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.