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.