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.