The Creditor
Inspector Flamborough's orderly mind found something to respect in the
businesslike appearance of the moneylender's premises. As he waited at
the counter of the outer office while his card was submitted to the
principal, he was struck by the spick-and-span appearance of the
fittings and the industry of the small staff.
“Quite impressive as a fly-trap,” he ruminated. “Looks like a good
solid business with plenty of money to spend. And the clerks have good
manners, too. Spratton's evidently bent on making a nice impression on
new clients.”
He was not kept waiting more than a minute before the clerk returned
and ushered him into a room which had very little of the office in its
furnishings. As he entered, a clean-shaven man in the late thirties
rose from an arm-chair beside the fire. At the first glance, his
appearance seemed to strike some chord in the Inspector's memory; and
Flamborough found himself pursuing an elusive recollection which he
failed to run to ground.
The moneylender seemed to regard the Inspector's visit as a perfectly
normal event. His manner was genial without being effusive.
“Come in, Inspector,” he invited, with a gesture towards one of the
comfortable chairs. “Try a cigarette?”
He proffered a large silver box, but Flamborough declined to smoke.
“And what can I do for you?” Spratton inquired pleasantly, replacing
the box on the mantelpiece. “Money's very tight these days.”
“I'm not a client,” Flamborough informed him, with a slightly sardonic
smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
The moneylender's eyes narrowed, but otherwise he showed no outward
sign of his feelings.
“Then I'm rather at a loss to know what you want,” he confessed,
without any lapse from his initial geniality. “I run my business
strictly within the four corners of the Act. You've no complaint about
that?”
The Inspector had no intention of wasting time.
“It's this affair of young Hassendean,” he explained. “The young
fellow who was murdered the other day. You must have seen the case in
the papers. I understand he was a client of yours.”
A flash of intelligence passed over the moneylender's face, but he
suppressed it almost instantly.
“Hassendean?” he repeated, as though cudgelling his memory. “I've some
recollection of the name. But my business is a large one, and I don't
profess to carry all the details in my head.”
He stepped over to the bell and rang it. When a clerk appeared in
answer to the summons, the moneylender turned to give an order:
“I think we had some transactions with a Mr. Hassendean—Mr. Ronald
Hassendean, isn't it?” he glanced at Flamborough for confirmation, and
then continued: “Just bring me that file, Plowden.”
It did not take the Inspector long to make up his mind that this
by-play was intended merely to give Spratton time to find his
bearings; but Flamborough waited patiently until the clerk returned
and placed a filing-case on the table. Spratton turned over the leaves
for a few moments, as though refreshing his memory.
“This fellow would have made a good actor,” Flamborough reflected with
a certain admiration. “He does it deuced well. But who the devil does
he remind me of?”
Spratton's nicely-calculated interlude came to an end, and he turned
back to the Inspector.
“You're quite right. I find that he had some transactions with us!”
“They began about eleven months ago, didn't they?”
The moneylender nodded in confirmation.
“I find that I lent him £100 first of all. Two months after that—he
not having repaid anything—I lent him £200. Then there was a further
item of £300 in April, part of which he seems to have paid back to me
later on in order to square up for the interest which he hadn't paid.”
“What security had you for these loans?”
Again the moneylender's eyes narrowed for a moment; but his manner
betrayed nothing.
“Up to that time, I was quite satisfied with his prospects.”
“And after that he borrowed more from you?”
“Apparently.” Spratton made a pretence of consulting the file. “He
came to me in June for another £500, and of course the interest was
mounting up gradually.”
“He must have been making the money fly,” Flamborough suggested with a
certain indifference. “I wish I could see my way to splash dibs at
that rate. It would be a new experience. But when it came to figures
of that size, I suppose you expected something better in the way of
security?”
Despite the Inspector's casual tone, the moneylender seemed to suspect
a trap.
“Well, by that time he was in my books for well over a thousand.”
He appeared to feel that frankness would be best.
“I arranged matters for him,” he continued. “He took out a policy on
his life with the Western Medical and Mercantile. I have the policy in
my safe if you wish to see it.”
“Of course you allowed a reasonable margin for contingencies, I
suppose?” Flamborough inquired sympathetically.
“Oh, naturally I expected him to go on borrowing, so I had to allow a
fair margin for contingencies. The policy was for £5,000.”
“So you're about £4,000 in pocket, now that he's dead,” Flamborough
commented enviously. “Some people are lucky.”
“Against that you've got to offset the bad debts I make,” Spratton
pointed out.
Flamborough could not pretend to himself that he had managed to elicit
much of importance during his call; but he had no excuse for
prolonging the interview. He rose to his feet.
