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.