
+handkerchief belonged to that girl—Daphne?”
+
+Ryland looked up in surprise, which deepened when he saw the cold look
+on her face and realized the hard inflection of her voice.
+
+“Bought it my . . . ?” Ryland picked up the handkerchief and sniffed
+it. A frown appeared on his face; he sniffed again, and then again.
+
+“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I am a fool. That’s Julie’s handkerchief.
+I remember now; I bought her some of that stuff myself—from
+Rollinson’s probably. I quite thought that was Daphne’s scent. I am a
+fool, Inez. I’m most awfully sorry to give you all that trouble for
+nothing.”
+
+Inez looked at him with cold contempt; the icy fingers of doubt and
+fear were clutching at her heart again.
+
+“Do you expect me to believe that?” she asked. “Am I such a complete
+fool?”
+
+“Inez, what do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that you’re telling me lies. You couldn’t have made such a
+mistake; you deliberately deceived me. Probably the whole story’s a
+lie—there is no Daphne. And if there’s no Daphne. . . .”
+
+She did not finish the sentence, but stood staring at Ryland. She saw
+his face turn slowly white; the colour seemed literally to drain out
+of it before her eyes. His eyes grew large and seemed to sink into his
+haggard face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a hoarse
+sound came from it. He licked his parched lips, and a gulp moved the
+Adam’s apple in his throat.
+
+“Inez!” his voice was little more than a whisper, but the agony in it
+was unmistakable. He moved his hand towards her—“you don’t
+believe . . . ? You don’t . . . Inez, not _you_?”
+
+A look of anguished appeal came into the dark eyes. Inez felt a quiver
+of doubt—of hope, almost. Was it possible that Ryland, her Ryland,
+could be what, for a moment, she had thought him? But there can have
+been no softening in her face, because Ryland’s hand dropped to his
+side; beads of perspiration came on to his white forehead; the look of
+appeal changed to one of bitter determination; without a word he
+turned and walked towards the door. Inez watched him go—for five
+steps—then:
+
+“Ry,” she said. “Ry, I don’t mean it! I don’t believe . . . I
+can’t . . . Ry, tell me what it means! Tell me!”
+
+Ryland stopped and turned slowly towards her. His lips quivered;
+suddenly he put his hands to his face and a deep sob shook him. Inez
+ran to him and flung her arms round him—pulled him down to the sofa
+beside her, pressing her cheek against his hair.
+
+“Ry! Ry!”
+
+“Oh Inez!” he sobbed. “How could you, how could you?”
+
+“Ry, my darling! Ry, don’t! I was a beast—a swine. Oh, Ry, my darling,
+forgive me!”
+
+Ryland lifted his face and looked at her with deepening wonder in his
+eyes.
+
+“Inez! You’ve never called me that before! Why do you call me that?”
+
+“Oh Ry, you little fool—can’t you see?”
+
+She looked into his eyes, the delicious smile twitching at the corner
+of her mouth, while tears sparkled in her eyes.
+
+“Inez—but I was—till yesterday I was your brother!”
+
+“No, never, never! I’ve always known you weren’t.”
+
+“And yet . . . ?”
+
+Inez nodded vigorously, a sob still choking her voice.
+
+“Yes, and yet . . . and yet. . . . Aren’t I a fool, Ry?”
+
+Ryland looked deeply into her lovely face. It was more than a minute
+before he spoke.
+
+“Inez, I’m the most unworthy beast any girl could love—and especially
+you. I’m a waster, a liar, a dissolute rotter, a fool, pretty nearly a
+thief, pretty nearly everything—except what, for a minute, I thought
+you thought I was. How can you love me?”
+
+Inez smiled at him calmly.
+
+“That’s not the point, Ryland. The point is that I’ve just told you,
+in the most immodest way, that I love you—that I’ve always loved
+you—and you haven’t said a word about loving me. Do you?”
+
+The man would have been inhuman who could have turned his back on the
+wistful loveliness of her expression. Ryland shyly took her hands in
+his.
+
+“Inez, I’ve only known you about twelve hours—except as a sister—and
+being a sister is the most complete disguise imaginable. I wonder if
+you’ll believe me; since last night—since you told me about my not
+being your brother—you’ve appeared to me someone entirely different.
+I’ve thought about you—I couldn’t think why. I haven’t consciously
+thought about you, but when I was trying to think about something
+else—about this horrible muddle—I have found myself thinking about
+you. I didn’t know what it was—I was rather annoyed even. Oh, Inez,
+what a fool I am! What a fool I’ve been! I’m simply and absolutely
+unworthy of you!”
+
+Inez rose to her feet.
+
+“Yes, I think you are, Ry,” she said, “at the present moment. It’s for
+you to decide whether you want to stay like that. In the meantime you
+can just forget what I’ve told you. Now, what about this
+handkerchief?”
+
+Ryland slowly flushed—a healthier colour than the ghastly whiteness of
+ten minutes ago.
+
+“What I told you was true, Inez. I did make a mistake.” He grinned
+feebly. “I believe it was partly your fault. I told you just now that
+I kept on finding myself thinking about you when I wanted to be
+thinking about this Daphne business. Good Lord, doesn’t that seem a
+ghastly business now—how could I ever—but I’m not going to talk about
+that. You know I’m a fool—you’ve always known I was a fool—and
+yet . . . ! Now, I’ve got to show you whether I’m always going to be
+one—or not.”
+
+Inez nodded gravely. There was a minute’s silence, each deep in
+thought. Inez was the first one to break it.
+
+“Look here, Ry,” she said. “You were very positive this morning about
+that handkerchief—you said you remembered her dropping her
+handkerchief when she got out of the car and your bagging it. Now you
+say that you made a mistake and that it was one of Julie Vermont’s. Do
+you mean that you _didn’t_ pick up one of Daphne’s handkerchiefs?”
+
+Ryland looked perplexed.
+
+“Yes, of course I did—I know I did—but this can’t be it.”
+
+“Then,” said Inez triumphantly, “where is the one you did pick
+up—Daphne’s?”
+
+“Good Lord, Inez—I see what you’re getting at; probably I’ve still got
+it somewhere! By Jove, that’s an idea; I’ll go and hunt for it.”
+
+He sprang to his feet and dashed impetuously out of the room.
+
+“Hi, Ry, come back a minute!” called Inez, but the slamming of the
+front door told her that he was gone. The girl smiled happily, almost
+for the first time since the trouble had begun; it really seemed as if
+Ryland was making an effort at last—and at least she had destroyed the
+old false relationship between them, whatever might come of the new.
+
+Leaving the morning-room, Inez walked across the hall to the little
+room on the other side of the study. She knocked at the door and, in
+response to Mangane’s answer, opened it and walked in. The secretary’s
+face brightened as he saw her. He sprang to his feet and offered her
+the small arm-chair beside her table.
+
+“I don’t believe I’ve been in here before, Mr. Mangane,” said
+Inez—“not since you came. Mr. Dune always had the window shut—I
+couldn’t face it—I did come in once to ask him about something—it was
+awful.”
+
+Mangane laughed.
+
+“I can promise you fresh air, Miss Fratten—and a welcome. As I face
+north, the only sunshine will be what you bring yourself—that’s
+terribly old-fashioned and stilted, isn’t it? But the door does face
+south, so even the gloomy Golpin brightens the room a bit when he
+comes in.”
+
+“What you want are some flowers; how rotten of me not to have thought
+of it before. I’m so sorry.”
+
+Inez whisked out of the room and returned in a minute with two vases
+of chrysanthemums—yellow and russet—from her own sitting-room.
+
+Mangane almost blushed with pleasure and stammered his thanks.
+
+“Now, Mr. Mangane,” said Inez, “I want your help. I believe Inspector
+Poole has asked you about it already—I told him to. It’s about those
+papers that father was fussing over every night just before he died.
+Do you know what they were?”
+
+“The Victory Finance Company, I expect you mean. Yes, Poole did ask
+about them; he’s got them now.”
+
+Inez’s face brightened.
+
+“Has he? Then that means that he’s following up that line!”
+
+“Not necessarily, I’m afraid, Miss Fratten. He took all the Company
+papers he found in your father’s table, and the Bank papers, and his
+private accounts. The Victory Finance just happened to be among them;
+he didn’t seem specially interested in them.”
+
+Inez’s face fell. Then her air of determination returned. “Then we
+must follow it ourselves,” she said. “Can we get those papers back?”
+
+“I expect so; he said he’d bring them back in a day or two. We shall
+have to get Mr. Hessel’s leave.”
+
+“Oh bother Mr. Hessel; you must get hold of them, Mr. Mangane. In the
+meantime, will you talk to Ryland about them? Explain to him what they
+are—you know something about them, I expect?” Mangane nodded. “Make
+him understand about them—see if he can’t find something to take hold
+of. There must be a clue somewhere—there simply must. I know the
+police think Ryland killed father but of course he didn’t! Anyone who
+knows him, knows that.” (Inez had forgotten her own terrible doubts of
+an hour ago.) “I don’t believe it’s got anything to do with the will.
+I believe it’s some business enemy. You don’t know of anyone, do you?”
+
+Mangane shook his head.
+
+“I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Fratten. Poole asked me that.”
+
+“Then we must hunt for him. I believe those papers are the key. You
+understand that sort of thing; you could see things that we should
+miss. Oh, I’m asking you an awful lot! But you will help us, won’t
+you?”
+
+Mangane looked steadily into her eager face.
+
+“I’d do anything to help you, Miss Fratten,” he said quietly.
+
+The front door opened and shut and Ryland’s voice was heard talking to
+one of the servants. Inez excused herself and hurrying out led the way
+to her own sitting-room. Ryland’s face was serious; there was none of
+the jubilation of the early morning, but he held out his hand and
+again there lay in it a woman’s cambric handkerchief. Inez seized it
+eagerly and put it to her nose.
+
+“Pouf!” she said, dropping it hurriedly. “My aunt, what stuff!”
+
+“It is a bit fierce, isn’t it? I rather like it, though.”
+
+“You would; it’s the sort of stuff men do like.”
+
+She sniffed the handkerchief again; it gave off a strong, pungent,
+almost burnt, odour—much too strong to be attractive to a woman, and
+yet clearly possessing a quality of rather oriental fascination.
+
+“Hot stuff.”
+
+“It is, and it’s Daphne’s; I remember it unmistakably now. Can we
+trace it, do you think?”
+
+“We can try. I doubt if it’s Rollinson’s—or any respectable London
+perfumers. It’s more likely Paris—a small shop behind the Opéra; more
+likely still, it’s Port Said. But we can try.”
+
+Ryland held out his hand for it.
+
+“No,” said Inez. “This is my job; you’d make a mess of it—men are too
+bashful to worry shops. You go and talk to Mangane now; he’s got a job
+for you—I’ve been talking to him.”
+
+Laid on to her new scent, Inez once more set out upon the trail.
+Returning to Rollinson’s, she found Mr. Rodney-Phillips noticeably
+less accommodating than upon the occasion of her previous visit. One
+sniff of the handkerchief was enough for him; he had never sold, nor
+ever would sell such a low-class perfume; he knew of no establishment
+(he had no cognizance of “shops”) which might be likely to deal in it;
+he wished her good morning.
+
+Duhamel Frères were slightly more helpful. They produced no such
+article themselves, though they believed that there was a certain
+demand in Paris for similar effects. They were willing to refer the
+enquiry to their Paris house if Madam would leave the handkerchief
+with them. After a moment’s thought, Inez borrowed a pair of scissors
+and snipped a quarter off the unknown Daphne’s five-inch square of
+absurdity.
+
+“Pompadour” was interested. Madame Pompadour, who ran the business
+herself, with two good-looking assistants, knew Inez by name, and was
+intrigued by what she had read of the Inquest on Sir Garth’s death;
+she was still more intrigued by what Inez, taking one of her quick
+decisions (which seldom erred on the side of discretion) told her. She
+did not agree with Mr. Rodney-Phillips that it was a low-grade
+perfume; on the contrary, it was in its way a work of art, though the
+taste which demanded it might not be high. She made nothing of the
+kind herself, but she knew one or two small undertakings which might
+have produced it. She gave Inez, in the first place, two addresses:
+“Orient Spices” in North Audley Street and “Mignon” in Pall Mall
+Place.
+
+Inez took the nearest one first. She found “Mignon” to be a small,
+dark shop in the celebrated passage which leads from Pall Mall, nearly
+opposite Marlborough House, into King Street. It was faintly lit by
+electric candles in peculiar-looking sconces. There was a heavy reek
+of exotic perfume, and a very pretty but too highly coloured houri was
+in attendance. The girl looked as if she were more accustomed to being
+cajoled by members of the other sex, but she was not proof against the
+ingenuous (and ingenious) charm of Inez’s appeal; she proved, in fact,
+to be, beneath her rather spectacular exterior, a very simple and
+friendly girl, deriving from no more dashing a locality than Fulham.
+
+Once more Inez revealed the nature of her quest; Mignon’s
+assistant—she answered popularly to the name of “Mignonette”—was
+thrilled to the tips of her pink and pointed finger-nails. She applied
+the remaining three-quarters of Daphne’s handkerchief to her pretty
+nose and, after one sniff, exclaimed excitedly:
+
+“Why, it’s our _Eau D’Enfer_!”
+
+“What?” cried Inez, eagerly. “You know it?”
+
+“We make it! Or rather it’s made for us—exclusively. Fearfully
+distangy—quite unique.”
+
+“But could you trace it to anyone particular?”
+
+“Might; there aren’t so many that buy it. I believe I can remember
+most of them that’s had it this year. D’you want men or women?”
+
+Inez thought for a moment.
+
+“Women in the first place,” she said. “It’ll be almost impossible to
+trace it through men, unless you know the woman they were buying it
+for.”
+
+Mignonette screwed her face into a pretty frown of thought.
+
+“There’s old Lady Harlton—nasty old hag—sixty if she’s a
+day—’twouldn’t be her. Then there’s Mrs. van Doolen—she’s no chicken
+either—pretty hot stuff though.”
+
+“No, no,” said Inez. “Daphne must be fairly young.”
+
+“Well then, there are a couple of actresses—Gillie Blossom—you know
+her, of course—and Chick Fiennes” (she pronounced it Feens) “—she’s at
+the Duke’s Cabaret show now, I think.”
+
+“What’s she like?”
+
+“Very small—petite, she calls herself—strong American accent.”
+
+“No good,” exclaimed Inez impatiently. “Isn’t there one with dark
+hair—must be attractive, voice and all.”
+
+Neither of the girls noticed that the small door at the back of the
+shop had opened and that a woman dressed in black, her large chest
+draped with a string of huge artificial pearls, was listening to them.
+The proprietess’ face was hard now, but years ago it must have been
+beautiful.
+
+“Nobody dark except Gillie,” said Mignonette.
+
+“She’s no good—Ry would know her,” said Inez.
+
+“Well, the only other good-looker I can think of is . . .”
+
+“Miss Vassel!”
+
+Both girls started and turned towards the figure in the doorway.
+
+“What do you mean by revealing the names of customers? It is
+absolutely forbidden.” Turning to Inez: “I don’t know who you are,
+Madam, or what you want, but will you please leave my shop.”
+
+A glance showed Inez that neither argument nor appeal would be the
+slightest use here. She shrugged her shoulders and turned to the door.
+As she did so, she shot a glance at Mignonette and saw that
+unrepentant young woman jerk her head as if to indicate “round the
+corner.” At the same time she spread out the fingers of one hand.
+
+Outside, Inez glanced at her watch; it was ten minutes to five—the
+girl’s meaning was obvious. Turning in the direction that Mignonette’s
+nodded head indicated, Inez walked up the passage into King Street and
+there waited, looking at the bills outside the St. James’s Theatre.
+She had not long to wait; at five minutes past five Mignonette
+appeared, in a neat mackintosh and small black hat.
+
+“I always come out for a cup of tea at five,” she said. “We don’t
+close till eight, so as to catch the swells going to their clubs. The
+old woman’s in a tearing hair.”
+
+“Come and have some tea with me,” said Inez. In five minutes they were
+in Rumpelmayer’s, with an array of marvellous cakes before them.
+
+“There is one other,” resumed Mignonette, “but she’s not dark. She’s
+jolly good-looking though—scrumptious figure. Matter of fact I believe
+she lives somewhere near me—I’ve got a dig in the Fulham Road and I’ve
+seen her walking along it several times in the morning when I start
+for work. She’s generally rather quietly dressed then—looks as if she
+might be in a job herself—but I’ve seen her on Sunday mornings too in
+a car, looking pretty posh—same chap with her each time—nice-looking
+chap, too.”
+
+“What sort of a car?” asked Inez eagerly.
+
+“Don’t know, I’m afraid. I’m not up in them. But it’s a two-seater of
+sorts, one that shuts up if you like.”
+
+“But who is she?”
+
+“Funny thing is I don’t know her name. Whenever she’s been to us,
+she’s paid for the stuff and taken it away.”
+
+“But could you show her to me?”
+
+“I should think so; if you like to come down to my place one morning
+early we’d look out for her.”
+
+“Of course I will—I’ll come tomorrow. Bother it, I wish she’d got dark
+hair.”
+
+“P’raps she has—sometimes,” said Mignonette laconically.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+Reconstruction
+
+When Poole reached Scotland Yard on the morning after his perusal of
+Sir Garth’s papers, he went straight to the room of Chief Inspector
+Barrod. That officer had just arrived but was quite ready to hear
+Poole’s report before going through his own papers. He listened
+without interruption while the detective detailed his various
+interviews of the previous day and nodded his approval of the _résumé_
+of the evidence which Poole had compiled and now laid before him.
+
+“What’s your conclusion?” he asked.
+
+“I haven’t formed one yet, sir, though I have got an idea. My great
+difficulty is to see how the blow was struck—in the face of that
+evidence. Two good witnesses practically swear that no blow was struck
+in the scuffle on the steps, and yet it’s impossible to believe that
+that was an accident. I’m convinced that that fellow gave a false
+account of himself and was probably disguised. I wondered, sir,
+whether you would help me stage a reconstruction of that, to see
+whether it really would have been possible to strike that blow without
+anyone noticing it. I thought on the broad staircase leading up to the
+big hall; we ought to have the doctor to see that we hit hard enough.”
+
+Barrod agreed readily enough, but asked for an hour’s grace to enable
+him to clear his “in” basket. To fill the time, Poole walked across to
+Queen Anne’s Gate and asked to see Mr. Mangane. He had brought with
+him the “Company Board” jackets and explained to the secretary the
+conclusions he had so far arrived at. Mangane confirmed his belief
+that nothing significant was to be found in any but the Victory
+Finance Company file. Poole opened the latter.
+
+“Now, sir,” he said. “I’ve decided to ask your help. I know a little
+bit about finance generally, but the details of a finance company like
+this are rather beyond me. You probably know something about this
+already; perhaps Sir Garth consulted you. I’ve got no one whom I know
+better than you to consult. If I started nosing about in the City
+myself—cross-questioning these people—they’d probably shut up like
+oysters, and if there’s anything wrong the criminals would be warned.
+Anything you did in that way would come much more naturally. Now, will
+you help me? Will you look into this Victory Finance Company business
+and see if you can give me a line?—I can give you an idea or two of my
+own to work on perhaps. I expect you want to clear up this business of
+Sir Garth’s death as much as most of us; will you help?”
+
+A curious expression had come into Mangane’s face as the detective
+propounded his request; it ended in a smile.
+
+“I’ll be very glad to help you, Inspector,” he said. “I do know a
+little about this business. Sir Garth asked me to make some enquiries
+himself and I made an appointment or two for him that I fancy had
+something to do with it. I won’t bother you with details now; I shall
+be able to give you something more worth having in a day or two.”
+
+Thanking Mangane, Poole left the house, without—as he had secretly
+hoped—catching a glimpse of Miss Fratten. Returning to the Yard, he
+collected Dr. Vyle (by telephone) and three intelligent plain-clothes
+men and having coached the latter in their parts, sent one of them to
+fetch Mr. Barrod. Asking the Chief Inspector to represent Mr.
+Wagglebow; Dr. Vyle, Mr. Lossett; and one of the constables, Miss
+Peake; Poole set the remaining constables, Rawton and Smith, to walk
+side by side down the broad stone staircase, while he himself waited
+behind a corner at the top. The lights were turned out so that only
+the feeble daylight lit the stairs. When the two constables were about
+half-way down, with Barrod a few steps immediately behind and Dr. Vyle
+to their right rear, Poole came running down after them and,
+stumbling, bumped into the left shoulder of Detective Constable
+Rawton; as he did so, he swung his closed right fist with a vicious
+half-hook into the centre of Rawton’s back. With an involuntary, but
+realistic, “Ow!” Rawton staggered against Smith, who held him up and
+asked anxiously what was the matter.
+
+“Nothing, mate; only a 5.9 in the small o’ me back” said Rawton
+ruefully.
+
+Poole apologized profusely and then made swiftly off down the stairs
+and disappeared round a corner to the left, whilst the third
+constable, entering with gusto into his part, came and clucked round
+the other two in the manner he considered appropriate to a highly
+strung and imaginative female.
+
+“Well, sir,” asked Poole, returning, “any possibility of mistakes?”
+
+“Of course not; not the way you do it—much too obvious. You
+should . . .”
+
+“You have a shot at it, sir,” said Poole, slightly nettled at this
+reception of his best effort. “I’ll take your place. We’ll do it
+again.”
+
+“Could Kelly change with me, sir?” inquired Rawton anxiously. “He’s a
+single man; I’ve a wife and kids dependent on me.”
+
+Poole laughed.
+
+“General Post,” he said. “Doctor, will you take the lady; Kelly you be
+Sir Garth, and Rawton, you Lossett.”
+
+The reconstruction performance was repeated, with an altered cast.
+Chief Inspector Barrod stumbled at a point rather farther behind his
+victim than Poole had done, and fell with nearly his full weight
+against the back of Kelly’s shoulder.
+
+“Christ, I’m killed!” yelled that unfortunate. “What have ye in y’r
+fist, Chief?”
+
+Barrod chuckled delightedly and extracted an ebony ruler from up his
+sleeve.
+
+“That’ll leave a bruise all right—I’ll back mine against yours,
+Poole—and I’ll bet you didn’t notice anything more than the fall.”
+
+“No, sir, your body was between me and his back. But I don’t think
+that answered Wagglebow’s description of the accident.”
+
+“And I saw the blow, sir, anyhow,” said Rawton. “I’m sure Lossett, if
+I’m placed right, couldn’t have said that he was sure no blow was
+struck.”
+
+“I think I should have known he’d been violently struck, sir,” said
+Smith, who had taken the part of Mr. Hessel.
+
+The Chief Inspector looked nettled at the reception of his rendering.
+
+“All right, have it your own way,” he said. “How much further does it
+take us?”
+
+“If I might bring the doctor along to your room, sir, and have a
+talk?” answered Poole. “That’ll do, you three—many thanks for your
+help. Kelly if you’re really hurt you’d better show yourself in the
+surgery.”
+
+“It’s no surgery I’m needing, sir; ’tis a mortuary I’m for.”
+
+The man’s half-doleful, half-laughing face restored even Barrod to
+good humour.
+
+“I’ll come and take your last wishes when you’re ready, Kelly,” he
+said.
+
+A minute later the three men were seated at the Chief Inspector’s
+table.
+
+“I fancy it amounts to this, sir,” said Poole. “The blow wasn’t struck
+on those steps at all.”
+
+“And the Peake woman’s evidence?” queried Barrod.
+
+“Oh, she’s a looney. No, sir; I don’t understand what that affair on
+the steps means—I’m convinced it has a meaning; but I believe Sir
+Garth was struck where he fell.”
+
+Barrod stared at him in silence for several seconds.
+
+“Humph!” he said at last.
+
+“Now look here, doctor,” said Poole, turning to the surgeon, “how soon
+after he was struck would you expect a man in that condition to
+fall—struck as Sir Garth was, that is, on the danger spot?”
+
+“At once.”
+
+“But he _might_ have walked a certain distance after being hit?”
+
+“A few steps perhaps—half a dozen.”
+
+“But surely you don’t exclude the possibility of his having walked
+further—from the Duke of York’s Steps to the place where he fell?”
+
+“I don’t know where he fell. I always assumed that it was a few paces
+beyond the Steps—you never told me anything to make me assume anything
+else. How far away did he fall?”
