The Duke of York's steps

By Henry Wade

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Duke of York's steps
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Duke of York's steps

Author: Henry Wade

Release date: February 8, 2025 [eBook #75318]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Payson & Clarke Ltd, 1929

Credits: Brian Raiter


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE OF YORK'S STEPS ***


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 THE DUKE OF YORK'S STEPS ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.