“I don't suppose we shall need any of these facts if it comes to
trying anyone,” he said, as he prepared to leave. “If we do, you'll
have plenty of warning, of course.”
The moneylender opened a door which allowed a direct exit into the
corridor, and Flamborough went out. As he walked along the passage, he
was still racking his memory to discover who Spratton resembled; and
at last, as he reached the pavement outside, it flashed into his mind.
“Of course! It's the Chief! Put a moustache on to that fellow and dye
his hair a bit and he might pass for Driffield in the dusk. He's not a
twin-brother; but there's a resemblance of sorts, undoubtedly.”
He returned to headquarters feeling that he had wasted his time over
the moneylender. Except that he had now seen the man in the flesh and
had an opportunity of sizing him up, he was really no further forward
than he had been before; for the few actual figures of transactions
which he had obtained were obviously of little interest in themselves.
As he entered the police station, a constable came forward.
“There's a gentleman here, Inspector Flamborough. He's called about
the Silverdale case and he wants to see you. He's a foreigner of the
name of Renard.”
“Very well. Send him along to me,” Flamborough ordered.
In a few moments, the constable ushered in a small man with a black
moustache and a shock of stiffly-brushed hair which gave him a foreign
appearance. The Inspector was relieved to find that he spoke perfect
English, though with a slight accent.
“My name is Octave Renard,” he introduced himself. “I am the brother
of Mrs. Yvonne Silverdale.”
Flamborough, with a certain admiration for the fortitude of the little
man in the tragic circumstances, made haste to put him at his ease by
expressing his sympathy.
“Yes, very sad,” said the little Frenchman, with an obvious effort to
keep himself under control. “I was very fond of my sister, you
understand. She was so gay, so fond of life. She enjoyed herself every
moment of the day. And now——”
A gesture filled out the missing phrase.
Flamborough's face betrayed his commiseration; but he was a busy man,
and could ill afford to waste time.
“You wished to see me about something?”
“All I know is what was printed in the newspapers,” Renard explained.
“I would like to learn the truth of the case—the real facts. And you
are in charge of the case, I was told. So I come to you.”
Flamborough, after a moment's hesitation, gave him an outline of the
bungalow tragedy, softening some of the details and omitting anything
which he thought it undesirable to make public. Renard listened, with
an occasional nervous twitch which showed that his imagination was at
work, clothing the bare bones of the Inspector's narrative with flesh.
“It is a bad business,” he said, shaking his head mournfully as
Flamborough concluded. “To think that such a thing should have
happened just when she had had her great stroke of good-fortune! It is
incredible, the irony of Fate.”
The Inspector pricked up his ears.
“She'd had a piece of good luck, lately, you say, Mr. Renard? What was
that?”
“You do not know?” the little man inquired in surprise. “But surely
her husband must have told you? No?”
Flamborough shook his head.
“That is strange,” Renard continued. “I do not quite understand that.
My sister was the favourite of her aunt. She was down in her will, you
understand? And my aunt was a very wealthy woman. Pots of money, as
you English say. For some time my aunt has been in feeble health. She
has been going downhill for the last year or more. A heart trouble,
you understand. And just a fortnight ago, puff!—she went out like
that. Like a blown-out candle.”
“Yes?” the Inspector prompted.
“Her will was in the keeping of her lawyer and he communicated the
contents to myself and my sister. We were trustees, you see. I had a
little bequest to myself; but the principal sum went to my sister. I
was surprised; I had not thought that my aunt had so much money—mostly
in American stocks and shares. In your English money it came to about
£12,000. In francs, of course, it is colossal—a million and a half at
least.”
“Ah!” interjected Flamborough, now keenly interested. “And your sister
knew of this?”
“She learned it from me just two days before her death. And you
understand, there was no grief with it. My aunt had suffered terribly
in the last few months. Angina pectoris, very painful. We were quite
glad to see her suffering at an end.”
Flamborough felt that this fresh piece of information needed
consideration before he ventured on to the ground which had been
disclosed.
“Are you staying in Westerhaven, Mr. Renard?” he inquired.
“Yes, for a few days yet, I expect,” the little man answered. “I have
some legal matters in my hands which need my presence on the spot. As
my sister is now dead, there is the disposal of this money to be
considered. I find difficulties which I had not expected.”
“And your address during your stay will be?”
“I am at the Imperial Hotel. You can always find me there.”
“Well, Mr. Renard, I'd like to have a talk with you later on, if I
may. Just at present, I'm very busy. Perhaps you could spare a few
minutes when my hands are free.”
“I shall be delighted,” Renard acquiesced. “Whenever you wish to see
me, send a message. I am much worried, you understand?” he concluded,
with a quiver in his voice which pierced through the official coating
of Flamborough and touched the softer material inside.