+
+“Thirty or forty yards.”
+
+“Good Lord, impossible! At least—wait a minute. If the injury to the
+aneurism was only slight—a very slight tear or puncture, so that the
+blood only oozed out, then he might have walked the distance you say
+before collapsing. If it burst on impact, he must have fallen within
+half a dozen paces.”
+
+“You can’t say which kind of injury it was?”
+
+“Not definitely now. It might have begun with a small tear and then
+become larger—it would look like a burst.”
+
+Poole stared at him.
+
+“And what are you driving at, Poole?” asked the Chief Inspector. “That
+Hessel himself struck Fratten?”
+
+Poole looked at his Chief coolly.
+
+“That’s jumping a bit far, sir, but we’ve no proof at the moment that
+he didn’t—only his own story.”
+
+“What about that chap at the House of Commons; didn’t he see Fratten
+fall?”
+
+“Smythe? He saw them walking in front of him, then a car came between
+them and when it cleared, Fratten was going down. He saw no blow—at
+least he said nothing about one.”
+
+“On which side of Fratten was Hessel walking?”
+
+“I don’t know, sir. Coming down the Steps, of course, he was on
+Fratten’s right.”
+
+“And probably was here. Find out about that, Poole, and also
+whether Hessel is right- or left-handed. Anyhow I don’t believe
+it. Hessel said, if I remember aright, that he had his arm through
+Fratten’s—Smythe can probably confirm that; he could hardly have taken
+it out and struck him a violent blow without someone seeing. We’ll
+assume the linked arms and the left-handedness for a moment; come on,
+we’ll try it.”
+
+The imagined scene was reconstructed. It required a noticeable
+effort on Poole’s part to strike the Chief Inspector in the back;
+it was hardly credible that such a thing could have been done,
+unnoticed—still, there was no absolute impossibility.
+
+“Check those points, Poole, and call for witnesses of the actual fall
+and death. Everybody’s concentrated on the accident on the Steps so
+far.”
+
+After giving the necessary orders for advertising for the required
+witnesses, Poole made his way to the House of Commons. Mr. Coningsby
+Smythe kept him waiting this time, just to indicate his own
+importance, but when he did come, was quite definite. He remembered
+quite well that the shorter man was on the right. Furthermore, he was
+sure that only one car had passed between them; he did not believe
+that the shorter man could have disengaged his arm and struck a blow
+during the fraction of time that the obscuring had lasted. The
+detective thanked him for his help, cautioned him not to reveal what
+he had been asked, and made his way back to the Yard.
+
+As he walked, he puzzled his brain as to the best way to find out
+about Mr. Hessel’s right- or left-handedness. It sounded so simple and
+yet, in fact, with the restrictions that the circumstances imposed, it
+was by no means simple. He could not ask either Hessel himself or his
+immediate circle of friends and acquaintances—the question so
+obviously implied a terrible suspicion. If Hessel had been a man who
+played games, either now or in the past, it would have been easier,
+but it was fairly certain that he was not. It would be quite easy to
+find out, by observation, whether he wrote with his right or left
+hand, but that would be no proof (in the event of his writing with his
+right) that he was not ambidextrous—many people use one hand for
+writing and the other for throwing a cricket ball. The brilliant
+detectives of fiction—Holmes, Poirot, Hanaud (not French, he was too
+true to life)—would have devised some ingenious but simple trick by
+which the unsuspecting Hessel would have been tested in both hands
+simultaneously. As it was Poole could think of nothing better than to
+put a plain-clothes man on to shadow the banker and watch his
+unconscious hand action. It was unimaginative, but it might produce a
+result.
+
+Back at the Yard, Poole telephoned through to the appropriate
+Divisional police-station and inquired as to the name and whereabouts
+of the police constable on duty in St. James’s Park at the point
+nearest to the scene of Sir Garth’s death on that night; he learnt
+that the man—P. C. Lolling—was at that moment off duty but would be
+back at the station a little before two in preparation for his next
+tour. Poole was just wondering what to do in the meantime when he was
+summoned to Chief Inspector Barrod’s room.
+
+“What’s this young Fratten up to?” the latter asked as Poole entered.
+
+Poole’s expression was sufficient answer to the question.
+
+“That chap that you put on to watch him, Fallows, rang up when you
+were out to say that Fratten had slipped him—a deliberate slip, he
+thought it was—the old back-door trick. What’s his game?”
+
+“Has he taken anything with him, sir—luggage?”
+
+“Fallows didn’t know—I asked him that; he’d rung up directly he
+realized that Fratten was gone. He’s gone back to Fratten’s lodgings
+now to find out about his kit. You must get on to this, Poole; I don’t
+mind telling you that I think you’ve given that young man too much
+rope—you haven’t pressed him hard enough. This business of Hessel’s
+now; what’s your idea there? What’s the motive?”
+
+“Not much at the moment, sir. He’s down for £5,000 in the will, of
+course—not much, unless a man’s desperately in need of money; I’ve no
+proof that Hessel is—but then I haven’t been looking for it. I’m going
+to now, though. I haven’t been through Sir Garth’s Fratten’s Bank
+papers yet; there may be a suggestion there, though it’s hardly
+possible that Sir Garth suspected anything wrong—he seems to have
+trusted Hessel completely.”
+
+“Well, I don’t think much of that line,” said Barrod. “Hessel could
+have found a better place than that to hit Fratten in—St. James’s
+Park’s a bit public.”
+
+“Exactly, sir; that’s got to be explained, whoever did it. But we must
+remember this—barring his son and daughter, nobody’s so likely to have
+known about the aneurism as his best friend, Hessel.”
+
+The Chief Inspector shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Did you ever ask him if he knew?”
+
+“No, but I’m going to.”
+
+“Well, I don’t mind your following that up so long as you don’t drop
+young Fratten. If he slips you, Poole, you’re for it.”
+
+There was a knock at the door and a constable came in.
+
+“Young lady to see Inspector Poole, sir,” he said. “Name of Fratten.”
+
+The two seniors exchanged glances.
+
+“Show her in here,” said Barrod.
+
+In half a minute, Inez Fratten appeared. Her cheeks were flushed and
+her eye sparkled.
+
+“I’ve foun . . .” she began, but Barrod interrupted her.
+
+“Where’s your brother, Miss Fratten?” he asked abruptly.
+
+Inez stared at him.
+
+“My brother?”
+
+“I beg your pardon, miss; I mean Mr. Ryland Fratten.”
+
+“But what do you mean— ‘where is he?’”
+
+“Was he at your house this morning?”
+
+“No; no, as a matter of fact, he wasn’t.”
+
+“Or last night?”
+
+“No, he didn’t come to dinner last night either; as a matter of fact,
+I particularly wanted to see him. But he doesn’t live with me, you
+know; he’s got lodgings in Abingdon Street.”
+
+“He’s done a bolt, Miss Fratten; you’re not asking me to believe that
+you don’t know about it.”
+
+“A bolt! I’m quite certain he hasn’t! What makes you say he has?”
+
+Barrod explained.
+
+“Pooh!” said Inez; “that doesn’t mean he’s bolted, that simply means
+he’s fed up with being watched—so would anyone be. He’ll be at his
+lodgings tonight—probably at our house before then. D’you want to see
+him?”
+
+“I want to know where he is. You’d better tell him not to play that
+game again, Miss Fratten—if it is a game; it’ll be landing him in
+trouble.”
+
+“It won’t,” said Inez defiantly. “It won’t, for the simple reason that
+I’ve found the girl he was with that evening!”
+
+“What’s that?” exclaimed both men simultaneously.
+
+“Well, I’m pretty sure I have; that’s why I wanted Ryland—so that he
+could identify her. But it’s more than a coincidence that the one clue
+we’d got has led straight to the very place I’ve been suspecting.”
+
+She turned to Poole.
+
+“Who do you think ‘Daphne’ is, Mr. Poole?—the girl who threw herself
+at Ryland’s head and then left him kicking his heels at the very time
+and place that would make things look bad for him—she’s Miss Saverel,
+secretary of the Victory Finance Company!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+This Way and That
+
+Inez explained to the two detectives how she had obtained from Ryland
+the handkerchief with an unusual scent which had belonged to Daphne,
+the mysterious girl who alone could have confirmed, or at any rate
+supported, his alibi. She told of her tracing it to “Mignon’s” and of
+how the assistant there had fined down the likely owners to a single
+one whom she herself knew by sight. She told of how she had gone down
+the following morning to the girl’s room in the Fulham Road and how
+the girl had presently pointed out to her a young woman, simply but
+well dressed, who was walking along the other side of the road. Inez
+had followed her to South Kensington Station, and thence in the
+Underground to the Monument, from where the girl had walked to an
+office in Fenchurch Street. Inez had not dared to follow her into the
+building but, after a discreet interval, had scrutinized the names on
+the board and among them found, to her intense excitement, that of the
+Victory Finance Company. After a few minutes’ thought, she had applied
+to the hall porter as to whether he knew if a friend of hers, Miss
+Tatham (a creature of her imagination) was still employed with the
+Victory Finance Company, to which the porter had replied that so far
+as he knew the only young woman employed by the Company was Miss
+Saverel, who had only that minute arrived—but she could obtain further
+information from the Company itself—on the fourth floor—he offered her
+the lift. Inez had declined his offer, given him a shilling and
+departed. She had herself tried to find Ryland but, failing to do so,
+had come in to Scotland Yard.
+
+“What’s all this about a Victory Finance Company?” asked Barrod. “Why
+should you have got your eye on them, Miss Fratten?”
+
+Poole explained the connection and told the Chief Inspector briefly of
+his own examination of Sir Garth’s file connected with it and of the
+enquiries that Mangane was making for him. After some further
+discussion it was arranged that Poole should meet Miss Fratten at the
+Monument Station at half-past five that evening and that together they
+should trail Miss Saverel to her home, after which the detective would
+consider whether to question her. If Ryland Fratten could be found in
+the meantime, he was to be brought along, in order to identify his
+“Daphne.” As soon as Inez had gone, Barrod turned to his subordinate.
+
+“Who’s this Mangane?” he said. “Why’s he doing your work for you?”
+
+Poole flushed at the curtness of the enquiry.
+
+“He’s doing something for me that I couldn’t do nearly so well myself.
+I can trust him, I know; we were at . . . I knew him well before I
+joined the Force.”
+
+“That’s no reason for trusting anyone,” said Barrod. “Take a
+word of advice from me, young man, and don’t call in any gifted
+amateurs—you’ll get let down one of these days if you do.”
+
+Feeling considerably nettled at the two rebukes he had had from his
+superior that morning, Poole made his way out into Whitehall. Owing to
+Miss Fratten’s visit, he had missed his rendezvous with P. C. Lolling
+at the police station, but the sergeant in charge had told him over
+the telephone whereabouts the constable was likely to be found; Poole
+found him, in fact, talking to the Park-keeper who lodged in the
+Admiralty Arch. Having detached the constable from his gossip, Poole
+questioned him as to his knowledge of the tragedy on October 24th.
+Lolling had seen nothing of the incident. He had noticed a crowd at
+the spot where—he afterwards learnt—Sir Garth had fallen, but as he
+approached it, it had dispersed—not, presumably because of his awful
+presence but because the body had at that moment been put into a car
+and driven away. He had made a note of the incident in his note-book,
+the time being recorded as 6.40 p. m.
+
+Foiled once more in his attempt to get first-hand evidence of the
+death, Poole was about to turn away, when Lolling volunteered that he
+knew of somebody who had seen the accident—the gentleman’s death, that
+was. Curiously enough he had been discussing that very subject with
+his friend, Mr. Blossom, the Park-keeper, when the Inspector had come
+up. Mr. Blossom, it appeared, had an acquaintance who had actually
+seen . . . At this point Poole interrupted to suggest that Mr. Blossom
+should be asked to tell his own tale.
+
+The Park-keeper had not, fortunately, gone far afield. He was secretly
+thrilled at meeting the detective who had charge of the Fratten case,
+but the dignity of his office did not allow him to reveal the fact. It
+was the case, he said, that an acquaintance of his, a Mr. Herbert
+Tapping, a tuning-fork tester—had actually witnessed the death of Sir
+Garth Fratten. He had had an argument with Mr. Tapping only yesterday,
+after reading the account of the Inquest. He, Mr. Blossom, had
+advanced the thesis that Sir Garth had been done in by his companion,
+the Jewish gentleman, at the place where he fell, but Tapping had
+countered this by replying that he had actually seen Sir Garth fall
+and that Mr. Hessel could not have struck him—he was holding his arm
+at the time that Sir Garth staggered and fell. Moreover, Mr. Tapping
+had gone so far as to state that nobody else was near enough to strike
+a blow at that time; he himself was about the nearest and he was
+fifteen yards away. Mr. Tapping’s theory was that the blow had been
+struck by the “Admiralty messenger” on the Duke of York’s Steps, or,
+alternatively, that someone had thrown a stone at Sir Garth.
+
+Poole asked for and obtained the address of Mr. Herbert Tapping and,
+thanking Blossom for his help, made his way towards the Underground
+Station at St. James’s Park. As he walked, he turned over in his mind
+the baffling problem which this new evidence—if Mr. Tapping confirmed
+his friend’s story—only helped to deepen. Reliable witnesses stated
+categorically that Sir Garth had not been struck on the Steps; now a
+new witness, possibly reliable, said that he had not been struck at
+the spot where he fell. Where, then, in the name of goodness, had he
+been struck?
+
+Mr. Tapping had suggested a stone; the idea was a wild one; who could
+throw a stone so accurately as to strike the small vital spot in Sir
+Garth’s back—and from where had it been thrown? No one had been seen
+doing such a thing. Coningsby Smythe, of course—the House of Commons
+clerk—had been close behind but he had—according to his own story, at
+least—been separated from Fratten by a passing car. . . . Poole
+stopped dead. A passing car! That must have been within a few feet of
+Fratten! He had actually fallen a little distance beyond the carriage
+way, but he might have staggered a step or two before falling. Was it
+conceivable that he had been struck by someone in that car?
+
+Poole’s brain raced as he searched aspect after aspect of this theory.
+Another thought struck him: Miss Peake had said that she had seen Sir
+Garth’s assailant on the Steps “leap into a waiting vehicle and drive
+away.” Poole remembered the words clearly, though he had not taken
+them down; the old-fashioned “vehicle” had caught his memory. Miss
+Peake, of course, was mad—quite useless as a witness—but, if he
+remembered rightly, that sentence had not been spoken in the
+hysterical outburst, that had shown him how hopeless she was, but in
+one of her more lucid moments. He had thought nothing of it at the
+time; her hysteria had discounted everything she had said—and, of
+course, she was clearly wrong in saying that the man had struck
+Fratten on the Steps—the evidence of Hessel, Lossett, and Wagglebow,
+all independent of one another, was too strong to allow of any doubt
+on that head.
+
+Poole decided to take the first opportunity of testing the car theory;
+the test might even be made at the very spot if it were done late
+enough at night; in the meantime he would go back and question both P.
+C. Lolling and the Park-keeper, Blossom—if Miss Peake’s story were
+true and there had been a waiting “vehicle” somewhere near the
+Admiralty Arch, one of them might have seen it.
+
+There was no difficulty in finding Lolling; he had not, apparently,
+moved twenty yards from where Poole had first found him, and was
+talking to a mounted constable; the detective wondered whether
+conversation might not be rather a weakness of P. C. Lolling’s.
+Lolling himself appeared to be aware that appearances did not favour
+him, for he hastened to explain to the Inspector that he had just been
+questioning the mounted constable about the events of 24th
+October—apparently the latter’s beat took him occasionally down the
+Mall. It had not done so, however, on the evening in question; he knew
+nothing of the circumstances of Sir Garth’s death, nor, in reply to
+Poole’s enquiry had he seen anything of a suspicious-looking car
+“loitering” in the neighbourhood of the Admiralty Arch. Lolling, to
+his infinite regret, was equally unable to help Poole in his new
+quest, though he thought it more than likely that his friend the
+Park-keeper could. The united efforts of Poole, Lolling and the
+mounted constable, however, failed to reveal the present whereabouts
+of Mr. Blossom; after wasting half an hour in fruitless search, Poole
+gave it up, directing Lolling to send the Park-keeper to Scotland Yard
+as soon as he came off duty.
+
+It was now too late to go in search of Mr. Tapping if he was to keep
+his rendezvous with Miss Fratten, so Poole decided to look in at
+Scotland Yard and refer his new theory to Chief Inspector Barrod,
+prior to taking the Underground from Westminster to the Monument.
+Barrod, however, had just gone across to the Home Office with Sir
+Leward Marradine, on some diplomatic case that was worrying the
+government, so Poole had to cool his heels for half an hour before
+starting for the City.
+
+The evening rush had already begun when Poole reached the Monument.
+The shoals of small fry would not be released till six o’clock, but at
+5.20 p. m. when the detective emerged from the “east-bound” platform,
+a steady stream of superior clerks, secretaries and managers, was
+pouring into the “west-bound” as quickly as was consonant with their
+dignity.
+
+To Poole’s surprise, Inez Fratten was already waiting for him. Dressed
+in a dark mackintosh—there had been intermittent drizzle all day—and a
+small black hat, the detective did not at first recognize her as she
+stood, meekly waiting, in a corner just out of the rush of passengers.
+Her smile of welcome sent a thrill of pleasure through him and seemed
+to brighten up the drab surroundings of the east-end station.
+
+“You’re very punctual, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “I hope I haven’t
+kept you waiting.”
+
+“You’re before time,” replied Inez. “I came early because I suddenly
+got a qualm that she might get off at five. She hasn’t been this way,
+anyhow.”
+
+Together they made their way upstream towards Fenchurch Street. A
+squad of newsboys hurrying out with the last editions alone seemed to
+be going in the same direction as themselves—everyone else was making
+for home and supper. Poole thought gloomily of the amount of work he
+had in front of him before his own supper was likely to be eaten; a
+further sigh escaped him as he thought of the loneliness of the “home”
+that awaited him at the end of the day; he did not often think of that
+aspect of his work—its endlessness, its loneliness; perhaps the
+presence of the girl at his side had started a train of thought that
+had better be promptly quenched.
+
+A glance at Inez showed him that she had no such thoughts; her eyes
+were alive with interest as she scanned each approaching female face;
+so far as she was concerned, the hunt was up and the thrill of it had
+thrust into the background the sadness of her loss and the anxiety of
+her “brother’s” position.
+
+Arrived at Ald House, the two hunters took up a position outside, and
+to one side of, the entrance. To avoid an appearance of watching they
+had arranged to stand as if in conversation, Poole with his back to
+the entrance and Inez Fratten, half-hidden by him, facing it; in this
+way she would be able to see everyone who came out and her own
+presence would be unlikely to attract the attention of their quarry.
+For a time they actually did converse, Poole doing most of the
+talking—about plays, books, politics, football—any subject that came
+into his head—while Inez answered in monosyllables and kept her gaze
+steadily fixed upon the entrance. After half an hour of it, however,
+even Poole’s eloquence—inspired as it was by the happy necessity of
+gazing into those enchanting eyes—began to dry up. Fortunately the six
+o’clock rush made their presence less conspicuous than it had been,
+and for another quarter of an hour Poole did little more than look at
+Inez while she kept her unwavering eyes focussed on the doorway
+through which “Daphne” must come.
+
+By 6.15 the stream had begun to thin; only an occasional junior clerk
+or typist hurried eagerly from office or counting-house towards bus or
+train, buttoning up coat collars or huddling under umbrellas as the
+gusts of rain swept down upon them. It was none too pleasant standing
+in the open street; besides, now that it was emptying, their continued
+conversation had an air that lacked conviction.
+
+They discussed their course of action. They might move into the
+entrance and watch from some dark corner, or—now that there was no
+crowd to obscure the line of vision—they might take up a position
+further from the spot they had to watch. On the other hand their
+quarry’s continued failure to appear suggested that she might after
+all have left earlier in the day and they be wasting their time by
+further waiting. They had reached the point of discussing the
+possibilities of enquiry when footsteps coming out of the entrance
+hall of Ald House caught their ear. Instantly they resumed their
+former attitudes; Poole with his eyes fixed upon Inez’ so that he
+could read hope or disappointment in their expression. He had not long
+to wait; he heard the two quicker steps of someone taking the two
+stone steps from Ald House on to the pavement and on the instant a
+look of astonishment flashed into the girl’s eyes. He heard her quick
+gasp of surprise and then the steps passed behind him and he turned
+his head to look; a man, of medium height and slightly built, was
+walking away from them, his coat collar turned up and his soft hat
+pulled low over his eyes. He had not gone ten steps when he checked,
+as if hesitating whether to go on or turn back. As he turned his head
+back towards the house he had left the light from a passing lorry fell
+upon his face; it was Ryland Fratten.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+The Method
+
+Whether Fratten recognized him or not, the detective could not be
+certain; he did not appear to look at him, but turned away and walked
+off at the same pace as before. Poole gave a quick glance at his
+companion’s face and saw that its expression had changed slightly,
+from astonishment to puzzlement—there was a slight frown of thought on
+Inez’s brow as her eyes followed Ryland’s retreating form.
+
+Poole had to think, and decide, quickly. What was Ryland Fratten doing
+here? He had said that he did not know the whereabouts of “Daphne”;
+Inez Fratten presumably had not told him—she had said that she had not
+seen Ryland since she picked up Daphne’s trail. Could it be that he
+was in some way connected with the Victory Finance Company? If he
+were, it was most unlikely that his father had known about it; it was
+an uncomfortable thought. Should he himself follow Ryland now—Ryland,
+who had slipped the police that morning? It would mean losing Daphne,
+for the time being at any rate—unless Inez Fratten followed her alone.
+Poole did not like the idea; if Daphne were really the dangerous woman
+that Ryland’s story indicated, she was capable of playing some
+desperate trick on anyone who crossed her path; it was a melodramatic
+thought, but not entirely discountable.
+
+In the meantime Ryland Fratten was nearly out of sight; Poole was on
+the point of telling Inez to go home and himself following Ryland when
+the girl seized his arm; at the same instant footsteps in Ald House
+again caught his ear. A second later two people, a man and a woman,
+came out of the entrance and turned towards the Monument station; as
+they passed, the man glanced casually at Poole and Inez but took no
+notice of them.
+
+“That’s she!” whispered Inez excitedly.
+
+“Who’s the man?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+The short glance that Poole had got at him had shown a man of rather
+more than medium height, well-built and carrying himself well, with an
+expression of strength and a close-cut moustache. The woman he had not
+time to observe, except that she was good-looking. Once again Poole’s
+mind had to work quickly. Should he follow these people and let
+Fratten go? He would get into trouble if the latter disappeared from
+the view of the police, but on the other hand he badly wanted to know,
+not only who “Daphne” was and where she lived, but who her companion
+was. His decision was helped by the fact that Ryland was no longer in
+sight; he would follow the pair now and keep his eyes open for Ryland.
+
+As they followed—at a very discreet distance—Poole arranged his plan
+of action with Inez. If, as seemed likely, Daphne and her friend took
+the Underground, Poole would enter the coach on one side of theirs,
+Inez that on the other; this would make them less conspicuous and
+would double the watch on their quarry.
+
+As Poole had expected, the couple they were following turned down into
+Monument Station. Poole and Inez kept in the background and, when a
+westbound train appeared, took their seats in separate coaches as
+arranged. Through the double glass doors Poole could get a fair view
+of Daphne and her friend. The girl—Poole thought that she might be
+anything between twenty-five and thirty—was distinctly pretty. Her
+small close-fitting hat concealed her hair but she certainly gave the
+impression of being fair. The man was rather older, with a firm chin
+and rather tight-lipped mouth below his clipped moustache; his eyes
+were light and his general colouring suggested brown hair. The pair,
+sitting close to the central doors of their coach, seemed to be
+talking quietly about trivial matters; they certainly showed no sign
+of being aware that they were watched.
+
+At Cannon Street and Mansion House more belated workers got in; though
+the big rush was over the train was fairly full; there were no
+strap-hangers, however, so Poole saw no necessity to get any closer.
+At Charing Cross there was a fairly large exodus; this, with the
+subsequent oncoming passengers, kept the detective fully employed in
+maintaining his watch. The man and woman, however, remained seated and
+as the doors began to slam Poole relaxed his vigilance.
