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.”