The Method
Whether Fratten recognized him or not, the detective could not be
certain; he did not appear to look at him, but turned away and walked
off at the same pace as before. Poole gave a quick glance at his
companion’s face and saw that its expression had changed slightly,
from astonishment to puzzlement—there was a slight frown of thought on
Inez’s brow as her eyes followed Ryland’s retreating form.
Poole had to think, and decide, quickly. What was Ryland Fratten doing
here? He had said that he did not know the whereabouts of “Daphne”;
Inez Fratten presumably had not told him—she had said that she had not
seen Ryland since she picked up Daphne’s trail. Could it be that he
was in some way connected with the Victory Finance Company? If he
were, it was most unlikely that his father had known about it; it was
an uncomfortable thought. Should he himself follow Ryland now—Ryland,
who had slipped the police that morning? It would mean losing Daphne,
for the time being at any rate—unless Inez Fratten followed her alone.
Poole did not like the idea; if Daphne were really the dangerous woman
that Ryland’s story indicated, she was capable of playing some
desperate trick on anyone who crossed her path; it was a melodramatic
thought, but not entirely discountable.
In the meantime Ryland Fratten was nearly out of sight; Poole was on
the point of telling Inez to go home and himself following Ryland when
the girl seized his arm; at the same instant footsteps in Ald House
again caught his ear. A second later two people, a man and a woman,
came out of the entrance and turned towards the Monument station; as
they passed, the man glanced casually at Poole and Inez but took no
notice of them.
“That’s she!” whispered Inez excitedly.
“Who’s the man?”
“I don’t know.”
The short glance that Poole had got at him had shown a man of rather
more than medium height, well-built and carrying himself well, with an
expression of strength and a close-cut moustache. The woman he had not
time to observe, except that she was good-looking. Once again Poole’s
mind had to work quickly. Should he follow these people and let
Fratten go? He would get into trouble if the latter disappeared from
the view of the police, but on the other hand he badly wanted to know,
not only who “Daphne” was and where she lived, but who her companion
was. His decision was helped by the fact that Ryland was no longer in
sight; he would follow the pair now and keep his eyes open for Ryland.
As they followed—at a very discreet distance—Poole arranged his plan
of action with Inez. If, as seemed likely, Daphne and her friend took
the Underground, Poole would enter the coach on one side of theirs,
Inez that on the other; this would make them less conspicuous and
would double the watch on their quarry.
As Poole had expected, the couple they were following turned down into
Monument Station. Poole and Inez kept in the background and, when a
westbound train appeared, took their seats in separate coaches as
arranged. Through the double glass doors Poole could get a fair view
of Daphne and her friend. The girl—Poole thought that she might be
anything between twenty-five and thirty—was distinctly pretty. Her
small close-fitting hat concealed her hair but she certainly gave the
impression of being fair. The man was rather older, with a firm chin
and rather tight-lipped mouth below his clipped moustache; his eyes
were light and his general colouring suggested brown hair. The pair,
sitting close to the central doors of their coach, seemed to be
talking quietly about trivial matters; they certainly showed no sign
of being aware that they were watched.
At Cannon Street and Mansion House more belated workers got in; though
the big rush was over the train was fairly full; there were no
strap-hangers, however, so Poole saw no necessity to get any closer.
At Charing Cross there was a fairly large exodus; this, with the
subsequent oncoming passengers, kept the detective fully employed in
maintaining his watch. The man and woman, however, remained seated and
as the doors began to slam Poole relaxed his vigilance.
Suddenly the pair jumped to their feet and, slipping out of the double
doors, hurried towards the exit stairs. Poole leaped up and dashed for
his own door; as ill-luck would have it some railway official was in
the act of closing it and Poole had to exert all his strength to force
it open. Even then the man tried to push him back, shouting angrily to
him to keep his seat; with a great effort Poole forced his way out on
to the platform; the train had by that time gathered speed and the
detective fell heavily to his hands and knees. More railwaymen
gathered round him and his first opponent seized him angrily by the
arm and shouted excitedly about “assault.”
Poole saw that he might be seriously delayed if he stopped to explain.
With a sudden wrench he burst his way clear and dashed up the stairs,
followed by the loud shouts of the officials. The ticket collector at
the top tried to bar his way, but the detective dodged past him and
made for the entrance. By the time he got out the other passengers had
dispersed, though there were plenty of people about; there was no sign
of Daphne and her companion, but a taxi was disappearing past the
Playhouse and Poole felt convinced that his quarry were in it. Not
another cab was within sight and before he had time to go in search of
one or to make enquiries a couple of railroad porters had seized him
and pulled him back into the entrance hall, where they were soon
joined by the stationmaster and the angry victim of his assault.
Poole had no difficulty in explaining what had occurred and his ample
apologies soon elicited the sympathy and help of his former pursuers.
Exhaustive enquiries established the probable identity of the
taxi—which had been noticed waiting for fares—and, after taking its
number, and the name of its driver (an habitué of the station rank)
Poole started to walk back to Scotland Yard. Inez Fratten had not
appeared and it was clear that the sudden move of the quarry had been
too quick for her; she would probably get out at Westminster or St.