+
+Suddenly the pair jumped to their feet and, slipping out of the double
+doors, hurried towards the exit stairs. Poole leaped up and dashed for
+his own door; as ill-luck would have it some railway official was in
+the act of closing it and Poole had to exert all his strength to force
+it open. Even then the man tried to push him back, shouting angrily to
+him to keep his seat; with a great effort Poole forced his way out on
+to the platform; the train had by that time gathered speed and the
+detective fell heavily to his hands and knees. More railwaymen
+gathered round him and his first opponent seized him angrily by the
+arm and shouted excitedly about “assault.”
+
+Poole saw that he might be seriously delayed if he stopped to explain.
+With a sudden wrench he burst his way clear and dashed up the stairs,
+followed by the loud shouts of the officials. The ticket collector at
+the top tried to bar his way, but the detective dodged past him and
+made for the entrance. By the time he got out the other passengers had
+dispersed, though there were plenty of people about; there was no sign
+of Daphne and her companion, but a taxi was disappearing past the
+Playhouse and Poole felt convinced that his quarry were in it. Not
+another cab was within sight and before he had time to go in search of
+one or to make enquiries a couple of railroad porters had seized him
+and pulled him back into the entrance hall, where they were soon
+joined by the stationmaster and the angry victim of his assault.
+
+Poole had no difficulty in explaining what had occurred and his ample
+apologies soon elicited the sympathy and help of his former pursuers.
+Exhaustive enquiries established the probable identity of the
+taxi—which had been noticed waiting for fares—and, after taking its
+number, and the name of its driver (an habitué of the station rank)
+Poole started to walk back to Scotland Yard. Inez Fratten had not
+appeared and it was clear that the sudden move of the quarry had been
+too quick for her; she would probably get out at Westminster or St.
+James’s Park and go either to Scotland Yard or to her own home—there
+was no point in Poole’s searching for her.
+
+The detective felt thoroughly displeased with himself; he had got a
+sight of two, if not three, people whose whereabouts ought to be known
+to the police and he had allowed all three to escape him; following
+his double rebuke from Barrod earlier in the day this, unless it could
+be quickly remedied—he was too honest a man to conceal it—would be
+serious for him.
+
+Having decided to make a clean breast of his failure to his superior,
+Poole was none the less sensibly relieved to discover that Chief
+Inspector Barrod had already gone home; something might be done during
+the remainder of the evening to restore the situation. In the first
+place, he set in motion machinery to trace the taxi which had just
+picked up Miss Saverel and her friend at Charing Cross Underground
+Station—a very simple matter in view of his probable knowledge of the
+driver’s identity. He found plenty else to keep him busy. The
+plain-clothes man he had put on to watch Hessel had returned; Poole
+sent for him and learnt that the man had established beyond reasonable
+doubt that the banker was right-handed; he had seen Hessel use his
+right hand to blow his nose, use his latch-key, light a match, carry
+an umbrella—more important still, change the umbrella into his left
+hand in order to use his right for picking up a fallen handbag; he had
+not seen him use his left hand for any active purpose. It was not
+conclusive evidence, but it was convincing.
+
+Following on the heels of the plain-clothes man came the Park-keeper,
+Blossom. P. C. Lolling had told him to report to Inspector Poole at
+Scotland Yard as soon as he came off duty, and though he doubted
+whether he was under any obligation to do so, Blossom was too deeply
+interested in the case to stand on his dignity. Poole explained to him
+something—not all—of his theory of a waiting motor-car and was at once
+rewarded by a definite response.
+
+“Why, sir, I saw the very car!” exclaimed the Park-keeper excitedly.
+“A two-seater it was—Cowpay I think they call them—the sort that shuts
+up like a closed car but opens down when you wants ’em to. It was
+standin’ there near the arch—about opposite the Royal Marines’ statue
+I should say—for quite a time that evening. There was a girl in
+it—couldn’t see much of her, ’cause she’d got a newspaper up in front
+of her as she made out to be readin’. She wasn’t readin’ it all the
+time though, ’cause I saw her watching up the Mall—towards the Duke’s
+Steps, now I come to think of it—as if she was waitin’ for someone—her
+young man I took it to be. I didn’t see him come, nor I didn’t see her
+move off—more’s the pity—but I know she was there soon after six,
+’cause I saw her when I come out from my tea, and I knew she was there
+for some time ’cause I didn’t go into the Park at once but stayed
+talkin’ to a friend or two—that was how I come to notice that she was
+watchin’ for someone. She was gone at seven when I come back that way
+again.”
+
+Poole was deeply stirred by this information; it fitted in so exactly
+with the theory that he had begun to form. He tried his utmost to get
+a description of the girl but Blossom could only say that she seemed
+youngish and didn’t wear spectacles; he asked for the number of the
+car: Blossom had not noticed it, though he had noticed the type of
+body; he couldn’t even give the make, though it wasn’t a Rolls, a
+Daimler, or an original Ford—the only makes he could recognize. It was
+desperately tantalizing, but even without identification or exact
+descriptions the information was of great value.
+
+Having got so far, Poole felt that the time had come for another
+reconstruction. He was so eager to make it that he decided not to wait
+till the small hours of the night but to take advantage of the quiet
+period between the ingoing and outcoming of the theatres. Chief
+Inspector Barrod would not, of course, be present—Poole did not feel
+inclined to face the unpopularity of recalling his superior officer
+from his evening’s recreation—but Barrod’s presence, though helpful,
+was also rather damping. Discovering that neither Detective-Constable
+Rawton nor his Irish mate had yet gone off duty, Poole arranged for
+them to report to him at half-past nine; he also secured the services
+of a closed police car. Having made these preparations he took himself
+off to the nearest restaurant for a little supper.
+
+During his meal, the detective studiously switched his mind off his
+problem—thought was bad for digestion—and read the evening paper, but
+over a cup of coffee and a pipe he allowed it to return to the
+absorbing subject. One point in particular worried him—the identity of
+the girl in the waiting car. The obvious inference was that she was
+the “Daphne” who had lured Ryland Fratten into a compromising
+situation and left him there to incur inevitable suspicion—the
+“Daphne” who, according to Inez Fratten, was Miss Saverel, secretary
+of the Victory Finance Company. It was a tempting theory—so tempting
+and so obvious as to make him mistrust it.
+
+The thought that worried him was that the whole theory of
+this girl—her incarnation as Daphne and her identity as Miss
+Saverel—depended so far upon the evidence of the two Frattens—the two
+people (Poole hated himself for the thought) who really benefited by
+the death of Sir Garth. It was true that he had himself seen a reputed
+Miss Saverel this evening and that she and her companion had behaved
+in a highly suspicious manner by giving him the slip at Charing Cross.
+But, now that he came to analyse it, their conduct was not necessarily
+suspicious—it was only so if she were the girl the Frattens said she
+was; there might be a perfectly natural and simple explanation of
+their action—a forgotten appointment—a sudden change of mind.
+
+The girl in the waiting car: was it conceivable—a horrible
+thought—that she was Inez Fratten herself? Poole realized that he had
+no knowledge of her whereabouts that evening; he only knew that when
+her father’s dead body was brought back to the house she was “out.” He
+made a note to look into the matter—an odious duty but a duty that
+must be done—and then, shaking the matter from his mind, walked back
+to Scotland Yard. He found that the Charing Cross taxi-driver had
+already been traced. The man could give no clear information about his
+fare; he only knew that a lady and gentleman had engaged him at
+Charing Cross and paid him off at Piccadilly Circus—a dead end.
+
+Soon after half-past nine the police car pulled up close to the
+Marines South African Memorial, a hundred yards or so west of the
+Admiralty Arch, and the experimental party emerged. Poole had brought
+Sergeant Gower with him to act as a witness and he now directed
+Detective-Constables Kelly and Rawton to walk slowly arm-in-arm from
+the Duke’s Steps across the Mall, passing over the “island” on their
+way. Sergeant Gower was to follow them at about twenty paces distance,
+representing Mr. Coningsby Smythe, and Poole himself, armed with a
+walking stick with a rubber ferrule, took up his post in the car.
+
+From where he sat, nearly a hundred yards away from the Duke’s Steps,
+it was only with difficulty that he could make out the figures of the
+two detectives; it might be darker now than it was at 6.30 p. m. on
+the 24th October, but Poole doubted whether the visibility was much
+worse, especially as there were no other foot-passengers about to
+distract the eye.
+
+He could just see them as they approached the Mall and at what he
+considered the appropriate moment, he gave an order to the driver of
+his car. Acting under previous directions, the man drove slowly to the
+point where the two detectives were crossing and, as they left the
+island, pulled in as close behind them as he could, without obviously
+checking speed or altering direction. As the car passed behind them
+Poole leant out of the left-hand window and jabbed fiercely at
+Rawton’s back with his stick. The point of it just reached Rawton,
+brushing against his right shoulder—Poole cursed himself for his bad
+aim.
+
+“Pull up, Frinton,” he said. “You’ll have to get closer than that—I
+only just reached him—no force in the blow at all.”
+
+“Don’t think I can get much closer, sir, without hitting them. You
+see, my bonnet’s got to clear them first and by the time the window’s
+behind them they must have taken at least another pace. Any closer
+would have made them think they were going to be run over and they’d
+have skipped.”
+
+“It was all pretty obvious, Inspector,” said Sergeant Gower, who had
+come up. “I can’t believe the gentleman I’m supposed to be
+impersonating wouldn’t have noticed something odd. The car was going
+much slower than is natural—unless there’s traffic to check it, which
+I gather there wasn’t—and even so I thought it would run into them.
+Seems to me Frinton drove very well and that even so it was obvious.”
+
+“And even so I didn’t hit Rawton,” added Poole, frowning. “I may have
+to get hold of Smythe and find out if he remembers anything definite
+about the pace of the car. Meantime, we’ll try it again. Gower, you
+get in the car; go a shade faster, Frinton, and see if you can get any
+nearer. I’ll watch.”
+
+The reconstruction was repeated; Frinton drove faster and with great
+skill, missing the two detectives so narrowly that Sergeant Gower,
+leaning well out of the window, was able to reach Rawton with the
+point of the stick; the blow, however, was a glancing one, and did not
+hurt him.
+
+“Bad shot, I’m afraid, sir,” said the sergeant, getting out of the
+car. “It isn’t easy to make a good one at that pace.”
+
+“I thought he was going to knock us over,” said Rawton. “Made me jump
+it would, if I hadn’t known Frinton.”
+
+“Ay, an’ I saw the Sairgint from the corner of me oye,” interrupted
+Kelly. “Lanin’ that far out av the car y’r little man was bound to
+shpot him.”
+
+“Hessel was, you mean?”
+
+“Ay, him.”
+
+“I’ll be Hessel this time then,” said Poole. “Repeat.”
+
+There was no doubt about it. With the car coming so close and Sergeant
+Gower leaning out to strike, Poole, in the part of Hessel, could not
+have failed to notice what had happened.
+
+“Can Hessel be in it?” muttered Poole.
+
+“Could he not have thrown a shtone, now?” asked Kelly. “That would let
+the car be further off and the man not so visible.”
+
+“We can try it,” said Poole. “But it’ll be harder than ever to make a
+good shot. What shall we throw?”
+
+“Not a stone, sir, please,” begged Rawton. “You _might_ make a good
+shot by mistake.”
+
+“Nobody’s got a tennis ball, I suppose?” queried Poole.
+
+Nobody had.
+
+“Would this do, guv’nor?”
+
+A small crowd, consisting of P. C. Lolling’s relief and a City of
+Westminster street scavenger had by this time collected. Poole had not
+noticed the latter till he spoke. The man was holding in the palm of
+his hand what looked like a long, rounded stone, shaped rather like a
+shot-gun cartridge, but shorter. Poole picked it out of the man’s hand
+and found that it was made of rubber but was distinctly heavy; close
+inspection proved that it had a metal core, to one end of which was
+attached a very short fragment of thin cord.
+
+“What on earth’s this?” asked Poole.
+
+“It’s something I picked out of that very grating, sir. It’s my job to
+clear them and I often find things that have fallen through,” replied
+the man. “I was puzzled to know what it was and I kept it in my pocket
+in case anyone came along and asked about it.”
+
+“You found it here? When, man, when?”
+
+“Matter of a fortnight ago, sir. The night after that poor gentleman
+died.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+The Ethiopian and General Development Company
+
+“Good God; it’s a bullet—a rubber bullet!”
+
+“Weighted with lead!”
+
+“Phwat’ll the shtring be for?”
+
+“What gun’ll fire a thing like that—look at the size of it—it’s bigger
+than a twelve-bore!”
+
+“How could that kill a man?”
+
+“Bust his artery, they said.”
+
+“I don’t believe it.”
+
+“It’s a fact.”
+
+“A bloody shame it is.”
+
+“Bloody clever I call it.”
+
+The burst of excited comments, by no means separate and consecutive,
+that followed the scavenger’s revelation was checked by Poole.
+
+“That’ll do,” he said. “We don’t want all London here. I’ll do the
+talking about this—and the thinking.”
+
+Poole sent the police-car, with Detective-Constables Kelley and Rawton
+in it, back to Scotland Yard, keeping Sergeant Gower with him. He
+questioned the scavenger, whose name was Glant, closely on the subject
+of his discovery. The man was positive that he had found the bullet in
+the sump below the grating close to where they stood,—under the curb
+exactly between the island and the spot where Sir Garth fell. The
+grating had an unusually open mesh and the bullet—Poole tested the
+point—could just drop through. Glant fixed the date clearly enough by
+the excitement of having a death practically on his beat; he had not
+connected the two in the sense of cause and effect but merely as the
+one fixing the date of the other.
+
+Poole turned the matter over quickly in his mind. He felt pretty sure
+that this was the explanation of how the murder had been committed.
+Somebody who knew about the aneurism and realized the nature of the
+blow that could cause it to burst without penetrating, or even
+abrazing the skin, had devised this missile for the purpose. What
+weapon could throw such a missile? A shot-gun was out of the
+question—the explosion must have been heard; an air-rifle was probably
+precluded by the size of the bore; a catapult? Probably something of
+that kind; for a moment its exact nature was not of vital importance.
+
+What did the tag of cord imply? Probably that the bullet—a significant
+object if found near the spot—had been attached to a cord which could
+be used for pulling it back into the car after the shot was fired. The
+bullet had evidently fallen on to the grating and dropped through the
+bars, the cord breaking when the strain came. In that case, surely the
+murderer would have come back to look for and, if possible, remove
+such a dangerous clue. Poole turned to the scavenger.
+
+“You didn’t see anyone search around here, I suppose,” he asked.
+
+“Can’t say I did, sir.”
+
+The police-constable—Lolling’s relief—who had been standing silently
+by all this time, except when he moved on two passers-by whose
+curiosity had been aroused by the unusual group, now cleared his
+throat and made his first contribution to the discussion.
+
+“I wouldn’t say but what I’d seen the chap myself, sir,” he said, with
+ponderous gravity.
+
+Poole looked at him questioningly. The constable continued at his own
+pace.
+
+“I was on duty here on the night in question, sir. I relieved
+Police-Constable Lolling at about 8 p. m. and he informed me of the
+incident” (he accented the second syllable). “I took no great note of
+what appeared to be a death from natural causes. Soon after I came on
+duty I noticed a bloke—a person, sir—a male person, dressed like a
+tramp he was—shuffling along down the gutter and looking about
+him—scavenging cigarette-ends, I took it to be. I was standing not far
+from here and he didn’t hang about. About an hour later I was not far
+away—under those trees to be exact—there was a slight drizzle—when I
+saw the same party come back. He hung about here a bit this time and
+as I don’t like that sort of party hanging about on my beat, I passed
+him on.”
+
+“Did he say anything?”
+
+“Nothing, sir.”
+
+“What did he look like?”
+
+“I couldn’t really say, sir. Just a tramp.”
+
+“Had he a moustache—a beard?”
+
+“There again I couldn’t say, sir, at this distance of time. He was a
+dirty sort of bloke—that’s all I could swear to.”
+
+Poole could get nothing more definite; he did not try very hard—it was
+obvious that the man would be effectively disguised. Thanking the
+constable and Glant for their help and taking a note of the latter’s
+address, Poole walked across the Park in the direction of Queen Anne’s
+Gate. He was not feeling in the least tired now and was eager to press
+closely along the growing scent; for a time he thought of looking up
+Mangane, to see what the latter had discovered about the Victory
+Finance Company, but second thoughts told him that if he were to throw
+himself into a complicated financial maze his brain must first have a
+night’s rest. With some regret therefore, he took a bus home from
+Victoria Street.
+
+The following morning he reported the progress of the case fully to
+Chief Inspector Barrod. The latter was unexpectedly reasonable about
+Poole’s failure to track either Ryland Fratten or Daphne and her
+companion—possibly because he could see from Poole’s manner that the
+latter had something besides failure to report. He listened with close
+attention to the combination of evidence and experiment which had led
+up to the solving of the “method” of the murder—the waiting car, the
+woman driver, and the firing of the heavy rubber bullet from the
+passing car.
+
+“It all points one way, Poole,” he said at last. “Or rather, it points
+definitely in one direction and suggestively—and supernumerarily—in a
+second.”
+
+Poole looked at him questioningly.
+
+“Queen Anne’s Gate is the one way—the two Frattens. And Hessel may or
+may not have been in it.”
+
+“And this woman ‘Daphne,’ sir?”
+
+“Doesn’t exist. She’s been forced on to you by the Frattens—exactly as
+a conjurer forces a card. Miss Fratten’s an attractive woman,
+Poole—I’ve made a point of having a look at her since the
+Inquest—she’s been playing with you. I’m not going to rub it in,
+because I think you’ve learnt your lesson. As for the girl you
+followed, she was Miss Saverel of course, going out with a
+friend—possibly one of her employers. There’s nothing significant
+about her—the significant part was all put up by the Frattens.”
+
+Poole realized that this reading was for the moment unanswerable; he
+did not, at any rate, intend to argue about it—but he did not believe
+it. He arranged for Sergeant Gower to interview Mr. Tapping, whilst he
+himself went across to Queen Anne’s Gate to see Mangane. It was an
+infernal nuisance that a Saturday—followed by Sunday—should intervene
+just when he was getting on to a hot scent.
+
+Before seeing the secretary, however, Poole knew that he must get
+through a very unpleasant duty. He asked for Miss Fratten and was
+shown into her sitting-room. Inez received him with an eager smile and
+an extended hand. Poole felt a treacherous brute as he took it.
+
+“Have you see your brother, Miss Fratten?” he asked.
+
+“Yes, he had breakfast here. I asked him what he was doing at that
+place last night; he got very stuffy—told me to mind my own
+business—or words to that effect—so I did.”
+
+Poole nodded; he saw no point in discussing Ryland’s conduct with Miss
+Fratten—that must be done with Ryland himself.
+
+“My man told me he’d come back to his lodgings last night—I haven’t
+had a report about this morning. Apparently he apologized to Fallows
+for slipping him and said he might have to do it again. I hope he
+won’t—I shall have to double the watch.”
+
+“Anyhow it proves that he’s not going to bolt,” said Inez. “If he was,
+he could have done it yesterday.”
+
+Poole laughed.
+
+“Perhaps”; he said, “but it might have been a trial run. What I really
+wanted to see you about was a piece of routine work that I ought to
+have done before—as a matter of fact I’ve been ragged by my chief for
+not doing it. In a case of this kind we always ask everybody closely
+connected with it for an account of their movements at the time
+that—that is in question. May I have yours?”
+
+Inez looked at him steadily for some seconds before speaking.
+
+“I see,” she said, speaking slowly. “Yes, I think I understand. I had
+been to tea with an old governess down at Putney. I’ll give you her
+address so that you can confirm it; I got there a little before five
+and left some time after six.” She sat down at her writing table and
+scribbled on a piece of paper.
+
+“Did you go in your car?”
+
+Inez looked up in surprise.
+
+“How did you know I’d got a car?”
+
+“You’d be very exceptional if you hadn’t. Is it a two-seater?”
+
+“It is—why?”
+
+“Coupé?”
+
+“No, an ordinary touring hood—it’s a 12 Vesper. I don’t know what
+you’re getting at, Mr. Poole, but if you want to see it, it’s in the
+garage at the back.”
+
+There was a troubled look on Inez’s face that made Poole curse himself
+as he said good-bye to her. He had to pull himself up short when he
+realized where his feelings for this girl were leading him.
+
+Mangane greeted him almost eagerly.
+
+“I’ve got something that’ll interest you, old man—er, Inspector,” he
+said. “I won’t bother you—unless you want them—with details of the
+investigations I made yesterday—I’ll just give you the gist of them.
+Cigarette?”
+
+Poole pulled out his pipe and lit it, before settling himself down in
+a chair at the side of Mangane’s desk with his note-book before him.
+
+“There seems to be no doubt,” continued Mangane, “that the
+Victory Finance is a sound and genuine company. It’s a private
+company, the four directors holding all the shares between them;
+Lorne—Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne—I don’t know whether you’ve heard
+of him—is chairman and holds 60% of the shares; old Lord Resston holds
+15%—he’s only a guinea-pig—never functions; a fellow called Lessingham
+has 15%, and another ex-soldier, Wraile, 10%. Wraile was their
+managing-director at one time; he gave that up but kept his seat on
+the Board. The present manager’s a different type—head-clerk,
+really—Blagge, his name is.
+
+“The Company’s business is partly investment and partly loan. Their
+investment list is very sound—I can’t pick a hole in it; their loans
+are more interesting—and much more difficult to follow. I followed up
+your suggestions—those loans that Sir Garth had not ticked. The first
+one—South Wales Pulverization—is a simple case of over-capitalization;
+the Victory Finance have burnt their fingers over that, I
+fancy—they’ll be lucky if they recover their advances without
+interest. Sir Garth spotted that quickly enough—that’s why he queried
+it—it’s a bad loan, but there’s nothing shady about it that I can see.
+
+“The second one is much more interesting—the Nem Nem Sohar Trust. It’s
+a Hungarian company—the name means something like ‘Never, never, it is
+unendurable,’ the Hungarian ‘revise the peace-treaty’ slogan;
+nominally the Trust is for land development on a big-property
+basis—the sort of thing that would appeal to a true-blue like Lorne;
+it is that, but it also has a strongly political flavour—there is
+actually a clause in the charter urging the elimination of Jews from
+the national and local government posts. I don’t wonder Sir Garth put
+a blue pencil through it—I don’t say it isn’t a good thing politically
+or sound financially, but he’d never touch a thing that was so
+directly tinged with politics. Whether you think it’s worth looking
+closer into or not, I don’t know—that’s for you to say.
+
+“The third company that he queried—Ethiopian and General Development—I
+looked into more thoroughly, partly because there were no notes about
+it. I’d rather like to know why there are no notes. I told you I knew
+something about these investigations of his, and that I’d made some
+appointments for him; one of them was with the managing-director of
+the Ethiopian and General. Whether he saw him or not, of course I
+don’t know—I only made the appointment. I tried to see him myself
+today but he was busy and couldn’t see me—suggested my coming on
+Tuesday—apparently they have a Board-meeting on Monday. But I saw one
+of the clerks and I got the company’s last report and schedule of
+operations from him; I had to buy them—there must be something rotten
+about that show or I shouldn’t have been able to. I read ’em while I
+had lunch—I lunched in the City—and talked them over with a pal I can
+trust—didn’t let on what I wanted to know for, of course.
+
+“That company, my pal told me, used to be absolutely sound—a genuine
+development concern—lending money and buying up properties that looked
+promising or that only needed money to make them pay. But the Board’s
+getting a bit ancient and a bit lazy—inclined to leave things pretty
+well to their managing-director. According to my friend, this
+managing-director is playing a funny game; he hasn’t been there more
+than a year or so but in that time the company’s lost a certain amount
+of ‘caste’—nothing definitely wrong, nothing demonstrably shady—but
+the City doesn’t trust it any longer.
+
+“I gathered that there was one particular undertaking that was thought
+to be a bit fishy; a mine in Western Rhodesia that they’d bought from
+a thing called the Rotunda Syndicate. Nothing unusual in that, of
+course, but apparently the Ethiopian and General hadn’t sent out their
+usual mining engineer to report on it, but employed a local man out
+there. The explanation was that it was a very long way inland and a
+particularly unhealthy climate; extra expense, delay, the possibility
+of the London man crocking up; so the local man—probably recommended
+by the Rotunda—was employed, reported very favourably, and the
+Ethiopian and General bought the property. An unusual way of doing
+business, to say the least of it.
