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diff --git a/75318-0.txt b/75318-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..53809a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75318-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9550 @@ + +*** 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 *** |