James’s Park and go either to Scotland Yard or to her own home—there
was no point in Poole’s searching for her.
The detective felt thoroughly displeased with himself; he had got a
sight of two, if not three, people whose whereabouts ought to be known
to the police and he had allowed all three to escape him; following
his double rebuke from Barrod earlier in the day this, unless it could
be quickly remedied—he was too honest a man to conceal it—would be
serious for him.
Having decided to make a clean breast of his failure to his superior,
Poole was none the less sensibly relieved to discover that Chief
Inspector Barrod had already gone home; something might be done during
the remainder of the evening to restore the situation. In the first
place, he set in motion machinery to trace the taxi which had just
picked up Miss Saverel and her friend at Charing Cross Underground
Station—a very simple matter in view of his probable knowledge of the
driver’s identity. He found plenty else to keep him busy. The
plain-clothes man he had put on to watch Hessel had returned; Poole
sent for him and learnt that the man had established beyond reasonable
doubt that the banker was right-handed; he had seen Hessel use his
right hand to blow his nose, use his latch-key, light a match, carry
an umbrella—more important still, change the umbrella into his left
hand in order to use his right for picking up a fallen handbag; he had
not seen him use his left hand for any active purpose. It was not
conclusive evidence, but it was convincing.
Following on the heels of the plain-clothes man came the Park-keeper,
Blossom. P. C. Lolling had told him to report to Inspector Poole at
Scotland Yard as soon as he came off duty, and though he doubted
whether he was under any obligation to do so, Blossom was too deeply
interested in the case to stand on his dignity. Poole explained to him
something—not all—of his theory of a waiting motor-car and was at once
rewarded by a definite response.
“Why, sir, I saw the very car!” exclaimed the Park-keeper excitedly.
“A two-seater it was—Cowpay I think they call them—the sort that shuts
up like a closed car but opens down when you wants ’em to. It was
standin’ there near the arch—about opposite the Royal Marines’ statue
I should say—for quite a time that evening. There was a girl in
it—couldn’t see much of her, ’cause she’d got a newspaper up in front
of her as she made out to be readin’. She wasn’t readin’ it all the
time though, ’cause I saw her watching up the Mall—towards the Duke’s
Steps, now I come to think of it—as if she was waitin’ for someone—her
young man I took it to be. I didn’t see him come, nor I didn’t see her
move off—more’s the pity—but I know she was there soon after six,
’cause I saw her when I come out from my tea, and I knew she was there
for some time ’cause I didn’t go into the Park at once but stayed
talkin’ to a friend or two—that was how I come to notice that she was
watchin’ for someone. She was gone at seven when I come back that way
again.”
Poole was deeply stirred by this information; it fitted in so exactly
with the theory that he had begun to form. He tried his utmost to get
a description of the girl but Blossom could only say that she seemed
youngish and didn’t wear spectacles; he asked for the number of the
car: Blossom had not noticed it, though he had noticed the type of
body; he couldn’t even give the make, though it wasn’t a Rolls, a
Daimler, or an original Ford—the only makes he could recognize. It was
desperately tantalizing, but even without identification or exact
descriptions the information was of great value.
Having got so far, Poole felt that the time had come for another
reconstruction. He was so eager to make it that he decided not to wait
till the small hours of the night but to take advantage of the quiet
period between the ingoing and outcoming of the theatres. Chief
Inspector Barrod would not, of course, be present—Poole did not feel
inclined to face the unpopularity of recalling his superior officer
from his evening’s recreation—but Barrod’s presence, though helpful,
was also rather damping. Discovering that neither Detective-Constable
Rawton nor his Irish mate had yet gone off duty, Poole arranged for
them to report to him at half-past nine; he also secured the services
of a closed police car. Having made these preparations he took himself
off to the nearest restaurant for a little supper.
During his meal, the detective studiously switched his mind off his
problem—thought was bad for digestion—and read the evening paper, but
over a cup of coffee and a pipe he allowed it to return to the
absorbing subject. One point in particular worried him—the identity of
the girl in the waiting car. The obvious inference was that she was
the “Daphne” who had lured Ryland Fratten into a compromising
situation and left him there to incur inevitable suspicion—the
“Daphne” who, according to Inez Fratten, was Miss Saverel, secretary
of the Victory Finance Company. It was a tempting theory—so tempting
and so obvious as to make him mistrust it.
The thought that worried him was that the whole theory of
this girl—her incarnation as Daphne and her identity as Miss
Saverel—depended so far upon the evidence of the two Frattens—the two
people (Poole hated himself for the thought) who really benefited by
the death of Sir Garth. It was true that he had himself seen a reputed
Miss Saverel this evening and that she and her companion had behaved
in a highly suspicious manner by giving him the slip at Charing Cross.
But, now that he came to analyse it, their conduct was not necessarily
suspicious—it was only so if she were the girl the Frattens said she
was; there might be a perfectly natural and simple explanation of
their action—a forgotten appointment—a sudden change of mind.