+
+“I haven’t had time to go into the terms of the sale—I’ll try and get
+at that on Monday—but there’s one point—two points rather—that will
+strike you at once. The Rotunda Syndicate is Lessingham and the new
+managing-director of the Ethiopian and General is Wraile—both
+directors of the Victory Finance Company!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+The Rotunda Mine
+
+Returning to Scotland Yard, Poole reported this new and significant
+development to Barrod. The latter decided that the time was ripe for a
+reference to Sir Leward Marradine and together the three men discussed
+the situation and decided on the lines which future investigations
+should follow. It was now well past mid-day on Saturday and nothing
+much could be done in the way of further enquiries in the City until
+the week-end was past. It was clear that both Wraile and
+Lessingham—and probably Miss Saverel as well—must now be directly
+interrogated, but, apart from the unlikelihood of finding any of them
+now, neither Barrod nor Poole was in favour of approaching them in a
+half-hearted manner. It would be much better to complete the enquiries
+about the Ethiopian and General Development Company first and so have
+something really definite with which to confront them. Finally it was
+decided that Poole should take his week-end off in the ordinary way,
+in order that he might return to the attack on Monday with the full
+vigour of both mind and body.
+
+Poole was by no means sorry for this decision. Since the previous
+Friday he had worked unceasingly at this case, with only the week-end
+break. He had worked very long hours and his mind had been at work
+even when his body was not. Though far from tired out, he was
+conscious of the effort that was required to keep going at full steam;
+he would unquestionably be the better for a rest and he determined to
+switch his mind completely off the case until after he had had his
+breakfast on Monday morning. It would not be easy, but it would be
+worth doing.
+
+Ever since he had joined the C.I.D., Poole had given up all forms of
+outdoor games and sport except golf and shooting. He had an aunt—his
+father’s very-much-younger sister—who lived in the New Forest, and
+with her he often stayed a week-end and played two or three rounds of
+golf at Brockenhurst. Miss Joan Poole was the only one of the
+detective’s family who thoroughly approved of his choice of a
+profession. His father, still practising in Gloucestershire but
+leaving an increasing amount of the work to his young partner, was
+always glad to see John, but he was not prepared to put himself out
+for him—to depart from his own hobbies or amusements—in order to
+provide the pig-headed young fool with suitable recreation. Joan
+Poole, on the other hand, was thrilled at the possession of a nephew
+who, she was sure, was going to become a really big man in a really
+interesting profession. She loved having him to stay with her and
+stretched her none too ample means to the uttermost in order to keep a
+few acres of rough shooting for him.
+
+On Saturday afternoon, therefore, Poole spent the hour and a half
+before it got dark in mopping up seven rabbits, a cock-pheasant and a
+wholly unexpected woodcock, with the help—and some hindrance—of his
+aunt’s enthusiastic but quite untrained cocker spaniel. After tea he
+settled himself into a large arm-chair in front of the fire and gave
+himself up to the joy of uninterrupted and uneducational reading—an
+hour of Mary Webb and one of Henry James. A retired Admiral and his
+wife came to dinner, cursed the Government (the sailor, not his lady)
+drank three glasses of indifferent port (again, he) and played two
+rubbers of still more indifferent bridge—indifferent in the sense of
+being unscientific, but eminently amusing—good, talking, light-hearted
+games with a veto on post-mortem discussion.
+
+Sunday involved a visit to the local church—Joan Poole was
+sufficiently an aunt to think it behooved her to keep an eye on her
+nephew’s spiritual welfare, and after an early lunch, twenty-seven
+holes of rather high-class golf. Joan, though over forty, was a really
+useful performer and it took John, out of practice as he necessarily
+was, all his time to give her half a stroke and a beating. After tea,
+more Mary Webb and, as a contrast to the Victorian James, two of Max
+Beerbohm’s incomparable “Seven Men.” After supper—everything cold and
+deliciously appetizing on the table—John yielded himself up to the
+favourite recreation of his hostess,—a good long gossip—about
+relations, politics, books, neighbours, and the prospects of early
+promotion. The latter was approaching forbidden ground but Poole
+warded off his aunt’s most disingenuous leads and, much to her
+disappointment, said not one word about the Fratten case. As he sped
+to London by the 8 a. m. train on Monday morning, Poole felt that he
+had recreated every tissue in both body and brain and was ready to
+exert to the utmost the full powers of both in an attempt to bring his
+case to a successful conclusion.
+
+On arriving at Scotland Yard, the detective found a message from
+Mangane to say that he was starting early for the City and would ring
+him up at lunch time if he had anything to report. That meant that
+Poole would have a clear morning in which to tidy up a variety of
+small points that needed attention.
+
+In the first place he went round to the House of Commons and once more
+extracted Mr. Coningsby Smythe from his holy places; Mr. Smythe was
+inclined to mount his high horse, but Poole quickly brought him to his
+senses by telling him that he would shortly be required to give
+evidence in a trial for murder, and warning him that if he put any
+difficulties in the way of the Crown (more effective than the “police”
+with this type of witness) obtaining the evidence it required, he
+would find himself in severe trouble. Having thus prepared the way he
+asked Mr. Smythe if he had noticed anything about the appearance and
+behaviour of the car that had obstructed his view of Sir Garth just
+before the latter fell. Mr. Smythe stared at Poole in some surprise,
+but seeing that he was in earnest bent his brows in an effort of
+recollection.
+
+“I did not really notice the car, Inspector,” he said at last. “I was
+watching the men. I should say that it was certainly a closed car and
+not a large one; I think it was dark in colour.”
+
+“You did not notice whether it was driven by a man or a woman—or a
+chauffeur?”
+
+“I’m afraid I didn’t.”
+
+“Did anything strike you about the way it was driven—was it slower
+than was natural on such a road? Did it go very near the two
+gentlemen?”
+
+Mr. Smythe shook his head.
+
+“I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything special—it certainly wasn’t going
+very fast.”
+
+“Would you say it was a saloon, or a coupé, or just an open car with
+the hood up?”
+
+“I should say certainly not the latter; probably it was a small
+saloon—but it might have been a coupé. I couldn’t really be sure.”
+
+“Could you swear it was not an open car with the hood up?”
+
+“Not swear, no—I didn’t notice particularly enough; but I have a very
+strong impression that it was not.”
+
+With that strong impression Poole had to be satisfied; confirming, as
+it did, the testimony of the Park-keeper, Blossom, it seemed to
+eliminate Inez Fratten’s open Vesper. While the question was before
+him Poole thought he should have a look at the car, so he went round
+to Queen Anne’s Gate and, with Inez’s permission, had it run out of
+the garage. One glance was enough; it was a low, distinctly “sporting”
+model, with a hood which, when lifted, fitted closely over the head of
+the driver. Poole felt sure that Mr. Smythe could not possibly have
+gained the impression of a small saloon or coupé from this little
+whippet. He heaved a sigh of relief, thanked the chauffeur and walked
+away.
+
+His next visit was to a gunsmith, a man from whom he bought his own
+cartridges and whom he knew to be an expert in his own line. Poole
+showed him the rubber bullet and asked him to suggest a weapon that
+might have fired it.
+
+“We had an idea it might be a powerful catapult,” he said.
+
+The gunsmith examined it closely, using a magnifying eye-glass. After
+nearly three minutes of scrutiny he removed the glass from his eye and
+handed it and the bullet to the detective.
+
+“It’s not been fired from a rifled barrel; there’s no characteristic
+corkscrew grooving. On the other hand, there is a very faint
+longitudinal groove—look at it yourself—all along each side of the
+bullet. That suggests some running pressure along each side. I don’t
+see how a catapult would do that, but what about a cross-bow? The
+half-open barrel of a cross-bow would allow very slight expansion of
+the rubber in the upper half of the bullet; as the bullet lies in the
+open barrel, half of it appears above the wood or metal, whilst the
+lower half fits into the half barrel and may be ever so slightly
+compressed by it. When the bullet is forced along the barrel this
+pressure or friction in the bottom half and lack of it in the top half
+would be liable to cause a slight groove to appear all the way down on
+each side—like what you see on that bullet. That’s the solution that
+occurs to me, Mr. Poole; I should be interested to know sometime if it
+fits in with the facts.”
+
+On his way back to Scotland Yard, Poole called in at Dr. Vyle’s house
+and, showing him the bullet, asked whether, if fired from something
+like a cross-bow, it was capable of inflicting the injury which had
+caused Sir Garth’s death and of making just so much mark on the flesh
+as subsequent examination had revealed. The police-surgeon was
+intensely interested by Poole’s “exhibit”; he weighed it in his hand,
+pinched it, struck it against his own forehead and examined it
+minutely through his magnifying glass.
+
+“It’s the very thing to do the trick,” he said. “It’s soft enough to
+spread a bit on impact—that would both extend the surface of the blow
+and act as a cushion to prevent abrasion; it’s heavy enough—thanks to
+the lead heart—to burst, or at any rate puncture, the aneurism if the
+propelling force was at all strong. A good catapult or cross-bow would
+give that, especially at such close range; it would be pretty nearly
+silent, except for a sort of slap, and I should think it throws pretty
+straight. There’s no doubt you’ve got the weapon, inspector.”
+
+“I’ve got the missile, anyhow, doctor, and it won’t be my fault if I
+haven’t got the weapon before long. Thank you.”
+
+As he entered Scotland Yard, Poole met Sergeant Gower.
+
+“I couldn’t find that chap Tapping on Saturday, sir,” said the
+Sergeant. “He’d gone off to an annual conference in Manchester the
+night before—all the tuning-fork testers in the country meet there
+every year and talk about how it’s done—excuse for a dinner and a
+‘jolly,’ his wife told me it was really. Anyhow she didn’t expect him
+back till late Saturday night—football match in the afternoon, Arsenal
+playing the United up there. I went again this morning and found him
+in—didn’t look to me as if he knew the meaning of the word ‘jolly,’
+but you never know. Anyway, he confirmed what Blossom said all right:
+Hessel had his arm through Fratten’s, he was sure—anyway he never hit
+him—Tapping swears to that and to there being no one else near enough
+to. He thinks somebody threw something at him.”
+
+“He’s not far out,” said Poole. “Thank you.”
+
+At one o’clock Poole was called to the telephone and found Mangane at
+the other end. The secretary reported that he had made a definite
+advance and now needed further instructions as to what move was
+required. Poole asked him to come straight to Scotland Yard and attend
+a conference with the Assistant-Commissioner; within a quarter of an
+hour Mangane had arrived and the two repaired to Sir Leward’s room,
+where Barrod was already in attendance.
+
+Sir Leward greeted Mangane with some reserve. In the first place, he
+was not at all keen on the introduction of amateurs into Scotland Yard
+investigations—he proposed to say a word or two to Inspector Poole on
+that head when the case was over; secondly, he still remembered the
+look on the secretary’s face when he (Sir Leward) had interrupted the
+_tête-à-tête_ tea at Queen Anne’s Gate on the occasion of his visit to
+Miss Fratten. The development of friendly relations with Miss
+Fratten—to which he had so much looked forward—had not materialized,
+in view of the direction which the investigations instigated by
+himself had followed—the suspecting and shadowing of Ryland
+Fratten—not a happy introduction to his sister’s good graces. Mangane,
+however, appeared quite unconscious of Sir Leward’s reserve; he was
+clearly eager to disclose the fruit of his morning’s enquiries.
+
+“As I told Inspector Poole on Saturday, sir,” he began, “although I
+knew that the Rotunda Syndicate had sold their property to the
+Ethiopian and General, I didn’t know anything about the terms of sale;
+today I’ve been able to find out something about that. It hasn’t been
+very easy, because the two parties to the transaction—Lessingham,
+representing the Rotunda Syndicate, on the one side, and Wraile,
+representing the Ethiopian and General, on the other—are both hostile
+to any form of enquiry. I didn’t attempt to get anything from
+Lessingham—that Syndicate obviously wouldn’t give anything away. I
+managed it at last by bribing the same E. & G. clerk who sold me the
+Company’s schedule—the one I gave you on Saturday. It cost me £50—the
+fellow was taking a pretty big risk—but the normal means of finding
+out would have taken days or weeks and I gather that you’re in a
+hurry.
+
+“The terms are tremendously favourable to Lessingham. I don’t know, of
+course, how much of a dud this mine is—it may be a good thing but
+there’s quite a possibility that it’s a group of surface veins and
+nothing more—but for the amount of prospecting that’s been done, even
+if every test had been favourable, the price is a fancy one. I’ve got
+a copy of the report on the mine here; you’ll see that the Rotunda
+don’t pretend to have sunk a tremendous lot in exploration—probably
+they knew that if they claimed too much for initial expenditure
+(that’s being repaid to them in cash by the E. & G. D.) there would
+simply _have_ to be a proper report. All it amounts to is that they
+have sunk a few bore holes at wide intervals (no doubt in the most
+hopeful spots) and this optimistic report is based on the assumption,
+first, that the whole area is as good as the bore holes show the
+carefully chosen spots to be and, secondly, that the ore continues as
+such to deeper levels.
+
+“It’s a report that wouldn’t deceive a sound Development Company for a
+minute—not to the extent of plunging in as the E. & G. are doing. On
+the strength of it—and of course at the instigation of Wraile—they are
+forming a Company with a capital of £500,000 divided into £300,000 in
+7% preference shares and £200,000 in 1/– ordinary shares—that is to
+say 4 million shares. The Rotunda—Lessingham—in addition to having all
+their initial expenditure in prospecting etc., refunded to them in
+cash, are to receive as purchase price half the ordinary shares—2
+million—plus an option on a further million at 5/– per share if
+exercised within six months or 10/– per share if exercised within a
+year.
+
+“The public is to subscribe the £300,000 in Preference Shares, and to
+get one Ordinary Share (of 1/–) thrown in as a bonus for each £1
+Preference Share subscribed. The object of the high premium on
+Lessingham’s option, of course, is to create an artificial value for
+the Ordinary shares—to make the public think that they are
+valuable—and so enable Lessingham, with the propaganda at his disposal
+through all three companies—Rotunda, E. & G. and Victory
+Finance—especially the latter—to start a market in them at anything
+from 5/– to 7/6 a share and so make a large fortune out of his
+allotted two million. If he sells at even 5/– he makes £500,000 on
+them, and if the market goes really well he has his option on another
+million—in fact he’s in clover.
+
+“The new company, when it’s floated, will have a different name, so
+that it’s more than likely that Lessingham’s connection with it will
+not be known to the public and the Victory Finance Company will be
+able to push it without its Chairman, Lorne, realizing either—unless
+he’s a much sharper man than I take him to be.
+
+“What the Ethiopian and General Board was thinking of to agree to such
+terms, I can’t think. Wraile must have got them pretty well under his
+thumb. I believe that what weighed very strongly with them was that
+Lessingham said that if they gave him favourable terms he would
+arrange for the Victory Finance Company to make them a big loan for
+the development of this mine and other properties on easy terms. The
+V. F., being a reputable company, would also help to create a market
+at a premium on the ordinary shares. Lessingham has only a 15% share
+in the Victory Finance and is using its money for his own purposes.
+He’s the real directing brain of the company; he does genuinely good
+work for them—makes big profits for them by his advice—and makes use
+of the kudos he so establishes to land them in an undertaking of this
+kind. Eventually, of course, both the Ethiopian and General and the
+Victory Finance will be liable to smash over it. By that time
+Lessingham will have made his pile and cleared out—and Wraile too, of
+course. He’s only got 10 per cent in Victory Finance and 10 per cent
+in E. & G. D.—probably both he and Lessingham will have sold their
+shares before the smash comes—but he can afford to lose them
+altogether if he’s sharing with Lessingham in this Rotunda swindle.
+They’re a pretty couple.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+General Meets General
+
+On his return to the offices of the Victory Finance Company on Monday
+afternoon, Major-Gen. Sir Hunter Lorne found awaiting him a note
+brought by a young man in a neat dark suit. Sir Hunter tore it open
+and read it, a frown, first of surprise and then of annoyance,
+deepening on his face as he did so.
+
+“What the devil? Of all the infernal impertinence!” he exclaimed, then
+struck the hand-bell sharply. A junior clerk appeared at the door.
+
+“That chap who brought this note still here?” he asked aggressively.
+
+“Yes, Sir Hunter.”
+
+“Send him in here, then. I’ll . . .” Sir Hunter did not disclose his
+intentions, but stood gnawing one end of his handsome grey moustache
+and glaring at the door.
+
+“Who are you?” he asked, when the messenger appeared and the clerk had
+departed. “Are you a policeman?”
+
+“Yes, sir. I’m secretary to the Assistant-Commissioner in charge of
+the Criminal Investigation Department.”
+
+“This chap Marradine?”
+
+“Yes, sir; Sir Leward Marradine.”
+
+“What did he want to send you for? Is the unfortunate taxpayer to fork
+out £5 a week for men who are employed as messengers?”
+
+“I believe Sir Leward thought that you might dislike having a
+uniformed officer sent here, sir.”
+
+“So I should, by Gad! Damned thoughtful of him; damned thoughtful! Why
+didn’t he come himself? What the devil does he want to know? Why
+should I be sent for to Scotland Yard like a . . . like a . . .”
+
+The General, finding no adequate simile, blew out his cheeks and
+snorted. The secretary apparently thought that these questions were
+rhetorical and required no answer; at any rate he gave none. After a
+moment’s thought, Sir Hunter stumped out of the Board Room and into
+the small office shared by the Manager and Secretary.
+
+“Captain Wraile coming in this afternoon?” he enquired.
+
+Miss Saverel looked up quickly but it was Mr. Blagge who answered.
+
+“No sir, he never comes on Mondays; he has a Board-meeting in the
+afternoon.”
+
+Sir Hunter stood irresolute.
+
+“Anything I can do, sir?” asked Mr. Blagge.
+
+“No, no; nothing, nothing,” exclaimed the Chairman testily. “I’ll
+attend to it myself. Damned _embusqué_!” he added irrelevantly as he
+returned to the Board Room. Taking his hat, coat, and umbrella, he
+stalked out of the room without a word to Sir Leward’s messenger, but
+having slammed the door almost in the latter’s face, presently opened
+it again.
+
+“Give you a lift back,” he said gruffly.
+
+Within a quarter of an hour the irate general was being
+ushered into Sir Leward Marradine’s room at Scotland Yard. The
+Assistant-Commissioner rose to greet him.
+
+“Very good of you to come, Sir Hunter,” he said suavely. “We haven’t
+met since . . .”
+
+“What does all this mean, eh?” broke in Sir Hunter, ignoring the
+other’s extended hand. “Pretty thing when a man in my position—or any
+respectable citizen for that matter—can be hauled out of his office to
+a police station without rhyme or reason. What’s it mean, eh?”
+
+“It was hardly that, Sir Hunter,” replied Marradine, keeping his
+temper with some difficulty. “Won’t you take that chair? As I told you
+in my note, we are in need of some information that you can give
+us—information respecting a serious crime. I thought that it would be
+much less disagreeable for you to come here than to have an
+interrogation carried out in your own office.”
+
+Sir Hunter reluctantly took the proffered seat.
+
+“Serious crime, eh? What am I supposed to know about it? Am I supposed
+to have committed it? Have you got someone waiting behind a screen to
+take down what I say, or a dictaphone, or some such infernal
+contraption? What?”
+
+Sir Hunter knew perfectly well that none of this was the case and that
+he was behaving rather childishly, but he was irritated by an entirely
+extraneous consideration. He was, in sober truth, jealous of the
+position of power occupied by Marradine, a man considerably junior to
+him in the Army, a man, furthermore, who had only served for about
+five minutes in France and that only in a soft “Q” job. Lorne had
+never actually met him but he had heard of him, and he had heard
+nothing to his advantage—a precocious young pup (in his “young
+officer” days), a pusher, a bloody red-tab, and finally, a damned
+_embusqué_. Sir Hunter would not in the least have objected to being
+interrogated by a proper detective—he merely objected to Marradine.
+
+Sir Leward wisely ignored his visitor’s petulance.
+
+“It is in connection with the death of Sir Garth Fratten that I want
+your help,” he said. Lorne pricked up his ears. “I understand that Sir
+Garth was about to join your Board—that is the case, isn’t it?”
+
+Sir Hunter was all attention now.
+
+“That is so, certainly,” he replied. “I invited him to join us on—let
+me see—the 8th of October. He came to see me and talk things over at
+my office about three days later. He seemed satisfied by what I was
+able to tell him but asked for some reports and schedules and said he
+would let me have his decision in a week or two. I was expecting every
+day to hear from him, when he suddenly died—a tragic business, what? A
+great loss to the country and to us.” Sir Hunter shook his head
+gloomily.
+
+“Would you mind telling me why you wanted him to join your Board?”
+
+“I should have thought that was obvious enough. Big man in the City,
+carry great weight, give great confidence to investors, what?”
+
+“Then why did your fellow-directors not welcome his appearance?”
+
+Sir Hunter stared.
+
+“How the devil . . . ? What makes you think they didn’t?”
+
+“It is the case that they did not, then?”
+
+The Chairman shifted uneasily in his chair.
+
+“Now you mention it,” he said at last, “one of the Board wasn’t
+particularly keen on it—thought Sir Garth might want to run the
+show—jealousy really, I put it at.”
+
+“And that was?”
+
+“Lessingham. Able man but liked to have his own way. I don’t doubt
+that he’d have come round. I broke it to him rather suddenly. My
+fault, perhaps.”
+
+“And Captain Wraile?”
+
+“You seem to know all about us, eh? Wraile was willing enough.”
+
+“But Lessingham strongly opposed it?”
+
+“Well, yes. I suppose he did. I thought he was most unreasonable—most
+ungrateful to me, too—it isn’t everyone who could get Fratten on to
+their Board.”
+
+“Did Lessingham threaten strong measures if you persisted?”
+
+“He threatened to resign.”
+
+“He didn’t talk of anything more serious—violence, for instance?”
+
+“Violence? Good God, what are you driving at?”
+
+“Is he the sort of man who might go to extreme lengths—even to
+murder—to get what he wants?”
+
+“Murder? You mean, . . . you mean—that Inquest—are you
+suggesting?” . . .
+
+Sir Leward nodded.
+
+“There are pointers that way, I’m afraid, Sir Hunter. Would you think
+him capable of that?”
+
+“Lessingham! Murder! Good God! Good God!”
+
+The General was plainly knocked off his usual balance. As Marradine
+did not really need an answer, he did not press for it.
+
+“Now I want to ask you some questions about your Company’s business,”
+he said. “You do a certain amount in the way of loans, don’t you?” Sir
+Hunter nodded. “Who advises you on that?”
+
+“We have no advisers; we—the Board, that is—settle that for ourselves.
+We all have a certain amount of experience—except, of course, Resston,
+who never turns up—we put our heads together.” He paused for a moment,
+frowning, as if in thought. “As a matter of fact, now I come to think
+of it, Lessingham generally has more to say on the subject than Wraile
+or I—looks on it as his pigeon, rather, I think.”
+
+“Not long ago you advanced a large sum—£100,000—to the Ethiopian and
+General Development Company?”
+
+The Chairman nodded.
+
+“On what security?”
+
+“Their notes—the usual thing.”
+
+“Were you yourself satisfied with that transaction—and that security?”
+
+“Oh yes, certainly. The Ethiopian and General’s a sound concern—old
+established business—quite reliable. As a matter of fact,
+Wraile—you were speaking of him just now—a member of our Board—is
+managing-director of the Ethiopian and General; left us to go to
+them—they offered him very good terms, I believe.”
+
+“And naturally he was in favour of the loan.”
+
+“He was, certainly—and I suppose, naturally.”
+
+“And the loan was suggested by him? Or by Lessingham?”
+
+“By Lessingham, I fancy. Wraile supported it and I agreed.”
+
+“Thank you, Sir Hunter; that’s very frank—very helpful.”
+
+Marradine was clever enough to see that his visitor was now nervous
+and that a little judicious flattery and sympathy would enlist his
+willing help.
+
+“Do you know much about the operations of the Ethiopian and General?”
+
+“Can’t say I do; they go in, I believe, for the purchase and
+development of properties in Africa and elsewhere, and also for loans
+to the same sort of concern. Very profitable business, I believe, but
+needs great experience and flair.”
+
+“Have you ever heard of the Rotunda Syndicate?”
+
+“Never, so far as I know.”
+
+“Then you are not aware that your loan was required for the purchase
+of a mine from the Rotunda Syndicate?”
+
+“I think I remember something about mining property—I don’t know that
+I heard the name—didn’t really affect me.”
+
+“It would surprise you to hear that the Rotunda Syndicate is owned by
+your fellow-director, Lessingham, and that your money—your loan—has
+gone direct into his pocket—in cash and shares?”
+
+Sir Hunter’s face turned slowly a deep shade of red; the flush spread
+over his forehead, over his ears, and even down his neck. Marradine
+saw a small twisted vein stand out on one side of his forehead and
+pulse violently—a bubble or two appeared at the corners of his mouth.
+With considerable tact the Assistant-Commissioner rose from his seat
+and walked to a bookcase, from which he pulled a book of reference.
+When he returned, Sir Hunter had largely regained his composure, but
+his face was dark with anger.
+
+“You’re suggesting something very dirty, Marradine,” he said. “Are you
+sure of this?”
+
+“Pretty sure, I’m afraid, Sir Hunter, though I haven’t seen it proved
+yet. There’s fraud in it, I’m afraid—though of that I’ve certainly no
+proof yet. The suggestion is that the mine’s a dud, that Lessingham
+knows it, and that Wraile knows it.”
+
+“Wraile! Good God, you don’t say he’s in it? He—I—I’d have trusted him
+anywhere. I put him into our company—as manager; I got him allotted
+shares—I—I— He was my Brigade Major in France—a damn good fellow—damn
+fine soldier. I can’t believe it, Marradine—you must be mistaken.”
+
+Sir Hunter rose from his chair and paced agitatedly up and down the
+room. Marradine waited for him to calm down.
+
+“I’ve got worse than that to tell you, I’m afraid,” he said. “We
+suspect that Sir Garth Fratten was murdered to prevent his joining
+your Board. So far we have no evidence pointing to either Wraile or
+Lessingham; we’ve only just begun to look for it. But we have evidence
+that your secretary, Miss Saverel, was employed to lure young Fratten
+into such a position that suspicion would fall on him. What do you
+know of her, Sir Hunter?”
+
+Sir Hunter was past astonishment now, past indignation, even past
+anger. He had sunk back into the comfortable chair beside Sir Leward’s
+desk and was staring helplessly at his persecutor.
+
+“I—I—nothing, really, nothing,” he stammered. “Wraile engaged her,
+soon after he came to us as manager. Charming girl—quiet, respectful,
+none of your modern sauce and legs. I—I don’t . . .” His voice trailed
+off as he realized that he was feebly repeating himself.
+
+“You don’t remember, of course, anything about her movements, or
+Wraile’s, or even Lessingham’s, on the evening Sir Garth was
+murdered—” Sir Leward referred to a paper before him. “Thursday 24th,
+October, between 6 and 7.”
+
+Lorne consulted his pocket-diary.
+
+“Can’t say I do,” he replied gloomily. “I wasn’t at the office that
+afternoon.”
+
+“Any particular reason why you weren’t there?”
+
+“Matter of fact I was at Newbury—took Fernandez down—that Argentine
+millionaire, you know. He was over here floating a loan and we wanted
+to get in on it. We thought a little entertaining might do the
+trick—as a matter of fact it did—bread cast on the waters, what—bright
+idea really . . .” Sir Hunter suddenly checked himself, then, after a
+few moments’ thought, continued slowly: “It was Wraile’s idea.”
+
+There was silence, both men evidently absorbed in their thoughts.
+Marradine was the first to speak.
+
+“Fratten was murdered in a very curious way, Sir Hunter,” he said.
+“You probably read the story which came out at the Inquest about the
+accident on the Duke of York’s Steps?” Sir Hunter nodded. “That was
+evidently a plant of some kind—I don’t quite follow it. He was
+actually murdered a few minutes later. He was shot by somebody out of
+a car as he crossed the Mall—he was shot by a heavy rubber bullet
+fired from something in the nature of a cross-bow.”
+
+“Cross-bow?” Sir Hunter sat bolt upright. “Why, why that’s what Wraile
+used to use in ’15—when he was my Brigade Major—for throwing grenades
+and things at the Huns!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+Miss Saverel
+
+A few minutes after Sir Hunter Lorne left the offices of the Victory
+Finance Company, Inspector Poole presented himself at the door and
+asked the junior clerk who answered his ring to take a note in to the
+manager. A minute later he was himself shown into the Board Room,
+where Mr. Blagge, a look of mingled dignity and anxiety on his face,
+was awaiting him.
+
+“No trouble I hope, Inspector?” he asked. “Sir Hunter Lorne, our
+Chairman, has just gone out—you have only just missed him.”
+
+“Thank you, Mr. Blagge,” replied Poole, “it’s you I want to see—in the
+first instance. As a matter of fact, Sir Hunter is himself at Scotland
+Yard now, giving certain information to the Assistant-Commissioner—oh,
+no,” he added with a smile, as he saw the look of horror on the
+manager’s face, “Sir Hunter himself is not in trouble. The matter,
+however, is a serious one, as serious as could well be.” (Poole knew
+when to be ponderous.) “It is concerned with the death of Sir Garth
+Fratten, who, you are doubtless aware, was on the point of becoming a
+member of your Board when he died—a sudden and violent death.”
+
+Mr. Blagge’s reaction was exemplary—pale face, enlarged pupils,
+twittering fingers.
+
+“Now, Mr. Blagge,” continued Poole, “it is in your power to help the
+police in the execution of their duty; I need hardly add that should
+you attempt to hinder them you will render yourself liable to arrest
+as an accessory after the fact.”
+
+The manager was now ripe for exploitation.
+
+“You have as active members of your Board, in addition to your
+Chairman, a Mr. Travers Lessingham and a Captain James Wraile?”
+
+Mr. Blagge assented with a gulp.
+
+“Now, I want you to tell me in the first place, anything that you know
+about the whereabouts of Captain Wraile and Mr. Lessingham on the late
+afternoon of Thursday, October 24th—the afternoon on which Sir Garth
+Fratten met his end.” (Poole groaned in spirit at the expression, but
+he felt sure that it would be unction to the soul of Mr. Blagge.)
+
+The manager, after a deal of head-scratching and note-book searching,
+and after being refused leave by Poole to consult the secretary or
+other juniors, at last evolved the information that Mr. Lessingham had
+not been to the office that day at all (he had come in late on the
+previous afternoon and remained talking to Captain Wraile after he,
+Mr. Blagge, had gone) and that Captain Wraile had been in in the
+morning but not at all in the afternoon—Captain Wraile was, the
+Inspector might not be aware, managing-director of the . . . the
+Inspector was aware and cut him short.
+
+“And your secretary, Miss Saverel; where was she?”
+
+Mr. Blagge looked at him in surprise but, receiving no explanation of
+this curious question, did his best to answer it. Miss Saverel never
+left the office before six; Mr. Blagge was certain that she had not
+done so on any occasion within the last three months or more. She
+occasionally stayed on late to finish some work—she was not one to
+rush off directly the hour struck. Whether she had done so on the day
+in question he could not say; she herself might remember, or, if the
+Inspector did not wish to question her, then Canting, the hall-porter,
+might do so—he was generally about and had a good memory.
+
+This was as much as Poole could expect in this direction, so he
+switched to another. How regularly did Captain Wraile and Mr.
+Lessingham respectively attend at the office and what were their
+respective addresses? This was a comparatively simple matter and Mr.
+Blagge answered with more assurance. Captain Wraile came to the office
+about three times a week—generally from about four to five, but
+occasionally first thing in the morning. He attended all
+Board-meetings, which had been specially arranged so as not to clash
+with his own at the Ethiopian and General Development Company. Sir
+Hunter, the Chairman, relied a good deal upon Captain Wraile’s advice
+and seldom took an important decision without consulting him. Mr.
+Lessingham, on the other hand, came very seldom—often not for three
+weeks at a time and then generally only for an hour or so at the end
+of the day. Mr. Blagge believed that he was a gentleman with a good
+many irons in the financial fire, but knew very little about him. He
+had, in spite of his irregular attendances, been of great value to the
+Board, especially in the matter of loans, for which he had a “flair”
+that was almost uncanny.
+
+“And the addresses?”
+
+“Captain Wraile lives in the Fulham Road, No. 223A” (Poole pricked up
+his ears). “Mr. Lessingham has his communications sent to the Hotel
+Antwerp, in Adam Street—off the Strand, I fancy it is. I don’t know
+whether he lives there regularly or only when he’s in London; I
+believe, as a matter of fact, that he has a good deal of business in
+Brussels and is there as much as he is in London—if not more. What we
+send him doesn’t amount to much—notices and agenda of Board-meetings
+and any special business that the Chairman wants him to attend to. He
+said he didn’t want—Mr. Lessingham that is—he didn’t want prospectuses
+of every company and flotation that we were interested in sent after
+him—if there was anything important we were to send it—not otherwise.”
+
+“And when was he in last?”
+
+“Thursday evening, as a matter of fact, Inspector. He was here
+sometime and hadn’t left by the time I left myself.”
+
+“Thank you, Mr. Blagge; and now, Miss Saverel—where does she live?”
+
+“I’m afraid I really can’t say that—I’ve never had occasion to
+enquire.”
+
+“Can you find it out without asking?”
+
+“Oh yes, I can look in the address-book. I’ll do so at once.”
+
+Mr. Blagge was only away a few seconds and returned with a small
+note-book in his hand.
+
+“Here it is, you see, Inspector: 94 Bloomsbury Lane, W.C.”
+
+“Bloomsbury?”
+
+Poole quickly smothered his surprise.
+
+“Perhaps I might see the young lady,” he said. “If you would ask her
+to come in here I should not have to keep you from your work any
+longer.”
+
+The manager nodded and made his way to the room next door, which he
+shared with the secretary.
+
+“Inspector Poole, of Scotland Yard, wants to see you, please, Miss
+Saverel,” he said solemnly.
+
+The girl looked up quickly. Her fine, arched eyebrows rose slightly,
+but no expression, either of alarm or excitement, appeared on her
+attractive face. She sat for a moment, as if in thought, her eyes
+fixed on the centre button of Mr. Blagge’s black coat.
+
+“All right,” she said. “I’ve just got this to get off—then I’ll go and
+see him.” She tapped a few bars on her typewriter, whisked the paper
+out, scribbled a signature, folded and placed the letter in an
+envelope and addressed it. Rising, she went out into the narrow
+passage and opened the door into the clerks’ room.
+
+“Take that round at once, please, Smithers,” she said, then closing
+the door, walked down the short passage to the Board Room.
+
+“You want to see me?” she asked lightly.
+
+Poole found himself admiring the calmness and poise of this woman,
+who, if she was what he thought her, must know herself to be face to
+face with deadly peril—at the very least, an appalling ordeal. He
+could not be certain that she was the girl Inez Fratten had pointed
+out to him on Friday evening and who had slipped him at Charing Cross.
+He had not had a close view of “Daphne,” who, in any case, was wearing
+a hat and an overcoat. This girl was certainly of much the same build,
+a slim, graceful figure, with short, fair hair and extremely
+attractive brown eyes. She was dressed in a black skirt and grey silk
+shirt, with a touch of white at her throat.
+
+“I have to ask you one or two questions, Miss Saverel,” he said, “some
+of them routine questions—in connection with the death of Sir Garth
+Fratten. You perhaps know that Sir Garth was invited by your Chairman,
+Sir Hunter Lorne, to join the Board of the Company; we have reason to
+believe that that invitation was not acceptable to every member of the
+Board; can you confirm that?”
+
+“I can’t,” replied Miss Saverel calmly.
+
+“You mean you don’t know?”
+
+“How should I?”
+
+“Surely you must have heard some conversation about it—the matter must
+have been discussed in your presence at one time or another?”
+
+Miss Saverel shrugged her shoulders but said nothing.
+
+“I’m afraid I must press you for an answer, Miss Saverel.”
+
+“You can press as much as you like. Even if I knew anything I
+shouldn’t tell you; there is such a thing as being loyal to your
+employers.”
+
+“Not in the eyes of the law, if it involves shielding criminals.
+Please think again, Miss Saverel.”
+
+The girl merely shook her head. Poole could not help admiring her
+attitude; whether she was a guilty party or not she was playing the
+right game for her side. He tried a new and more direct attack.
+
+“Then I must ask you something about yourself. This is quite a routine
+question, as a matter of fact—I have to ask it of everyone even
+remotely connected with the case; where were you on the evening of
+Thursday 24th October, between six and seven? That is roughly the
+time, I should tell you, at which Sir Garth Fratten was killed.”
+
+Miss Saverel seemed not in the least disturbed by the question.
+
+“I was here till six, anyhow,” she said. “I may have been here longer.
+I’ll have a look in my diary—it’s in the other room—you can come with
+me if you think I’m liable to bolt.”
+
+Poole opened the door for her and watched her go down the passage and
+enter the small room next door; he heard Mr. Blagge speak to her and
+her reply; immediately afterwards she came out with a diary in her
+hand.
+
+“October 24th,” she said, turning over the pages. “October 24th—here
+it is—oh yes, I was here till quite late that evening—look.” She
+showed him the diary; under the date, October 24th, were written, in a
+bold, clear hand, the words: “Captain W. and Chairman discussed Annual
+Report a. m. Typed draft till 7.”
+
+“You were here till seven?”
+
+“I was, for my sins—and no overtime.”
+
+“Was anyone here with you?”
+
+“Not after six. Smithers and Varle, the two clerks leave then. After
+that I was alone.”
+
+“Did anyone see you leave?”
+
+“Canting may have—the hall-porter. He’s generally about—but he’d
+hardly remember the day.”
+
+“Nobody else?”
+
+“I don’t think so. I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it—or
+not.”
+
+“Thank you, Miss Saverel; now just one thing more. Would you mind
+telling me where you live?”
+
+He took out his note-book as if to compare her answer with an address
+in his book. The girl looked at him keenly, then moved towards the
+window.
+
+“It’s dark in here with that blind down,” she said, “you can hardly
+see your book.”
+
+She pulled the blind up the few inches that it had dropped, then
+turned back towards him. Poole realized that she now had her back to
+the light, whilst he had it in his eyes, his back to the door into the
+outer lobby. He thought, however, that he could still see her face
+sufficiently well to make it unnecessary for him to manœuvre for
+position.
+
+“It’s very charming of you to take such an interest in me,” she said.
+“I live in Bloomsbury Lane—94; fashionable neighbourhood—in my
+grandmother’s time.”
+
+“You haven’t ever lived in the Fulham Road, have you?”
+
+There was the merest fraction of a pause before the answer came.
+
+“The Fulham Road? No, never. You must be getting me mixed up with
+Captain Wraile, one of the directors—he lives there.”
+
+“But you haven’t lived there yourself?”
+
+“No, I told you I hadn’t.”
+
+“But you go there sometimes?” persisted Poole.
+
+“Aren’t you being rather offensive?” she said.
+
+“Please answer my questions; do you ever go to the Fulham Road?”
+
+The girl shrugged her shoulders.
+
+“I expect I’ve been down it at times—it’s not out of bounds, is it?”
+
+“Have you been there lately?”
+
+“I may have.”
+
+“Were you there last Friday morning?”
+
+Poole felt sure that there was a waver in the assurance of the fine
+brown eyes that had looked so calmly into his.
+
+“I think you’re trying to insinuate something beastly; I shan’t answer
+you.”
+
+“You refuse to answer?”
+
+“Certainly I do; I don’t know what right you have to ask me that.”
+
+“Then I will ask you something else; do you drive a car?”
+
+Before there was time for a reply, Poole heard the door of the room
+close—the door on to the landing. He turned quickly and saw standing
+just inside the room a well-built, soldierly-looking man—the man whom
+he had seen on Friday evening leaving this building in company with
+the girl whom Inez Fratten had declared to be “Daphne.”
+
+“Good afternoon, Inspector; my name is Wraile,” he said. “Blagge told
+me you were here. Miss Saverel is rather embarrassed by your question
+about the Fulham Road; you see, you’ve stumbled on a secret that we
+were trying to keep—Miss Saverel is my wife.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+The Hotel “Antwerp”
+
+“You see how it is, Inspector,” continued Wraile; “when I first came
+here as manager I was very hard up indeed. We had got married just
+after the War, when everyone thought they were millionaires and a
+golden age was just beginning. You know how all that dream crashed; we
+were driven down into two rooms on a top floor back—pretty desperate.
+Then I got this job and saw a chance of getting Miriam one too—she had
+been a typist and secretary in a small business before we married.
+There was a secretary here—an elderly and incompetent female whom I
+couldn’t stand; I sacked her and put Miriam in her place—but I didn’t
+dare say she was my wife—it would have looked too like a plant. I gave
+out that she had been recommended to me by a friend and as she soon
+showed herself absolutely efficient no questions were asked. Obviously
+she couldn’t give her real address—mine—so she gave the address of an
+old nurse who keeps a boarding-house in Bloomsbury Lane and who
+forwards any letters there may be and is generally tactful. There’s
+been nothing criminal about it—but it was a secret that we could
+hardly let out—having gone so far—and she naturally was embarrassed by
+your questions.”
+
+Poole wondered just how many of those questions Captain Wraile had
+heard. He realized now that he had not heard the door of the Board
+Room open but only close—perhaps deliberately closed to catch his
+attention just when he had asked that question about the car. He
+wondered, too, whether that manœuvring of Miss Saverel’s had been less
+to get her back to the light than to get his to the door. Could she
+have known that Wraile was coming in?
+
+While Wraile had been talking the detective had been thinking and had
+come to the decision not to press his question about the car; it
+looked very much as if the Wrailes were on the alert now and if too
+much alarmed—that question about the car had perhaps been too clear an
+indication of the extent of his knowledge—might bolt before his case
+was ready. He could almost certainly find out about the car by having
+Wraile watched.
+
+“I quite understand, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry to have upset Mrs.
+Wraile—I admit that her answers about the address made me rather
+suspicious—I happened to know that she lived in Fulham Road but that
+the address she gave here was a Bloomsbury one. I had to have an
+explanation—I’m very glad you happened to come in and give it.”
+
+Poole thought he saw a lessening of tension in Captain Wraile’s face;
+the latter took out a cigarette-case, offered one to Poole, which was
+declined, and took one himself. His first exhalation of a lung-full of
+smoke certainly seemed to indicate relief.
+
+“Now you’re here, sir,” continued Poole, “perhaps I may ask you one or
+two questions. I’ve already explained to Mr. Blagge and Miss Sav—Mrs.
+Wraile, that I am here in connection with the death of Sir Garth
+Fratten. It has been suggested that the possibility of Sir Garth
+joining the Board was not welcomed by some of the directors; can you
+tell me about that?”
+
+Poole noticed that Mrs. Wraile evidently intended to remain in the
+room while he interrogated her husband; in the ordinary course he did
+not like to question anyone in the presence of a third person, but in
+this case he realized that whatever passed would be discussed by
+Wraile and his wife whether she was there or not; he thought it might
+even be useful to have her there as he might intercept some glance
+between the two that might be a guide to him. It was even yet possible
+that their connection with the case might be an innocent one; their
+joint attitude now might give him an indication as to whether it was
+or not.
+
+Wraile had received the detective’s question, first with surprise and
+then with a frown of thought.
+
+“I expect I know what you mean, Inspector,” he said at last, “but
+though there was some disagreement about it I don’t think it amounted
+to anything at all significant. I saw the account of the Inquest; I
+gather that you think Sir Garth may have been murdered and that you’re
+looking about for a motive. There may have been some lack of
+enthusiasm about his joining the Board but it was a molehill that you
+mustn’t make a mountain out of.”
+
+Wraile’s smile was disarming.
+
+“I don’t know whether you know our chairman—Sir Hunter Lorne? A damn
+good fellow and a fine soldier, but not brimming over with tact. He
+threw this business at us like a bomb—without a word of warning—said
+he’d invited Sir Garth to join the Board and that he’d as good as
+accepted. Of course he’d got no right to invite him without our
+consent—or at any rate without consulting us—he’s got a majority of
+shares so of course he can outvote us. But his inviting Fratten
+without consulting us put us in a very awkward position and he made
+out he’d done something wonderful and was only waiting for the
+applause. Lessingham was furious and I confess I was a good deal
+irritated myself. When I’d had time to think it over I came to the
+conclusion that Fratten’s joining the Board would, on balance, be a
+good thing; I told Sir Hunter so. I don’t know whether Lessingham came
+to that conclusion or not—I’ve only seen him once since and we didn’t
+refer to it then—it was after Fratten’s death. You’d better ask him
+yourself if you want to know.”
+
+The detective thanked Wraile for his very lucid and helpful
+explanation and asked his “routine” question about his whereabouts on
+the evening of 24th October. Wraile looked in his diary and replied
+that he must have been at his office—the Ethiopian and General
+Development Company’s office—till nearly half-past five as he had had
+an appointment with a man named Yardley, managing-director of Canning,
+Herrup, at five and their talk couldn’t have lasted much less than
+half an hour—Yardley might be able to confirm that. He had then gone
+to his club, the Junior Services, in Pall Mall, had tea, and had
+another interview there with a potential client—Lukescu, the Roumanian
+company promoter. He was at the club certainly till seven, if not
+half-past, because Lukescu had been late for his appointment. There
+should be no difficulty in proving that because he had been very
+annoyed about being kept waiting and had more than once enquired
+whether the man had not come. Probably the hall-porter or one of the
+waiters would remember something about it.
+
+Poole made careful notes of this story and tried to pin Captain Wraile
+down to more exact time, but the latter did not appear to take great
+interest in the subject and declared himself quite incapable of being
+more exact. The detective realized that he must go to the club and
+make some very close enquiries—an extremely difficult task, as clubs
+are very reticent about the doings of their members. There was other
+work nearer at hand, however, and Poole, taking a respectful leave of
+Captain and Mrs. Wraile, made his way down the four flights of stairs
+and introduced himself to the hall-porter.
+
+Mr. Canting proved to be a man who did the duty that he was paid for.
+His employer gave him, he said, a good wage to be on duty in the hall,
+or in his cubby-hole looking into it, or working the lift, between the
+hours of 9 a. m. and 7 p. m. on week-days, 9 and 1.30 on Saturdays,
+with reasonable time off for meals. Being an old soldier (his row of
+medals—M.M., 1914 star; British and Allied Victory Medals; Belgian
+Croix de Guerre—showed that his had been no hollow service) he knew
+his duty and did it. He remembered 24th October because General Lorne,
+under whom he had served and who had got him this job, had given him a
+tip for the Ormonde Plate which had come off. The General always put
+him on to anything good that was going and very seldom let him down—if
+he did he sometimes gave him something to make up for it—a proper
+gentleman he was. On this occasion the General had said early in the
+morning he was going to Newbury and would not be back again that day.
+
+That same evening, just before he went off duty at 7 p. m., he
+remembered Miss Saverel, as she went out, saying something to him
+about “Blue Diamond” having won—had chaffed him about his “Turf
+successes,” as she called them. A very nice young lady, pleasant but
+not familiar—always said good-night to him when she left. This had
+been one of her late evenings; about once a week on an average she
+stayed for an hour or two after the others had gone—probably finishing
+up some work. In reply to Poole’s enquiry, Canting was quite sure that
+she had not left earlier and come back, as he had been in the hall or
+his office (as he rather euphemistically described his cubby-hole) all
+the evening—he always was. Oh yes, he sometimes left it to work the
+lift—often during the daytime but seldom in the evening—it was all
+“down and out,” not “in and up” then. After 6 he didn’t suppose he
+worked that lift once in a blue moon—certainly he hadn’t within the
+last month or so. No, there was no back- or side-door; everyone coming
+out had to pass him.
+
+This rather water-tight alibi sounded to the detective much less
+genuine than the more loose and casual one of Captain Wraile; Miss
+Saverel had so clearly impressed her late exit upon Canting by
+referring to a horse whose victory could be exactly dated by reference
+to the sporting press. Poole was prepared to bet that if he questioned
+the clerks and Mr. Blagge he would find that she had also drawn their
+attention to her presence in the office at the last possible moment.