The girl in the waiting car: was it conceivable—a horrible
thought—that she was Inez Fratten herself? Poole realized that he had
no knowledge of her whereabouts that evening; he only knew that when
her father’s dead body was brought back to the house she was “out.” He
made a note to look into the matter—an odious duty but a duty that
must be done—and then, shaking the matter from his mind, walked back
to Scotland Yard. He found that the Charing Cross taxi-driver had
already been traced. The man could give no clear information about his
fare; he only knew that a lady and gentleman had engaged him at
Charing Cross and paid him off at Piccadilly Circus—a dead end.
Soon after half-past nine the police car pulled up close to the
Marines South African Memorial, a hundred yards or so west of the
Admiralty Arch, and the experimental party emerged. Poole had brought
Sergeant Gower with him to act as a witness and he now directed
Detective-Constables Kelly and Rawton to walk slowly arm-in-arm from
the Duke’s Steps across the Mall, passing over the “island” on their
way. Sergeant Gower was to follow them at about twenty paces distance,
representing Mr. Coningsby Smythe, and Poole himself, armed with a
walking stick with a rubber ferrule, took up his post in the car.
From where he sat, nearly a hundred yards away from the Duke’s Steps,
it was only with difficulty that he could make out the figures of the
two detectives; it might be darker now than it was at 6.30 p. m. on
the 24th October, but Poole doubted whether the visibility was much
worse, especially as there were no other foot-passengers about to
distract the eye.
He could just see them as they approached the Mall and at what he
considered the appropriate moment, he gave an order to the driver of
his car. Acting under previous directions, the man drove slowly to the
point where the two detectives were crossing and, as they left the
island, pulled in as close behind them as he could, without obviously
checking speed or altering direction. As the car passed behind them
Poole leant out of the left-hand window and jabbed fiercely at
Rawton’s back with his stick. The point of it just reached Rawton,
brushing against his right shoulder—Poole cursed himself for his bad
aim.
“Pull up, Frinton,” he said. “You’ll have to get closer than that—I
only just reached him—no force in the blow at all.”
“Don’t think I can get much closer, sir, without hitting them. You
see, my bonnet’s got to clear them first and by the time the window’s
behind them they must have taken at least another pace. Any closer
would have made them think they were going to be run over and they’d
have skipped.”
“It was all pretty obvious, Inspector,” said Sergeant Gower, who had
come up. “I can’t believe the gentleman I’m supposed to be
impersonating wouldn’t have noticed something odd. The car was going
much slower than is natural—unless there’s traffic to check it, which
I gather there wasn’t—and even so I thought it would run into them.
Seems to me Frinton drove very well and that even so it was obvious.”
“And even so I didn’t hit Rawton,” added Poole, frowning. “I may have
to get hold of Smythe and find out if he remembers anything definite
about the pace of the car. Meantime, we’ll try it again. Gower, you
get in the car; go a shade faster, Frinton, and see if you can get any
nearer. I’ll watch.”
The reconstruction was repeated; Frinton drove faster and with great
skill, missing the two detectives so narrowly that Sergeant Gower,
leaning well out of the window, was able to reach Rawton with the
point of the stick; the blow, however, was a glancing one, and did not
hurt him.
“Bad shot, I’m afraid, sir,” said the sergeant, getting out of the
car. “It isn’t easy to make a good one at that pace.”
“I thought he was going to knock us over,” said Rawton. “Made me jump
it would, if I hadn’t known Frinton.”
“Ay, an’ I saw the Sairgint from the corner of me oye,” interrupted
Kelly. “Lanin’ that far out av the car y’r little man was bound to
shpot him.”
“Hessel was, you mean?”
“Ay, him.”
“I’ll be Hessel this time then,” said Poole. “Repeat.”
There was no doubt about it. With the car coming so close and Sergeant
Gower leaning out to strike, Poole, in the part of Hessel, could not
have failed to notice what had happened.
“Can Hessel be in it?” muttered Poole.
“Could he not have thrown a shtone, now?” asked Kelly. “That would let
the car be further off and the man not so visible.”
“We can try it,” said Poole. “But it’ll be harder than ever to make a
good shot. What shall we throw?”
“Not a stone, sir, please,” begged Rawton. “You _might_ make a good
shot by mistake.”
“Nobody’s got a tennis ball, I suppose?” queried Poole.
Nobody had.
“Would this do, guv’nor?”
A small crowd, consisting of P. C. Lolling’s relief and a City of
Westminster street scavenger had by this time collected. Poole had not
noticed the latter till he spoke. The man was holding in the palm of
his hand what looked like a long, rounded stone, shaped rather like a
shot-gun cartridge, but shorter. Poole picked it out of the man’s hand
and found that it was made of rubber but was distinctly heavy; close
inspection proved that it had a metal core, to one end of which was
attached a very short fragment of thin cord.
“What on earth’s this?” asked Poole.
“It’s something I picked out of that very grating, sir. It’s my job to
clear them and I often find things that have fallen through,” replied
the man. “I was puzzled to know what it was and I kept it in my pocket
in case anyone came along and asked about it.”
“You found it here? When, man, when?”
“Matter of a fortnight ago, sir. The night after that poor gentleman
died.”