+When he had time he would get a time-schedule down on paper and see
+what her limits—if she was indeed the driver of the wanted car—must
+have been; he would then know exactly what he had got to tackle. In
+the meantime, he must get in touch with Lessingham before closing
+time.
+
+There were two obvious ways of doing this; one by going to the address
+given him by the Victory Finance Company—the Hotel Antwerp in Adam
+Street; the other by trying the office of the Rotunda Syndicate.
+Obviously, Lessingham would not be at his hotel at four o’clock in the
+afternoon; he might be at his office. Poole went to the nearest
+telephone-box and looked up the Rotunda Syndicate; it did not figure
+in the directory.
+
+On second thoughts the detective realized that the Rotunda Syndicate
+was just the kind of concern (from what he had heard of it) that
+would _not_ be in the Telephone Directory, though it might be
+on the telephone. There remained the Ethiopian and General
+Development Company, which would certainly have the address, or its
+managing-director, Captain Wraile; the latter was closer at hand but
+Poole thought he had been disturbed quite enough for one afternoon.
+
+To the offices of the Ethiopian and General, therefore, Poole made his
+way and, after asking for the manager—who, of course, was not
+in—obtained what he wanted, without too great a strain upon his skill
+and veracity, from the head-clerk.
+
+137A Monument Lane was the address of the Rotunda Syndicate and, when
+found, proved to be a tall and narrow building squeezed between two
+more imposing edifices. It also proved to have no lift, and Poole had
+the pleasure of climbing six flights of stone stairs—only to find a
+locked and unresponsive door at the top.
+
+“One man show, for a monkey,” thought Poole.
+
+Nobody in the building knew anything about Mr. Lessingham, of the
+Rotunda Syndicate, but a clerk on the floor below had occasionally
+seen a stoutish middle-aged chap with a stoop mounting to, or
+descending from, the top floor. Once or twice, also, he had seen a
+girl, who looked as if she might be a typist. Poole realized that he
+had stupidly forgotten to ask Mr. Blagge for a description of
+Lessingham, but he felt pretty certain that this must be he.
+
+There remained the Hotel Antwerp; at least something could be learnt
+about Lessingham there, even though it was not likely to produce a
+meeting. On reaching Adam Street, Poole was surprised to find that the
+Hotel Antwerp was a small and rather shabby affair, which seemed
+hardly the place to provide congenial accommodation for a financier,
+even if he were not a particularly stable one. However, there was no
+accounting for taste; possibly Mr. Travers Lessingham preferred to
+economize on his bedroom in order to allow of expansion elsewhere.
+
+Within a few minutes Poole was closeted in the manager’s office with
+Mr. Blertot, himself a citizen of the no mean city from which his
+establishment took its name. This, the detective decided, was a case
+where authority, rather than tact, was required. With the more select
+hotels and, still more with clubs, it was inadvisable to display the
+mailed fist—managers and secretaries, not to mention hall-porters, in
+those places, were extremely jealous of the confidential status of
+their clients and members, and needed very gentle handling if any
+information was to be obtained. But a small, second-rate hotel desired
+above all things to be on good terms with the police; therefore Poole
+produced his official card and corresponding manner.
+
+“I am, as you see, a police-officer, Mr. Blertot,” he said “an
+Inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I
+require some information about one of your patrons, and I must impress
+upon you how serious would be your position if you withheld
+information or divulged the fact that you have been asked for it.”
+
+“But yes, of course, of course. Anything I can do,” the manager—and
+proprietor—hastened to assure him. “You have but to say how
+it is that I can serve you, sir. My hotel, it is absolutely
+respectable—absolutely. I hope, I sincerely hope, that nothing has
+happened that will bring discredit upon it.”
+
+Poole ignored the pious—and probably optimistic hope.
+
+“The person in question,” he continued, “is Mr. Travers Lessingham; I
+understand that he is a permanent, or at any rate a regular, visitor
+here.”
+
+Mr. Blertot looked surprised.
+
+“A visitor yes, certainly; but a permanent, a regular, no, not at
+all.”
+
+It was Poole’s turn to look surprised.
+
+“But is he not staying here now?” he asked.
+
+“Oh no, indeed no,—not for some time. I get you the Visitors’ Book; it
+is all in order, most regular.”
+
+He sprang to his feet, as if eager to prove the immaculate compliance
+of his establishment with the laws of his adopted land; Poole waved
+him to his seat.
+
+“Not necessary at the moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some more
+questions first. You might ring for it, though,” he added as an
+after-thought. “I certainly was given to understand that this was Mr.
+Lessingham’s permanent address; is not that the case?”
+
+“In a sense, yes, perhaps it is. Letters for him come here often; we
+send them on to him. He has an arrangement with us to do so—for a
+small consideration. He lives mostly, Mr. Lessingham, in Brussels, I
+understand, but comes over sometimes for business in London. Then he
+comes here, to the Hotel Antwerp; we make him so comfortable, he says.
+Sometimes he comes, but not to stay—to fetch any letters, perhaps to
+lunch or dine—our _cuisine_ is first-rate. Ah, here is the book!”
+
+A waiter, who had previously answered the bell, laid a large and
+rather soiled black volume upon the table before his employer. From
+the book’s appearance Poole judged that the flow of visitors was not
+sufficiently rapid to necessitate its frequent renewal. The manager
+ran his finger quickly up and down the names—scrawling, ill-written
+signatures for the most part—written carelessly or in a hurry with the
+indifferent pen and worse ink provided by the management.
+
+“Ah, see, here he is!” exclaimed M. Blertot. “October 11th, almost a
+month ago. As I say, he is not regular, not at all. I look back.”
+
+An exhaustive search through the book revealed the fact that for the
+last two years Mr. Lessingham had visited the hotel at fairly regular
+intervals of about three weeks, sometimes more frequently, sometimes
+less, but averaging out at three weeks. Sometimes he stayed for a
+night only, sometimes two, three, or even four; there again, the
+average was something between two and three. The letters, mostly in
+typewritten envelopes, came—also on the average—about twice a week and
+were at once forwarded, with the extra stamp, to Mr. Lessingham’s
+Brussels address, unless he had notified the management that he was on
+the point of visiting the hotel.
+
+“And the address?” asked Poole.
+
+“175 Rue des Canetons, Brussels, IV.”
+
+“And you know of no other address of his in London?”
+
+“No, absolutely.”
+
+Poole made a note of the address, asked the manager to let him know at
+once if Lessingham came to the hotel, and took his departure. What he
+had just learnt puzzled him considerably, but it did not altogether
+surprise him. According to Mr. Blagge, Lessingham had been in London
+the previous afternoon; he might of course have arrived from Brussels
+in the morning and returned the same night, but according to M.
+Blertot, when he did that he generally called at the hotel for
+letters. According to Mr. Blagge again, Lessingham’s visits to the
+Victory Finance office corresponded—so far as regards intervals—with
+his visits to the hotel; it would be a simple matter to check the
+actual dates with the list he had noted down from the “Antwerp’s”
+Visitors’ Book. That must remain till tomorrow, however; Poole did not
+feel inclined to return to Fenchurch Street that evening. He wanted,
+before taking any further action, to get down to pencil and paper and
+work out the possibilities of the Wraile alibi—male and female. When
+he knew exactly what he was up against he would know where to begin in
+his task of breaking it down.
+
+As he walked down the Strand towards Whitehall his mind reverted, by a
+natural chain of thought, to the last occasion on which he had been in
+that romantic thoroughfare in connection with the case, and so, by a
+further step, to the rather melodramatic interview that he had had
+with the hump-backed moneylender, Silence. It struck him that he had
+allowed that unsavoury episode to pass too completely into the back of
+his mind; could it be that he had deliberately pushed it there,
+influenced, as Chief Inspector Barrod had hinted, by his sympathy
+for—perhaps, even his attraction to—Ryland Fratten’s charming
+“sister”?
+
+Now, as he walked, he deliberately forced himself to review the ugly
+subject again. Silence had told him that on 17th October, a week
+before Sir Garth’s death, Ryland Fratten had borrowed from him
+£15,000—at an exorbitant rate of interest—on the sole security of a
+note from Sir Horace Spavage saying that Sir Garth’s expectation of
+life was very short. The money was lent for three months only, so that
+Ryland must have expected the death within that period. What
+justification had he for doing so? Sir Horace Spavage certainly had
+put no such limit on his patient’s life, though he had not been in the
+least surprised when death had come to him so suddenly. He determined
+to try and see the actual note, or at any rate to get Sir Horace’s
+version of what it contained.
+
+In the meantime he resolved to review Ryland Fratten’s connection with
+the case, to keep a closer eye upon his movements, and to thrust all
+unprofessional sympathy out of his mind. He had taken up the trail of
+Lessingham and the Wrailes with such keenness that he had neglected
+his first objective; it was not impossible that Ryland might be
+involved with them.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+Alibi
+
+The two trails that Poole was now following—excluding, for the moment,
+Ryland Fratten—had diverged; one remained in London, the other led to
+Belgium—Brussels. He had to decide which to follow himself and which
+to allot to an assistant. His inclination was to give Lessingham the
+place of honour, but if he were to go off to Brussels now he would be
+out of touch with events in London—and he had a feeling that events
+would soon become more rapid. It was possible, too, that though
+Lessingham’s trail led to Brussels, he himself might still be in
+London. Poole decided, therefore, to send Sergeant Gower to the
+address in the Rue de Canetons, whilst he himself investigated the
+alibis so kindly provided for him by Captain and Mrs. Wraile.
+
+Returning to Scotland Yard, he sent for Sergeant Gower and told him to
+look up the train and air services to the Belgian capital and to be
+ready to catch whatever would get him there quickest. Gower, who had
+the reputation of being a walking Bradshaw, replied at once that there
+was an 8.30 p. m. train from Liverpool Street to Harwich which would
+get him to Brussels some time after 9 a. m. the following morning. As
+it was not barely six there would be no difficulty about catching it;
+what were his instructions? The question at once brought Poole to a
+realization of the difficulty that confronted him. It was easy enough
+to say: find Lessingham; but, if found, what was to be done with him?
+It was not, as yet, a question of arrest; when that time came the
+Belgian police might have to be called in. It was rather a question of
+interrogation and Poole wanted to do that himself. For the moment,
+therefore, he instructed Sergeant Gower to investigate the address; if
+possible get in touch with Lessingham, and then telephone to him,
+Poole, for further instructions. He gave certain definite hours at
+which he would try to be on the end of the telephone at Scotland Yard.
+
+When Gower had gone, Poole took a sheet of foolscap and started to
+work on the Wraile alibis. Assuming for the moment that Mrs. Wraile
+was the driver of the car, and Wraile the man who had first jostled
+and then shot Sir Garth, he jotted down the times within which each of
+them must have been away from their alibi. Reviewing all the evidence
+as to time, it seemed fairly certain that the accident on the Duke of
+York’s Steps had taken place at 6.30 p. m., the death a few minutes
+later. With that assumption the time-table worked out as follows:
+
+Mrs. Wraile must have been in position near the Admiralty Arch by 6.25
+p. m. at the latest, probably by 6.20 p. m. In a car, it would take
+her quite 15 minutes to get from Ald House to the Admiralty Arch. She
+might therefore have left Ald House at 6.5 or 6.10 p. m. That was a
+significant time: it allowed the remainder of the staff to have left
+(and supplied her with the first part of her alibi) before she left
+herself. As for her return, she would probably have dropped her
+husband somewhere near his alibi (Pall Mall) and driven straight back
+to Ald House; getting there any time after 6.45. Canting, the
+hall-porter, had said that she left the building just before he went
+off duty at 7 p. m. It was a close squeeze, but just possible. How she
+dodged Canting so as to make him think that was the first time she
+left the building that evening, had yet to be shown.
+
+Now for Captain Wraile. He must have been near the top of the Duke of
+York’s Steps by about 6.20 p. m. That was, at the most, five minutes’
+walk from his club (The Junior Services in Pall Mall) which he must
+have left at 6.15. If, after the shooting of Fratten, Mrs. Wraile had
+driven straight up the Mall and turned past Marlborough House into
+Pall Mall she could have dropped her husband near his club by 6.40.
+Wraile had, therefore, only to be absent from his club from 6.15 to
+6.40 p. m. It remained for Poole to find out whether that could have
+been done.
+
+Having completed his schedule, the detective looked at his watch; it
+was twenty minutes to seven, a comparatively quiet time at clubs—and
+the same staff would probably be on duty as were there at the time of
+Wraile’s alibi for 24th October. Poole put on his hat and coat, walked
+out into Whitehall, flung himself on to a 53 bus as it gathered way
+past the Home Office, and was duly dropped as it swung past the Guards
+Memorial in Waterloo Place. From there it was two minutes’ walk to the
+Junior Services—at least two minutes to come off Wraile’s
+danger-period.
+
+Poole knew the ways—the excellent ways—of Club servants; they would
+give him no information whatever concerning their members. He
+therefore asked for the Secretary and was lucky enough to find him in.
+
+Captain Voilance had been a Regular in his young days, had left the
+army in order to make a living on which to keep a young and attractive
+wife, had made that living working as a super-shopwalker in a big
+men’s outfitting store in New York, had thrown up his job in August
+1914 in order to re-join his regiment and had lost any chance of
+recovering it by having his face mutilated by a bomb in the
+Hohenzollern Redoubt in 1915. Three years of home duty and constant
+operations had not sapped his courage, but they had sapped his
+capital, for his pretty wife was bitten by the war fever for restless
+enjoyment, and when she left him for a better-looking hero in 1918,
+Voilance found himself with about four hundred pounds, a daughter aged
+five, and his honourable scars.
+
+Fortunately for him, those scars did actually—and exceptionally—profit
+him in his search for work. The Committee of The Junior Services,
+realizing that a sentimental public draws the line at grotesque
+horrors, appointed him Secretary of their club out of an application
+list approaching four figures. They got a very grateful and a very
+competent servant.
+
+After the first shock, Poole realized at once that he was dealing with
+a man—not a “correct” machine. He gave Captain Voilance his
+professional card.
+
+“I am a Scotland Yard detective, as you can see, sir,” he said. “I
+have come here to get information about one of your members. I know
+that clubs don’t give information about their members to
+detectives—not till they’re absolutely forced to. It would take me a
+little time to put force into action and I don’t want to do it—I want
+willing co-operation. I’ll put my cards on the table.”
+
+Poole sketched the history of the case, without mentioning the name of
+Lessingham or Mrs. Wraile.
+
+“My point is this, sir,” he concluded. “A particularly beastly crime
+has been committed—apart from the murder, the attempts to incriminate
+an innocent man puts the murderer beyond sympathy. I strongly suspect
+Captain Wraile of being at least closely connected with the crime. He
+has told me a story which puts him in this club all the time that the
+murder was being prepared for and committed. I want you to help me
+either to prove or disprove his story. If it is proved, then he is
+cleared; if it is definitely disproved, then there can be no shadow of
+doubt that he is a murderer and that the sooner he ceases to be a
+member of your club the better for the club. Will you help, sir?”
+
+Voilance sat for a minute looking blankly at the calendar in front of
+him.
+
+“I know what my own answer is, Inspector,” he said. “But I’m bound to
+consult a member of the Committee if there’s one in the club. If
+you’ll wait a minute . . .”
+
+Within three minutes he was back.
+
+“Not one of ’em in,” he reported. “General Cannup was leaving the club
+as I came down the stairs—I wasn’t quick enough to catch him.” A
+shadow of a smile flickered across the distorted features. “I must
+decide for myself. I’ll do what I can to help you. What’s the first
+move?”
+
+“Time of entering and leaving club—do you keep a check on that?”
+
+“We do, as far as possible.” Captain Voilance turned to the
+house-telephone. “Send me up the entry book covering 24th October,” he
+said.
+
+“Then,” continued Poole, “I want to know what Captain Wraile was doing
+while he was in the club—he says he had tea and that later a visitor
+came to see him—a Roumanian gentleman called Lukescu.”
+
+“Better have the hall-porter up himself.” Captain Voilance had
+recourse once more to the house-telephone. Within half a minute the
+porter appeared—a well set-up, handsome man of about fifty, with a
+fine show of medals on his livery.
+
+“Come in, Parlett. This is Inspector Poole, of Scotland Yard. He’s
+making some confidential enquiries about a member—Captain Wraile. I’ve
+heard all the facts of the case and decided that the club shall give
+Mr. Poole all the information it can; it’s really in Captain Wraile’s
+interest. Sit down, Parlett; now, Inspector, fire away.”
+
+Poole drew out his note-book.
+
+“You’ve got the Entry Book there, Mr. Parlett,” he said. “Can you tell
+me what time Captain Wraile entered the club on 24th October?”
+
+Parlett turned the pages.
+
+“5.45 p. m., sir. Colonel Croope came in at the same time.”
+
+“And left?” More pages turned.
+
+“7.40 p. m., sir.”
+
+“Do you know anything about him between those times?”
+
+Parlett looked blank.
+
+“It’s three weeks ago, sir. I’m afraid I . . .”
+
+“I’ll jog your memory; a foreign gentleman—a Mr. Lukescu—was to call
+on him that evening.”
+
+Parlett’s face at once brightened.
+
+“Oh, yes, sir; now I remember well; the gentleman was late—Captain
+Wraile was in a proper fuss about it. I’ve got the time Mr. Lukescu
+arrived in the Visitors’ Book, but I remember well enough—he was
+expected at 6.30 but he didn’t come and didn’t come—not until close on
+7. One of the waiters came and told me that the gentleman was expected
+at 6.30; I made a note of it on my pad. He didn’t come, though, and
+Captain Wraile kept on popping down to see if he hadn’t come and been
+shown somewhere else.”
+
+It was Poole’s turn to look blank.
+
+“Do you mean to say that you saw Captain Wraile yourself between 6.30
+and 7?”
+
+“Yes, sir—two or three times.”
+
+“You can’t say exactly what time? Could it have been before 6.45 that
+you saw him?”
+
+“I couldn’t say that I’m sure, sir. I only know that he came along at
+intervals to ask if his guest hadn’t come.”
+
+“And the waiter who told you about Mr. Lukescu coming—did he bring
+that as a message from Captain Wraile?”
+
+“That’s right, sir; came straight from him!”
+
+“At what time?”
+
+Parlett scratched his head.
+
+“Trying to think which one it was, sir; might have been Buntle or it
+might have been Gyne—most likely Gyne—he would have been on the
+smoking-room bell. Shall I send for him, sir?”
+
+“Find out first if he remembers the incident,” said Captain Voilance.
+“If not, try Buntle.”
+
+“I can’t try him, sir; he’s away today—burying a mother-in-law or
+something.”
+
+Poole groaned.
+
+“It’ll be him for certain, then,” he said. “Just a moment before you
+go, Parlett; could Captain Wraile have left the club without your
+seeing him—between those hours you’ve given me, I mean?”
+
+“Could have, sir; but most unlikely; either I or one of my assistants
+is in the box all the time—we could hardly have missed him—not at that
+time of day.”
+
+“No other door? Ladies’ annex, or anything?”
+
+The hall-porter snorted.
+
+“No, sir, there’s not. We leave ladies’ annexes to the Guards and the
+Carlton,” with which withering remark he set out in quest of Mr. Gyne.
+
+“Looks pretty water-tight so far, doesn’t it?” said Voilance.
+
+“It’s an open question yet, sir—my time theory isn’t burst yet—not
+definitely, though it looks as if I should have my work cut out to
+prove it. That’s the trouble; the proof lies with me, not with him.”
+
+Within five minutes Parlett returned, to report that Gyne knew nothing
+of the incident—it must have been Buntle who brought the message.
+Gyne, however, remembered Captain Wraile having tea in the
+smoking-room at close on six one day about that time—had said
+something to him about it’s being so late but he’d had no lunch.
+
+Gyne was interviewed and was able to fix the date as after 19th
+October because he had been ill for a week before that, and not within
+the last week or two—he was sure of that. On reference to his book
+Parlett was able to say that 24th October was the only day since the
+club had re-opened after its annual cleaning that Captain Wraile had
+come in before dinner-time. That seemed to fix Gyne’s recollection to
+24th October—not an important contribution in any case. Parlett
+reported that he expected Buntle back on duty at 3 p. m. the following
+afternoon. Poole rose to leave but the Secretary detained him.
+
+“How long do you go on working, Inspector?” he asked when Parlett had
+left. “All night?”
+
+Poole laughed.
+
+“No, sir; not always. As a matter of fact I shall knock off now;
+nothing more I can usefully do tonight.”
+
+“I wish you’d take pity on a lonely man and come and dine with me—not
+here—too near our work. It would be a treat to me to have a yarn with
+someone who isn’t a stereotyped soldier or sailor.”
+
+Poole was more than delighted to fall in with the suggestion and the
+two men spent a pleasant evening, dining at Pisotto’s in Greek Street
+and, after a leisurely meal strung out by much reminiscent
+conversation, turning in at the Avenue Pavilion to see the revival of
+one of Stroheim’s early masterpieces. It was twelve o’clock before
+Poole got into his bed in Battersea—tired, but much refreshed by his
+evening’s relaxation.
+
+The following morning Poole had a long interview with Sir Leward
+Marradine and Chief Inspector Barrod, reporting the result of his
+visit to the Victory Finance Company’s office, his interviews with Mr.
+Blagge, Miss Saverel, and Captain Wraile—especially the relationship
+between the two last, and his failure to get in touch with Travers
+Lessingham. In his turn he learnt of Sir Leward’s interview with the
+Chairman of the Company and particularly of Sir Hunter’s declaration
+as to Wraile’s experience of such weapons as cross-bows—a regular
+genius in inventing devilments of that kind, Sir Hunter had reported
+his late Brigade Major to have been. As a result of the discussion
+that followed it was decided that warrants should be issued against
+Captain and Mrs. Wraile, to be executed in the event of Poole being
+able to break down their alibis, but that nothing definite could yet
+be charged against Lessingham; a good deal must depend on Sergeant
+Gower’s report and Poole’s subsequent interview. A statement from one
+or both of the Wrailes after arrest might, of course, implicate
+Lessingham, but Poole doubted if either of them was the type to give
+away a friend.
+
+“And young Fratten?” asked Barrod. “What about him?”
+
+“Oh surely you’re not still after him?” said Sir Leward, who was
+hoping to return to favour in Queen Anne’s Gate. “He’s cleared by the
+exposure of this Wraile conspiracy, isn’t he?”
+
+“More likely to be in it,” growled Barrod. “Don’t forget that Poole
+saw him coming away from the Victory Finance offices the other day.”
+
+“Fallows reports he’s been quite quiet lately, sir,” interposed Poole.
+“He hasn’t tried to give him the slip again. I haven’t forgotten about
+him though, sir—I’m trying to see where he fits in. There’s someone
+else I’m not quite happy about either.”
+
+“Eh, who’s that?”
+
+“Mr. Hessel, sir; if the Wrailes had the close-fitting time-table I
+think they had it seems to me more than a coincidence that Sir Garth
+should have walked right into it; I can’t help thinking that he was
+led into it.”
+
+Sir Leward whistled. Barrod was silent.
+
+“Have you questioned him since you had that idea in your head?”
+
+“No, sir; it’s only very hazy—and I’ve been afraid of putting him on
+his guard prematurely. It’s only since yesterday that I’ve realized
+just how close the Wraile alibi must be. Shall I see him again?”
+
+It was agreed that Poole should interview Hessel that morning and try
+to probe the latter’s possible connection with the Wrailes and
+Lessingham. At one o’clock he was to be back at the Yard in
+expectation of a telephone call from Sergeant Gower in Brussels; at
+three he was to interview Buntle, the club waiter. It looked like
+being another full day.
+
+Mr. Hessel, however, was not at Fratten’s Bank; the manager thought he
+was away in the country as he had not returned since the week-end. His
+address was so-and-so. Poole returned to the Yard and, taking out his
+note-book, went through the whole case from beginning to end to see
+whether any fresh light struck him. As he read, he felt a growing
+conviction that Hessel _must_ have known of the projected attack upon
+his friend. Upon his friend! It was impossible to believe that any man
+could be guilty of such treachery—the luring of a friend to his
+death—the act of a Judas.
+
+Deep in these thoughts Poole was startled by a call to the telephone—a
+call from Brussels. Faint but distinct came the voice of Sergeant
+Gower. He had called at 175 Rue des Canetons and found it a mean
+tobacconist’s shop kept by an old woman of the name of Pintole. The
+lady had blankly denied all knowledge of anyone of the name of
+Lessingham but a combination of threat and bribery—threat of the
+Bureau de Police and the flourishing of a hundred-Belgian note—had at
+last pierced her obstinacy and she had confessed that a gentleman of
+that name had once called there and arranged for her to receive—for a
+consideration—any letters addressed to him there—and to destroy them.
+No, he never came there himself—she had not set eyes on him since his
+first visit, more than a year ago.
+
+Poole instructed his subordinate to call at the headquarters of the
+Brussels Police and try to trace Lessingham through them, but he felt
+small hope of success—the trail, he was sure, led back to London.
+Nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush now; he must go to
+the offices of the Ethiopian and General and try to get in touch with
+Lessingham through them. Although it was the middle of the
+luncheon-hour Poole made his way at once to the City and, having found
+that both Captain Wraile and his secretary were out at lunch, tried to
+pump the junior clerks on duty. Wraile, however, evidently knew how to
+discipline his staff—with the exception of the clerk whom Mangane had
+been able to bribe; anyhow, Poole could get nothing from them but a
+request to wait till Mr. Lacquier, the secretary, returned. When he
+did return the result was little better—Mr. Lessingham was to be found
+at the offices of the Rotunda Syndicate—137A Monument Lane.
+
+This was nothing more than he had learnt on the previous afternoon—but
+it was all that he was to learn on the subject from that office, even
+when Captain Wraile returned and graciously received him.
+
+Feeling savage, and defeated, Poole made his way back by bus to Pall
+Mall. It was four o’clock by the time he got to The Junior Service
+Club but he was soon introduced to the bereaved waiter. Mr. Buntle
+proved to be as shrewd a man as the early disposal of his
+mother-in-law suggested. He quite well remembered Captain Wraile
+sending him with a message to the hall-porter about a Mr. Lukescu (he
+pronounced it Look-askew) being expected. The Captain was sitting in
+the small library at the back—the room to which visitors were
+generally taken for prolonged conversation; he was actually sitting at
+the writing table in the window when he (Buntle) entered.
+
+“You don’t remember what time, that was, Buntle?” asked Poole eagerly.
+
+“I do so; Captain Wraile asked me what time it was—he couldn’t see the
+clock from where he sat, sir. It was 6.25 pip emma.”
+
+“6.25! You’re certain?”
+
+“Absolutely, sir; because he said the gentleman was expected at 6.30
+and I thought to myself ‘I must slip along or he’ll be here before I
+get there.’”
+
+Poole felt blank depression settle upon him. This was surely cutting
+Wraile’s limits too close for possibility.
+
+“That clock,” he asked, “is it accurate—does it usually keep good
+time? Is it set regularly?”
+
+“Every day, sir; my own duty, as soon as it comes through each
+morning, is to get round and check every clock in the Club by the time
+from 2 LO. That clock’s dead regular.”
+
+Poole groaned. This was surely defeat.
+
+“That’s what made me wonder, sir, when I checked the clocks next day
+and found this one was ten minutes fast.”
+
+Poole leapt to his feet.
+
+“Ten minutes fast! Do you mean—do you mean that it had been put on?”
+
+“Looks re—markably like it, don’t it, sir?” said Buntle with a wink.
+
+Poole stared for a second at the clock, then dashed to the window and
+threw it open.
+
+“Where does this give on to?” he exclaimed ungrammatically.
+
+“Yard at the back, sir, leading into St. James’s Alley.”
+
+Poole leaned out. Dark as it was, he could see just below him the top
+of a large ash-bin. It would be a simple matter for an active man to
+climb out of the window—and in again.
+
+“By God, I’ve got him,” exclaimed the detective eagerly. “Called the
+waiter in to see him at 6.15—clock at 6.25—slipped out of the window
+the moment he was out of the room; back at 6.40 and straight down to
+the hall-porter—apparently only 15 minutes unaccounted for! Now for
+Mrs.—? What’s her game?—probably the window-trick again—they generally
+repeat themselves.”
+
+Poole hurried to the nearest call-box and was soon through to Chief
+Inspector Barrod at Scotland Yard.
+
+“The bottom’s out of Wraile’s alibi, sir. I’m going down now to see
+about his wife’s. But we ought to have them both shadowed from now on;
+if you agree, sir, will you send me down a couple of plain-clothes men
+to Ald House, in Fenchurch Street, about thirty yards west of Tollard
+Lane? I’ll put them on to their people.”
+
+“Yes, that’s all right,” came the reply; “but hold on a minute,
+there’s a message for you. Fallows rang up half an hour ago to say
+that Mr. Fratten had slipped him again; he’s trying to pick up the
+trail.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+Justice
+
+Three people sat in the Board Room of the Victory Finance
+Company—Captain James Wraile, his wife, and Mr. Travers Lessingham. A
+fire burnt in the hearth, the blinds were down, and the clock on the
+mantelpiece recorded 6.23. Lessingham was speaking, in a low and
+rather nervous voice.
+
+“The fellow was at my hotel yesterday—they gave him my Brussels
+address. It’s ten to one that he’s out there now.”
+
+“He’s not that,” interposed Wraile, “because he was at my office this
+afternoon. Yesterday evening he was at my club, sucking in all the
+details of the alibi I made for him. I left them vague on purpose when
+I talked to him and let him find them out for himself—he’ll think he’s
+been clever as hell—till he discovers that there’s not a quarter of an
+hour for him to play with. He can hardly accuse me of bumping into
+Fratten on the steps and then bumping him off on the Mall all within
+fifteen minutes.”
+
+“But he’s been down to my office in Monument Lane too, I tell you,”
+persisted Lessingham. “A fellow on the floor below told me—described
+him to me. He’s on our track, Wraile.”
+
+“He may be, but I don’t believe he’s got anything definite against us.
+Of course, he must know something about the Rotunda, but there’s
+nothing criminal about that—folly’s not indictable, you know,” he
+added with a laugh.
+
+“What about the General, Jim? I don’t like their sending for him,”
+said Mrs. Wraile.
+
+“I’d forgotten that for the moment. But what can he tell? Only about
+the Company’s connection with the E. & G. and possibly the Rotunda—and
+that they know already.”
+
+“He was very queer when he came back. He didn’t send for me for his
+evening letters as he usually does; he just sent for Blagge and I
+could hear their voices booming away through the wall for nearly an
+hour. I just caught a glimpse of his face through the door as he went
+away—it was quite different—grey and lined and black under the eyes.
+He didn’t say good-night to anyone—as he always does.”
+
+“Eh, what, my boy?” quoted Wraile. “Of course he looked grey if the
+Yard had been putting him through it—generals aren’t accustomed to
+that kind of thing.”
+
+“Yes, yes, Wraile, that’s all very clever but you’re not facing facts.
+They’ve dropped young Fratten, they . . .”
+
+“They haven’t; he’s shadowed wherever he goes.”
+
+“Only by an underling, to keep an eye on him. They don’t suspect him
+any longer. There’s no use in hanging on now—we can never make the
+market now—too much’ll be known.”
+
+“Don’t you believe it; unless they prove anything criminal against us
+they’ll never put their feet into business—it’s not their job. I’m
+going to hang on as . . .”
+
+Wraile stopped abruptly, his head cocked on one side as he looked at
+the window nearest to him. The blind was down and nothing was to be
+seen—nor, as the pause lengthened, could anything be heard save the
+steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. After their first glance
+of surprise, following his to the window, Wraile’s two companions
+turned their eyes back to his face; evidently they had seen and heard
+nothing and were looking to him for an explanation. Wraile rose
+quietly to his feet.
+
+“Someone on the fire-escape,” he whispered, and began tiptoeing
+towards the window, signing to his wife to do the same. Slowly he drew
+an automatic pistol from his hip-pocket and waited, his ears straining
+for a sound. His wife, on the other side of the window, quietly
+watched him, knowing that her instructions would come; Lessingham
+remained seated, a look of strained expectancy on his face.
+
+Suddenly, at a touch from Mrs. Wraile, the blind flew up; almost
+simultaneously Wraile flung up the window and, thrusting the pistol in
+front of him, called out: “Put up your hands, you!”
+
+Lessingham shrank back in his chair, his hands clutching at the arms.
+He could see nothing beyond the figures of Wraile and his wife;
+unknown danger lurked beyond. Again the sharp command of the
+ex-soldier broke the short silence.
+
+“Now come in—don’t drop your hands for a second.”
+
+He drew back slightly and Lessingham could see a man’s leg flung over
+the window-sill, followed presently by a crouching body and two
+outstretched arms. As the man straightened himself up and, his hands
+still above his head, turned to face his captors, Lessingham gave a
+gasp of surprise and, half-rising from his chair, stared blankly at
+the intruder. It was Ryland Fratten.
+
+“Search him, Miriam,” said Wraile curtly. The girl passed her hands
+lightly over Ryland’s pockets.
+
+“Nothing,” she said.
+
+“Bit rash aren’t you, young fellow, to come burgling without a gun?”
+asked Wraile lightly. “What’s your game, anyway? There’s no till in a
+Finance Company’s office.”
+
+Ryland paid no attention to him. He was staring in amazement at the
+girl beside him.
+
+“Good God; are you Daphne?” he said at last in a strangled voice.
+
+Wraile searched his face closely and evidently gathered that surprise
+or misunderstanding would be waste of time.
+
+“From which I take it,” he said, “that you’re Master Fratten, the
+Banker’s son—or bastard, or whatever you are. I had a shrewd suspicion
+of it before you spoke, though I hadn’t had the good fortune to see
+you before. Yes, that’s Daphne—and that makes your position a bit
+awkward—you know rather more than is convenient.”
+
+Ryland stared at him, but soon turned his eyes back to “Daphne.”
+
+“What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “I hardly recognize you.”
+
+“Wonderful what a difference a black wig makes,” replied Mrs. Wraile
+lightly. “Our acquaintance was so short that I’m quite surprised at
+your recognizing me at all.”
+
+“When you’ve quite done your charming reminiscences—which, I may say,
+are hardly tactful in the presence of the aggrieved husband—we’ll just
+go through the mere formality of tying you up, young fellow. Got any
+rope about the office, Miriam?”
+
+“There’s some cord of sorts, I believe in the clerks’ room.”
+
+“Get it, there’s a good girl. If it won’t do we’ll have to use the
+blind cord. Oh, by the way, you can put your hands down now—but stand
+back in that corner where my gun’ll reach you before your fists can do
+any harm.”
+
+Wraile, for all his bantering manner, did not for a second take his
+eye off his captive, while he kept him covered with an unwavering
+pistol. Miriam Wraile was soon back with a length of coarse but strong
+packing cord.
+
+“Now, Lessingham,” said Wraile, “it’s about time you took the
+stage—you truss him up—then you’ll be as guilty as we are. Give it
+him, darling.”
+
+Lessingham recoiled from the proffered cord.
+
+“I—I’d rather not,” he said. “I don’t know how to—I don’t think I’ve
+ever tied anything.”
+
+Wraile looked at him with surprise, not unmixed with contempt.
+
+“Oh, all right,” he said. “Give it to me. You’ll note he doesn’t
+protest against the assault, Fratten; his moral assent to it is just
+as incriminating as active participation. What a pity there’s no one
+to witness it.”
+
+“Oh, I’ll do that for you,” said Ryland. “Don’t worry; you’re
+evidently all in it.”
+
+“Yes, but the trouble is that—well, you know the old proverb—too
+hackneyed to quote.”
+
+While he was speaking Wraile had tied Ryland’s hands behind his back
+and also bound his ankles together, while Mrs. Wraile kept the
+unfortunate young man covered with her husband’s automatic. At the
+last words Ryland’s normally pale face turned a dead white, by
+comparison with which his accustomed pallor seemed the glow of health.
+
+“Just what do you mean by that?” he asked, in a voice that he was
+evidently doing his utmost to keep steady.
+
+Wraile laughed shortly and was about to reply when Lessingham broke
+in:
+
+“I—I don’t like this,” he said. “What are you going to do, Wraile?
+You’re not going to . . .”
+
+“Oh, dry up,” the other broke in curtly, his patience with his
+confederate evidently wearing thin. “You know perfectly well we can’t
+afford to let this chap go now.”
+
+“Yes, but can’t we put him somewhere till we’re—till we’re—you know
+what I mean.”
+
+“Yes, I know what you mean, and I’m not going to—not yet—not till I’m
+at my last gasp do I give up this chance of a lifetime now that it’s
+at our very mouths. No, we’re going through with this—and this young
+fool’ll have to be put out of the way.”
+
+“Aren’t you being just the least bit cold-blooded? discussing the poor
+boy’s fate in front of his eyes?” interposed Mrs. Wraile. “Supposing
+we adjourn to my office.”
+
+“Not much, there’s no fire there. We’ll put him in there if you like.
+No, don’t shout, Fratten; no one’ll hear you and you’ll get a bullet
+for a certainty; as it is, you’ve got just a hundred to one chance
+that we may hit on some way of pulling this off without wringing your
+neck. Lessingham will plead for you and I’m sure your Daphne’ll do all
+she can for her fancy boy. Come on, you’ll have to hop.”
+
+Within two minutes, Ryland Fratten was securely tied to the table on
+which Mr. Blagge was accustomed to do the daily and exciting tasks
+which were his work in life. With his back flat along the table top,
+one arm tied to each table leg at one end and an ankle to each at the
+other—with a ruler stuffed in his mouth and tied round his head with a
+duster, Ryland was unable to move an inch or make the slightest sound.
+
+“We’ll leave your eyes and ears free,” said Wraile jokingly—and
+thereby made, in all probability, the most vital mistake of his life.
+
+The door closed, and Ryland was left alone in the dark and bitter
+cold—alone with his thoughts and with fear—the fear of death,
+immediate and solitary—death without a word or a look from his
+friends, from those he loved—not a touch of the hand from the girl who
+had just begun to dawn, in all her loveliness, upon his awakening
+consciousness. In a frenzy of rage and terror Ryland struggled to free
+his wrists or legs, to shout for help—even if it meant bringing death
+upon him; not a sound could he make, not the slightest loosening of
+his bonds could he effect; he could not even move the table to which
+he was bound.
+
+Back in the Board Room, Wraile dropped the chaffing manner that had
+carried him through the none-too-pleasant task of preparing a fellow
+man for his death. His face now was hard and drawn. Lessingham greeted
+him with a nervous protest.
+
+“Look here, Wraile,” he cried, “this is madness. You can’t kill the
+boy like this—here, in our own office, without any preparations, any
+plans. Think of all the time and trouble we had to take to . . . even
+that has been as good as found out. If we do this now, they’re bound
+to trace it to us.”
+
+“Oh, cut it out!” exclaimed Wraile angrily. “D’you think I’m going to
+slit his throat here and let him bleed all over Blagge’s papers? Give
+me a minute or two to make a plan, for God’s sake. You must see that
+we can’t let the fellow go now. Apart from his recognizing
+Miriam—that’s one thing they haven’t spotted yet—he may have heard
+everything we were saying in here. I can’t remember now exactly what
+we did say, but we must have given ourselves away pretty completely.”
+
+While this wrangle over a man’s life was going on, Miriam Wraile sat,
+swinging a leg, on one end of the Board table, busily engaged in
+polishing her well-shaped nails with a small pad taken from her
+handbag. It was evident that, as far as she was concerned, the issue
+would be settled by her husband—all she had to do was to wait for
+orders.
+
+Lessingham, too, apparently recognized that he could not,
+single-handed, oppose the stronger will of his confederate; he
+relapsed into gloomy silence. Wraile sat, his elbows on the table, his
+head in his hands, deeply wrapped in thought. Once more silence, save
+for the ticking of the clock. . . .
+
+Slowly the minute hand moved towards the hour; there was a faint
+preliminary whirr, a short pause, and then—ping, ping, ping, ping,
+ping, ping, ping. The noise penetrated to Wraile’s consciousness; he
+lifted his head and looked round. As he did so, startlingly loud in
+the silent building, three sharp taps sounded upon the outer door—the
+door opening on to the staircase.
+
+The three occupants of the room sat, rigid with consternation, staring
+at the door; even Wraile’s usually calm face mirrored the shock of
+this startling summons. In the next room, Ryland had heard it too;
+hope leapt into his heart; he concentrated all his strength on one
+despairing effort.
+
+Once again the three knocks—more insistent than before—shattered the
+silence.
+
+“Open this door, please!”
+
+The sharp, authoritative ring of the voice left no doubt as to its
+owner’s status.
+
+“Police!” gasped Lessingham, clutching at the table before him, and
+staring wildly at his companions.
+
+Miriam Wraile slipped quickly to her husband’s side and whispered in
+his ear. He shook his head.
+
+“No—no. It may be watched. We must bluff them,” he whispered. Then,
+aloud: “Who’s that? What do you want?”
+
+“Police officer. Will you open the door, sir, please?”
+
+“Board-meeting! Papers, Miriam! Take the Chair, Lessingham!” whispered
+Wraile. He pushed back his chair, walked slowly to the door, and—as
+Miriam slipped back into the room with a bundle of papers and
+scattered them on the table, turned the key and opened the door.
+
+“What on earth do you want?” he said.
+
+Without answering, Inspector Poole stepped quietly into the room,
+almost brushing Wraile aside as he did so. The latter took a quick
+look out on to the landing and then shut the door, but did not resume
+his seat. Poole’s eyes moved quickly round the room, resting for a
+second on Lessingham and Mrs. Wraile, and taking in the details of the
+scene. There was no expression, either of disappointment or surprise
+or pleasure on his face as he addressed himself to Lessingham, now
+seated in the Chairman’s place at the end of the table.
+
+“Very sorry to disturb your meeting, sir,” he said. “There’s a report
+of a man having been seen to enter your offices by way of the
+emergency staircase. May I ask if you have seen him?”
+
+“A man? No, certainly not,” answered Lessingham. His glance strayed
+towards Wraile, who quickly took command of the situation.
+
+“How long ago is this supposed to have happened, Inspector? By the
+way, Lessingham, this is Inspector Poole, who came to see me yesterday
+about poor Fratten’s death.”
+
+Lessingham bowed, and Poole half raised his hand to his bared head.
+
+“About half an hour ago, sir. The information was a bit slow getting
+to us and then we had to find out from the porter which offices it
+would be.”
+
+“Half an hour ago? Oh, no; we’ve been in here ever since six and Miss
+Saverel’s been in her office—she’s only just come in. That’s the only
+other room that opens on to the escape. The porter must have made a
+mistake.”
+
+Poole hesitated for a second, as if doubtful what to do in the face of
+this direct denial. The momentary pause was ended by a terrific crash
+from the adjoining room. Quicker almost than thought, the detective
+whipped an automatic from his pocket.
+
+“Stand back!” he cried. “Put your hands up, Captain Wraile—all of
+you—back in that corner.”
+
+He took a quick step back to the door and, with his left hand, felt
+for and turned the key, which he slipped into his pocket. Still
+keeping his pistol pointed at the group across the table, he moved
+quickly across to the door into the passage leading to the manager’s
+and clerks’ rooms.
+
+“Stay where you are till I come back,” he exclaimed sharply and,
+leaving the Board room door open, darted quickly into the manager’s
+office. A glance showed him a heavy table turned over on its side and
+on it the crucified form of Ryland Fratten. Snatching a knife from his
+pocket he had just cut the cord binding Fratten’s right hand when he
+heard the door of the Board Room shut and the lock snap. At the same
+instant a window was flung up and there came the sound of hurried
+footsteps on the iron staircase.
+
+Poole dashed to his own window, forced back the catch, threw up the
+sash and had got one leg across the sill before he realized that there
+was no staircase outside it. A laugh came from the darkness and
+Wraile’s mocking voice:
+
+“Sorry, Poole; I misled you about the fire-escape. This is the only
+window that has it. You must try the stairs!”
+
+The detective flashed a torch to the sound of the voice and followed
+its beam with the pistol in his other hand, but, though he made out a
+dim movement below him, the twisting flights of stairs made shooting
+impossible, even had it been advisable. Thrusting his body out as far
+as it would go he bellowed with all the force of his lungs:
+
+“Hold them, Fallows! Hold them!”
+
+There came an answering shout from below, a moment’s pause, and then a
+terrible cry of fear, followed, a moment later, by the sickening thud
+of a heavy body striking the hard ground.
+
+Poole sprang back from the window, thrust the knife into Ryland’s free
+hand, and darted down the passage into the clerks’ room. The outer
+door on to the staircase was locked, the key nowhere to be seen. It
+was useless to return to the Board room; that would mean certainly
+one, and probably two locked doors. Placing the muzzle of his pistol
+against the keyhole Poole fired twice, then, drawing back, crashed his
+heel twice above the shattered lock. The door, of course, was made to
+open inwards and so could not be forced out, but after two more shots
+the detective was able to tear his way out on to the landing. Dashing
+down the stairs, three steps at a time, Poole rushed out into the
+street and up an alley on the right of Ald House. In a small yard at
+the back, he came upon Detective Fallows seated on the ground, propped
+against the wall, his face white and a bleeding cut on his forehead. A
+few yards away lay a huddled form. Poole strode up to it and flashed
+his torch upon the face. What seemed to be a black wig had been forced
+over one ear, a broken dental plate protruded from the gaping mouth,
+but, in the bright beam of light, there was no mistaking the dead face
+of Leopold Hessel.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+. . . May Be Blind
+
+Poole turned back towards his unfortunate subordinate.
+
+“What happened?” he asked curtly. “Where’s that constable?”
+
+“Revolver, sir, I think,” replied Fallows weakly “—hit me with it—on
+the head. Munt ran to the body—when it fell. I waited—below
+stairs—there’s a drop. Chap jumped—hit at me as he came down—knocked
+me out. Don’t know—where—Munt is.”
+
+He gave a gasp and collapsed into unconsciousness. Poole straightened
+himself and turned again towards the alley-way. As he did so, Ryland
+Fratten emerged from it, hobbling uncertainly.
+
+“Sorry I couldn’t get out before, Inspector,” he said. “My legs were
+asleep—they’ll hardly carry me now.”
+
+“What were you doing up—no, never mind that now; we must find these
+people.” He ran down into the street and looked to right and left.
+From the direction of Cannon Street Station a disconsolate-looking
+uniformed police-constable was approaching at an awkward shuffle.
+
+“Where the hell have you been?” demanded the Inspector angrily. “Where
+have those people got to?”
+
+“Couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir,” replied the constable in an aggrieved
+voice. “When the body fell, sir, I ran to it. Then I ’eard a shout,
+and lookin’ round, saw the other ’tec bein’ laid out by a bloke with a
+gun. I darted after ’im” (the idea of the solid police-constable Munt
+“darting” anywhere would have tickled Poole at any other time). “The
+girl ’ad gone off down the alley—’er mate follered ’er. I made after
+’im and as I turned into the street ’e was waiting for me and caught
+me slap in the wind with ’is knee—doubled me right up. ’E pushed me
+over and give me two more with the ’eel of ’is boot—in the belly and
+them parts—brutal it was, sir. Took me a couple o’ minutes to come
+round. But I’d seen which way e’d gone—turned up Chaffer’s Way
+there—’undred yards along—leads into Leadenhall it does. I went after
+’em as soon as I could but I couldn’t see nothing of them.”
+
+“Did you spread the warning? Did you tell the nearest possible points
+or patrols?”
+
+“No, sir. I come back to see if I could ’elp that pore ’tec what ’ad
+been knocked out.”
+
+“You blasted fool,” exclaimed Poole in a white heat of rage. “Your
+superintendent shall hear of this. If they get away I’ll have you
+hounded out of the force. Get off now and telephone to your divisional
+headquarters—give them a description—Captain and Mrs. Wraile—tell them
+to look out for a two-seater Caxton coupé and to search all garages in
+this neighbourhood for it. Tell them to ring all the garages round
+here and warn them not to let that car out—to hold the owners if they
+can. Then get round to the men on point duty round here yourself and
+warn them—and any patrols you meet. It’s murder they’re wanted for,
+mind. Do this job thoroughly and I may forget the rest. Shift
+yourself.”
+
+P. C. Munt went off at the nearest to a “dart” that he had ever
+attained. Poole turned to Ryland.
+
+“There ought to have been two plain-clothes men here from the Yard
+long ago,” he explained. “I was going to put them on to the Wrailes in
+any case; luckily I linked up here with Fallows, who was on your
+trail, Mr. Fratten, and we picked up that uniformed fool just outside.
+I can’t stop to explain more now, sir, but if you wouldn’t mind
+staying with Fallows till I can send an ambulance—I’ll get on to the
+Yard and get general information out. These people’ll make for the
+ports in all probability. The roads and railways must both be
+watched—they may not use their car. I wish I knew what garage they
+used round here—it must be close at hand—I ought to have asked that
+fool Munt for the nearest ones—fool myself.”
+
+Poole dashed off to the nearest telephone, and was quickly through to
+the Chief Inspector Barrod. Within half an hour every station in
+London, and many in the suburbs, was being watched for the Wrailes.
+Within an hour all County Constabularies within two hundred miles of
+London had been warned of the possible car or train passengers, whilst
+every port in the kingdom had a similar description. A message to the
+divisional police in the Fulham district ensured that the Wrailes’
+lodgings would be at once put under watch.
+
+Poole’s part in this had taken less than ten minutes—the time of his
+telephone conversation with Barrod; immediately it was finished, he
+rang up the divisional station, found out that Munt had put his
+message through correctly and that all possible steps were being taken
+to search for the runaways, and finally asked for the locations of the
+nearest garages to Ald House. Only three were within the five minutes’
+walk that Poole, with his knowledge of Mrs. Wraile’s time-table, put
+as the outside limit. Within another ten minutes Poole had found the
+car in a garage almost at the back of Ald House—within less than a
+minute’s walk. The Wrailes had not been near it since it had been left
+there in the morning.
+
+Poole again rang up Scotland Yard and arranged for a plain-clothes man
+to be posted at the garage, in case the Wrailes even now came for
+their car. He also arranged for all cab ranks and shelters in the
+neighbourhood of Ald House to be interrogated—there was a strong
+possibility of the Wrailes having picked up a taxi as they had not
+taken their car.
+
+Returning to Ald House, Poole found that the two plain-clothes men
+from Scotland Yard had at last turned up; they had come by Underground
+from Westminster and had been held up for twenty minutes by a
+breakdown on the line. Soon after their arrival, a police ambulance
+had also turned up and removed Fallows and the body of Leopold Hessel.
+P. C. Munt, who had been explaining the situation to the plain-clothes
+men, reported that the other gentleman had said that he was returning
+to Queen Anne’s Gate and would be there for the rest of the evening if
+Inspector Poole wanted him. The detective felt that Ryland’s
+explanation of his peculiar behaviour could now wait; there was no
+longer any possibility that he was a confederate of the murderers.
+Besides, there was a lot of work still to be done before he could feel
+that the net spread for the Wrailes was complete; in all probability
+Chief Inspector Barrod would do all that could be done, but Poole was
+not going to leave anything to chance now.
+
+During the hours that followed, the Victory Finance offices were
+searched, the Wrailes’ rooms in Fulham not only searched but turned
+inside out; the owners had not been back since morning and there was
+no sign of a hurried flight. Poole collected all the papers he could
+lay his hands on for future inspection, but for immediate use he
+concentrated on an exhaustive search for photographs of the
+fugitives—he wanted to get their likenesses broadcast through the
+country with the least possible delay. A cabinet photograph on Mrs.
+Wraile’s writing-table gave an excellent representation of Sir Hunter
+Lorne’s late Brigade Major in uniform, but it was not till a volume of
+snapshots had been unearthed and searched that a picture of his wife
+was forthcoming.
+
+The rush of work had kept Poole’s mind from the problem of Hessel’s
+identity with Lessingham. Although it had come as a complete surprise,
+the detective had felt too suspicious of the banker’s connection with
+the case—and particularly with the five minutes following the
+“accident”—to be entirely astonished. Now, as he worked on the
+creation of the net to catch the living criminals he felt that he
+could well thrust the problem of the dead one into the background
+until his immediate task was completed. By the time he got back to his
+Battersea lodgings, well after midnight, he had forgotten all about it
+and dropped asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
+
+The succeeding days were trying ones for Inspector Poole. Once the
+machinery of Scotland Yard and of the County Constabularies was in
+full working order, there was little he could do himself in the way of
+pursuit. For days the search went on, at first with confidence, then
+with patient hope, finally with dogged persistence—but little more.
+
+At a conference with the Assistant-Commissioner on the morning after
+the affair at Ald House it had been decided to take the public fully
+into the confidence of the police—primarily in order that the full
+power of the press might be brought to bear in the search. Placards
+bearing the likeness of James and Miriam Wraile were posted at every
+police station and post office; all but the most dignified newspapers
+printed similar reproductions, together with minute descriptions, and
+every detail of the escape and many possible and impossible theories
+and suggestions. The B.B.C. gave nightly encouragement to the
+searchers, both professional and amateur.
+
+An inquest was held on the body of Leopold Hessel, at which his
+identity with the financier, Travers Lessingham, was revealed,
+together with his association with Captain Wraile in the Rotunda
+Syndicate transactions. Nothing, however, was said at the first
+hearing about the Fratten murder, though naturally the public jumped
+to their own conclusions. The circumstances of Hessel’s death could
+not, of course, be fully established without the presence of the
+Wrailes, and the inquest was adjourned for a fortnight.
+
+Poole busied himself in connecting up the carefully concealed threads
+which had united this latest Jekyll and Hyde. Travers Lessingham had
+apparently been in existence since the year following the war, though
+he had begun his operations in the City in a very minor key—feeling
+his way, as Poole phrased it. In addition to his arrangement with the
+Hotel Antwerp and Mme. Pintole of the Rue des Canetons, Hessel had
+kept a small studio in the neighbourhood of Gray’s Inn; this he had
+used for changing from one identity to the other, and as the tone of
+the lower grades of studio life is anything but inquisitive, there was
+small risk of anyone giving him away.
+
+The actual disguise was a simple matter; a wig of curly black hair,
+darkened eyebrows and whitened face, tinted spectacles (too common in
+these days to excite suspicion), a differently shaped dental plate,
+coat padded on the shoulder-blades, and waistcoat and trousers in
+front—these required no great skill to adjust and manipulate. His
+appearances as Lessingham in the City were so rare that no one had
+time to get to know him and so to begin to take an interest in his
+movements. That at least was how such of his City acquaintances as
+admitted to it explained their deception. The complete details of his
+performance would probably never be known unless the Wrailes chose to
+reveal it. They must, in the months of his more active life as
+Lessingham, have manipulated a great deal for him—and they would now,
+in all probability, never disclose the facts.
+
+
+Ten days after the escape of the Wrailes,—ten days in which not one
+whiff of scent came to the eager nostrils of the public, so that even
+their press-fed enthusiasm was beginning to wane—Inez and Ryland
+Fratten, with Laurence Mangane, were sitting at tea in the
+morning-room at Queen Anne’s Gate when Golpin entered to announce that
+Inspector Poole was waiting in the hall and would like to see either
+Miss or Mr. Fratten or both.
+
+“Oh, show him in, Golpin,” said Inez. “And bring another cup. He may
+have some news.”
+
+Mangane rose to his feet, but Inez stretched out a detaining hand.
+
+“Don’t go,” she said. “He can’t be here ‘with hostile intent’ now. Ah,
+there you are, Mr. Poole; come and have some tea. We thought you’d
+forgotten all about us. Have you got any news?”
+
+Poole smiled and took the chair that Ryland pushed across to him.
+
+“I haven’t quite forgotten about you, Miss Fratten; I’ve come to ask
+some questions.”
+
+“Oh-h!” groaned Inez. “I thought that was over.”
+
+“Not quite, but to show they aren’t of ‘hostile intent’—as I think I
+heard you say—I’ll accept your kind offer of some tea.” He turned to
+Ryland. “It’s you, sir, really, that I want to ask questions. They’re
+really more to satisfy my own curiosity than of official necessity.
+D’you mind if I do? They’re quite harmless.”
+
+“No, of course he doesn’t,” answered Inez, who had seen Ryland
+hesitate. “But remember—we’ve got our own curiosity—you won’t do all
+the asking.”
+
+Poole laughed.
+
+“That’s a bargain then. It’s just this, Mr. Fratten. I gathered from
+you that you went up that fire-escape to try and overhear what Wraile
+and Lessingham were talking about; how did you know they were going to
+be there, and how did you know about the escape?”
+
+“I was there two or three nights before—as I believe you know. I heard
+Wraile and his secretary—as I believed her to be then—I didn’t
+recognize her voice—talking about Lessingham—that he’d be there on
+Tuesday evening after the office closed. I found the fire-escape,
+because I went back that same night to look for it—as I was going home
+it suddenly struck me that there might be such a thing and that if
+there were, it was the very way to hear what was going on.”
+
+“Good for you, sir,” said Poole. “But why didn’t you tell me what you
+were after—that you were on the trail of this Rotunda business?”
+
+“Why indeed?” broke in Inez. “Because he was a pig-headed idiot! He
+wouldn’t tell me when I saw him next morning—snubbed me when I asked
+him what he was up to—so I didn’t tell him about Miss Saverel being
+his precious Daphne. Nearly cost him his life, that particular bit of
+pig-headedness did.”
+
+“I’m afraid I’m partly to blame, Inspector,” interposed Mangane. “I
+put you both on to the same trail without letting the other know. I
+knew Fratten didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing and I
+thought that if I told him you were on it too, he might whip off.”
+
+“So I should have,” said Fratten. “I don’t suppose any of you’ll
+understand, but I wanted to do something useful for once in my life,
+without shouting about it. You see, I’ve behaved like a first-class
+swine over this whole business—both before and after my father’s
+death. There’s one question that you haven’t asked me, Inspector, and
+I know you want to—you’re a real brick not to have let it out. You
+see, I know that you went to that chap Silence and found out about Sir
+Horace’s letter—he told me when I repaid him the other day. I want you
+all to know about that—yes, you too, Mangane—then I shall have got
+everything off my chest and be able to start again.”
+
+Behind the tea-table Inez’s hand crept along the sofa and slipped into
+Ryland’s.
+
+“You know I was engaged to a girl at the ‘Inanity’—Julie Vermont? One
+says ‘engaged,’ but I don’t think either of us ever thought of getting
+married—it was just rather fun—and quite a common thing with fellows
+who went with that crowd. But she meant business—money. When I
+suggested we should break it off—we’d had quite enough of each
+other—she talked of breach of promise. I needn’t tell you the whole
+story—it worked out at £15,000 in the end—practically blackmail—she
+evidently knew how I stood with my father. I was pretty desperate—I
+tried to get it out of him—wrote to him. He sent for me and gave me
+hell—you remember that, Inez—it was the day he had that accident—I
+couldn’t help it then—he’d got my letter and sent for me. He
+practically turned me out. You know about that.
+
+“Soon after that, Inez got me to go and see Sir Horace Spavage—the
+doctor—about father’s health. I couldn’t understand much of what he
+said—it was rather technical—so I got him to write it down. It
+amounted to a pretty poor ‘life,’ as the insurance people say. I was
+taking the note back to Inez when it occurred to me that I might use
+it as security for raising the money. Most of the money-lenders
+wouldn’t look at me—I’d borrowed all over the place and they knew that
+father wouldn’t pay up any more—but that fellow Silence will always go
+one further than the rest—at a price—and I took the note to him. He
+advanced me the £15,000 on that—for three months—at a terrific rate of
+interest. It was a gamble. That’s the awful part about it; I didn’t
+properly realize it at the time, but of course directly he was dead I
+did—I was gambling with my father’s life.”
+
+Ryland stopped and sat, with haggard face, staring at the cup in front
+of him. Inez gently squeezed his hand, the others sat in awkward
+silence. Poole was the first to break it.
+
+“Good of you to tell me that, sir,” he said. “I appreciate your
+telling me—I shouldn’t have asked. Well, it’s your turn now, Miss
+Fratten.” He looked at his watch. “I can give you ten minutes—I’ve got
+to catch a train.”
+
+“Oh, but I’ve got thousands of questions,” exclaimed Inez. “I want to
+know about Mr. Hessel—did you know he was in it? I couldn’t make out
+from the inquest.”
+
+“I didn’t know he was Lessingham, if that’s what you mean, Miss
+Fratten. But I had a very strong suspicion that he was in the plot
+to kill your father. Not at first—he completely deceived me; but as
+the actual facts of the murder came out—how it was done and how
+closely the Wrailes’ alibis fitted to the actual time of the attack—it
+seemed to me that it couldn’t possibly be a chance that your father
+and Hessel had walked into the trap at the one and only time
+that would fit in with the alibis that the Wrailes _had arranged
+beforehand_—Captain Wraile, remember, had asked someone to visit him
+at the club at seven, and Mrs. Wraile had to be back in time to see
+the hall-porter before he went off duty at seven—and couldn’t get away
+till appreciably after six. No—Sir Garth must have been led at the
+exactly right moment, into the trap—led by Hessel. I remember now that
+the first time I interviewed Hessel he told me that your father always
+walked home across the Park in the evening. That, no doubt, was to
+make me think that his walk was well known by other people—and on that
+they based their plan—but the _exactness_ of the time couldn’t have
+been counted on—it must have been manufactured.
+
+“Then there were the ‘Ethiopian and General’ papers—they were missing
+from Sir Garth’s carefully collected wrapper on the ‘Victory Finance
+Company.’ They must have been stolen. The opportunities of stealing
+them were very slight—Hessel called Mr. Mangane within a few minutes
+of Sir Garth’s body being carried upstairs out of here, and had the
+study doors locked—took the keys. He carefully did not come back here
+till days afterwards, and then only went into the room with Menticle
+and Mr. Mangane as witnesses—to create the impression that nobody had
+a chance of touching anything—that nothing _had_ been touched.
+Actually, there was a possibility that they might have been taken
+_before_ he and Mangane locked the study. It was hardly likely that
+they were moved before the body was brought back—though not
+impossible. While the body was in here, Golpin was in the hall and
+swears nobody entered the study. Mangane might have gone in from his
+room—nobody else could have because he was there all the time. But I
+didn’t think he had—I knew him personally. There remained the
+possibility that Hessel had gone in himself in those two or three
+minutes after the body was moved and before he sent for Mangane. There
+was no earthly reason why he shouldn’t have—I came to the conclusion
+that he did.
+
+“I should say that there’s no doubt that your father had begun to
+smell trouble about the Ethiopian and General, Miss Fratten, and that
+his notes made that pretty clear. No doubt that was why he seemed to
+you to be worried—he was unhappy at finding a friend—Sir Hunter—mixed
+up in a shady business. That’s why Hessel only took the ‘Ethiopian and
+General’ papers. Why he left the other notes—the details about the Nem
+Nem Sohar and South Wales Pulverization and the queries about all
+three, which attracted our attention to the Ethiopian and General,—I
+don’t know. Probably he lost his head—or tried to be too clever—it’s
+generally one of those alternatives that hangs a murderer.
+
+“Of course I only came to this point quite late—the last developments
+came with a rush and I couldn’t do everything at once—I had no time to
+question him again, though I tried to once—he was away. But we should
+definitely have linked him up in a day or two. Now, Miss Fratten, I’ve
+taken rather longer than I meant over that—I haven’t time to answer
+more questions—because I’ve got something to tell you.
+
+“It’s what I really came here for—to read you a letter. My chief—Sir
+Leward Marradine—told me to come and show it to you—reading will be
+simplest.
+
+“It’s a letter from Captain Wraile—postmark ‘Liverpool,’ date
+yesterday—no other indication. This is what he says:
+
+  “Dear Commissioner,
+
+  I’m taking a leaf out of the book of a man I’ve a great admiration
+  for—the man who killed Sir John Smethrust. After he got clear he
+  wrote to Scotland Yard and explained how he’d done it—said he liked
+  to tidy things up. So do I. By the time you get this—it will be
+  posted ten days from now—Miriam and I will be absolutely clear—not
+  only across the water but across half a continent—start looking for
+  us if you like. If you find us you’re smarter than I give you credit
+  for—but you won’t take us alive—and one or two of you’ll get hurt.
+
+  There are a few details I’d like to make clear. I take it, as a
+  basis, that you know how the killing was done and the alibis
+  arranged—your Mr. Poole seemed fairly sharp on that, though I don’t
+  quite know how he turned up at Ald House when he did on Tuesday
+  night.”
+
+(“By the way, Mr. Fratten, I was following you. Fallows rang up that
+you slipped him and we traced you there. I was looking for Mrs.
+Wraile’s way out too—after finding that her husband had left his club
+by a back window I guessed that they’d repeated the trick at Ald
+House.”)
+
+  “After Poole disturbed us, we cut down the escape. Poor Lessingham
+  didn’t know the rail was missing at one turn—he went over—quite
+  accidentally, I needn’t assure, Mr. Commissioner. We slipped your
+  not very vigorous watch-dogs, got a taxi, and so—by stages that I
+  won’t mention—to the beginning of our long journey.
+
+  Now about earlier times. Lessingham—Hessel—struck on me when I was
+  on my beam ends, like many other soldiers. He was on them
+  too—psychologically, and for a different reason. He had had a
+  devilish time in the war—‘German Jew’ and all the rest of it. His
+  one idea was to get his own back—he was quite unscrupulous—and
+  unreasonable as to how he did it and who he did it to, though he
+  probably wouldn’t have picked on his own friend, Fratten, if Fratten
+  hadn’t stumbled across our path—might have, though—complexes are
+  funny things.
+
+  You’ve got to the bottom of the Rotunda game by now—I needn’t bother
+  you with that. By the way, my poor old General was quite innocent of
+  what was happening—as he has been all his life—don’t run him in.
+  Resston, too, of course. Lessingham’s official letters were sent by
+  the clerks to the Hotel Antwerp and by them to Mme. Pintole, who
+  destroyed them. But another set, and anything of importance, was
+  sent privately by Miriam to his own home address—as Hessel. In that
+  way he was kept absolutely up to date all the time though he only
+  came near us about once a month. In the same way, he wrote to her or
+  to me. It all went swimmingly till Fratten blew in.
+
+  The idea of how to kill him was Hessel’s—I wish I could claim the
+  credit for it. On the very day that Fratten told him about having
+  been invited to join our Board he also told him about having a
+  thorasic aneurism. By the merest chance, Hessel knew what a thorasic
+  aneurism was—and where it was—he’d had a relation or someone with
+  it. What’s more, just after he heard about it, Fratten was nearly
+  run over by a motor and the shock nearly did him in—that gave Hessel
+  the idea. The affair on the Steps of course, we staged to distract
+  attention from the actual attack. It would probably be put down to
+  an accident and it was a million to one against my being traced. I
+  don’t know now how you got on to it. After the ‘accident’ I made for
+  the car and Hessel led Fratten exactly where we wanted him, waving a
+  bright cigar end to mark his course. The shooting was easy, but the
+  damn slug caught somewhere and the cord broke. I went back to look
+  for it but couldn’t find it—perhaps you did.
+
+  My own disguise for the part, of course, was very slight—moustache
+  darkened with grease stick—easily wiped off—and a clerk’s voice. My
+  overcoat and hat I’d hung on the visitors’ peg in the passage
+  outside the small library—the coat was a shabby one, so I’d walked
+  in with it over my arm. My appointment with Lukescu was made
+  officially by my office for 6.30—no doubt you checked that—but I
+  telephoned to him privately not to come till 7. Of course the times
+  were very carefully worked out and Hessel neatly steered Fratten
+  into them.
+
+  Just two small points to interest the good Inspector. When he and
+  Miss Fratten sleuthed us on the Underground that evening and we
+  slipped out at Charing Cross Station, we took the only taxi on the
+  rank—pure luck that—we’d had no time to plan—and then slipped down
+  into the tube at Piccadilly Circus. When he came to interview Blagge
+  and ‘Miss Saverel’ at the Conservative office, she sent a note to me
+  from under his very nose, telling me he was there and asking me to
+  cut her out. I did.
+
+  Anything more you want to know, you must ask—but you’ll probably be
+  blue in the face before you get an answer.
+
+        Adieu, cher Commissionaire,
+            James Wraile.
+
+  P. S. I dedicate the identical cross-bow—it’s killed Boches as well
+  as bankers—to the Black Museum—you’ll find it in the cloak-room at
+  King’s Cross.”
+
+“That’s the letter, Miss Fratten.”
+
+“Well I’m dashed, he’s got a nerve,” said Ryland.
+
+“So they’ve slipped you after all, Mr. Poole,” said Inez—her voice
+poised half-way between relief and disappointment.
+
+Poole shook his head.
+
+“Four days ago,” he said, “a bus conductor recovered from an attack of
+influenza—and saw our appeal. He came to me and told me that the
+Wrailes had boarded his bus in Leadenhall Street and got off at King’s
+Cross. He probably wouldn’t have noticed where they got off if they’d
+got off in the crowd at the King’s Cross stop—but (as I found on
+pressing him) they got off one street short of it, by pulling the
+cord—and he noticed them. They took that turn to the left—they didn’t
+go to King’s Cross or St. Pancras.
+
+“I searched the neighbourhood and found a garage from which they took
+their _other_ car. They were already slightly disguised—in their walk
+from the bus to the garage—evidently they always carried small sticks
+of make-up in case a bolt was necessary. They had bought that car
+months ago and kept it in that garage—for the bolt and for one other
+purpose. That evening they drove quietly out of London, stopping
+somewhere to change their appearance properly—no doubt a make-up box
+was part of the car’s equipment. They drove through the night—no one
+was looking out for a Morris saloon with a middle-aged couple in
+it—down to their cottage in North Wales—near Ruthin. From there, of
+course, it was a simple matter to run up to Liverpool—yesterday—and
+post that letter. They’d taken that cottage last spring and been there
+for very occasional week-ends—as the middle-aged Mr. and Mrs.
+Waterford—in that Morris car. [‘That’s the car she drove me in,’
+thought Ryland.] Nobody had paid any attention to them—nobody does
+now—except the police. The last link in the story that I’ve been
+telling you was completed by us this morning; their place will be
+surrounded as soon as it’s dark—it is already. I’m going down now to
+take them.”
+
+Poole rose to his feet.
+
+“My train’s at seven—I must go. Good-night, Miss Fratten—thank you for
+giving me tea—and for all you’ve done to make a beastly job bearable.
+Good-night, Mr. Fratten—you won’t mind if I wish you good luck?
+Good-night, Mr. Mangane.”
+
+He turned on his heel and walked quickly to the door. The three others
+still sat, almost petrified by astonishment at the sudden change of
+situation. Inez was the first to recover herself; she sprang to her
+feet and ran after Poole shutting the door firmly behind her. The
+detective was just opening the front door.
+
+“Mr. Poole, wait!” she said.
+
+He turned back to meet her.
+
+“I just wanted to say—that letter of Captain Wraile’s—they’re
+desperate people, Mr. Poole—do be—do be as careful as you can.”
+
+Poole looked down into the girl’s flushed face and sparkling eyes—eyes
+in which sympathy and anxiety at least were present. A great longing
+seized him.
+
+“If you . . .” he forced back the words that were surging to his lips.
+“Thank you, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I shall do my duty.”
+
+He turned abruptly, opened the door, and walked out into the night.
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
+
+This transcription follows the text of the edition published by Payson
+& Clarke Ltd in 1929. The following changes have been made to correct
+what are believed to be unambiguous printer’s errors.
+
+ * “Inpector” was changed to “Inspector” (Chapter VI).
+ * “ect.” was changed to “etc.” (Chapter VI).
+ * “Phys,” was changed to “Phys.” (Chapter VI).
+ * “Brittanica” was changed to “Britannica” (Chapter VII).
+ * “occcasionally” was changed to “occasionally” (Chapter IX).
+ * “impossible for use” was changed to “impossible for us”
+   (Chapter XI).
+ * “Duhamel Freres” was changed to “Duhamel Frères” (Chapter XV).
+ * “testting” was changed to “testing” (Chapter XVII).
+ * “a complicate” was changed to “a complicated” (Chapter XIX).
+ * “realiable” was changed to “reliable” (Chapter XXI).
+ * “fiften” was changed to “fifteen” (Chapter XXV).
+ * “faint preliminary whim” was changed to “faint preliminary whirr”
+   (Chapter XXV).
+ * “startingly” was changed to “startlingly” (Chapter XXV).
+ * “necesity” was changed to “necessity” (Chapter XXVI).
+ * Seven occurrences of mismatched quotation marks have been repaired.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75318 ***