Miss Saverel
A few minutes after Sir Hunter Lorne left the offices of the Victory
Finance Company, Inspector Poole presented himself at the door and
asked the junior clerk who answered his ring to take a note in to the
manager. A minute later he was himself shown into the Board Room,
where Mr. Blagge, a look of mingled dignity and anxiety on his face,
was awaiting him.
“No trouble I hope, Inspector?” he asked. “Sir Hunter Lorne, our
Chairman, has just gone out—you have only just missed him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blagge,” replied Poole, “it’s you I want to see—in the
first instance. As a matter of fact, Sir Hunter is himself at Scotland
Yard now, giving certain information to the Assistant-Commissioner—oh,
no,” he added with a smile, as he saw the look of horror on the
manager’s face, “Sir Hunter himself is not in trouble. The matter,
however, is a serious one, as serious as could well be.” (Poole knew
when to be ponderous.) “It is concerned with the death of Sir Garth
Fratten, who, you are doubtless aware, was on the point of becoming a
member of your Board when he died—a sudden and violent death.”
Mr. Blagge’s reaction was exemplary—pale face, enlarged pupils,
twittering fingers.
“Now, Mr. Blagge,” continued Poole, “it is in your power to help the
police in the execution of their duty; I need hardly add that should
you attempt to hinder them you will render yourself liable to arrest
as an accessory after the fact.”
The manager was now ripe for exploitation.
“You have as active members of your Board, in addition to your
Chairman, a Mr. Travers Lessingham and a Captain James Wraile?”
Mr. Blagge assented with a gulp.
“Now, I want you to tell me in the first place, anything that you know
about the whereabouts of Captain Wraile and Mr. Lessingham on the late
afternoon of Thursday, October 24th—the afternoon on which Sir Garth
Fratten met his end.” (Poole groaned in spirit at the expression, but
he felt sure that it would be unction to the soul of Mr. Blagge.)
The manager, after a deal of head-scratching and note-book searching,
and after being refused leave by Poole to consult the secretary or
other juniors, at last evolved the information that Mr. Lessingham had
not been to the office that day at all (he had come in late on the
previous afternoon and remained talking to Captain Wraile after he,
Mr. Blagge, had gone) and that Captain Wraile had been in in the
morning but not at all in the afternoon—Captain Wraile was, the
Inspector might not be aware, managing-director of the . . . the
Inspector was aware and cut him short.
“And your secretary, Miss Saverel; where was she?”
Mr. Blagge looked at him in surprise but, receiving no explanation of
this curious question, did his best to answer it. Miss Saverel never
left the office before six; Mr. Blagge was certain that she had not
done so on any occasion within the last three months or more. She
occasionally stayed on late to finish some work—she was not one to
rush off directly the hour struck. Whether she had done so on the day
in question he could not say; she herself might remember, or, if the
Inspector did not wish to question her, then Canting, the hall-porter,
might do so—he was generally about and had a good memory.
This was as much as Poole could expect in this direction, so he
switched to another. How regularly did Captain Wraile and Mr.
Lessingham respectively attend at the office and what were their
respective addresses? This was a comparatively simple matter and Mr.
Blagge answered with more assurance. Captain Wraile came to the office
about three times a week—generally from about four to five, but
occasionally first thing in the morning. He attended all
Board-meetings, which had been specially arranged so as not to clash
with his own at the Ethiopian and General Development Company. Sir
Hunter, the Chairman, relied a good deal upon Captain Wraile’s advice
and seldom took an important decision without consulting him. Mr.
Lessingham, on the other hand, came very seldom—often not for three
weeks at a time and then generally only for an hour or so at the end
of the day. Mr. Blagge believed that he was a gentleman with a good
many irons in the financial fire, but knew very little about him. He
had, in spite of his irregular attendances, been of great value to the
Board, especially in the matter of loans, for which he had a “flair”
that was almost uncanny.
“And the addresses?”
“Captain Wraile lives in the Fulham Road, No. 223A” (Poole pricked up
his ears). “Mr. Lessingham has his communications sent to the Hotel
Antwerp, in Adam Street—off the Strand, I fancy it is. I don’t know
whether he lives there regularly or only when he’s in London; I
believe, as a matter of fact, that he has a good deal of business in
Brussels and is there as much as he is in London—if not more. What we
send him doesn’t amount to much—notices and agenda of Board-meetings
and any special business that the Chairman wants him to attend to. He
said he didn’t want—Mr. Lessingham that is—he didn’t want prospectuses
of every company and flotation that we were interested in sent after
him—if there was anything important we were to send it—not otherwise.”
“And when was he in last?”
“Thursday evening, as a matter of fact, Inspector. He was here
sometime and hadn’t left by the time I left myself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blagge; and now, Miss Saverel—where does she live?”
“I’m afraid I really can’t say that—I’ve never had occasion to
enquire.”
“Can you find it out without asking?”
“Oh yes, I can look in the address-book. I’ll do so at once.”
Mr. Blagge was only away a few seconds and returned with a small
note-book in his hand.
“Here it is, you see, Inspector: 94 Bloomsbury Lane, W.C.”
“Bloomsbury?”
Poole quickly smothered his surprise.
“Perhaps I might see the young lady,” he said. “If you would ask her
to come in here I should not have to keep you from your work any
longer.”
The manager nodded and made his way to the room next door, which he
shared with the secretary.
“Inspector Poole, of Scotland Yard, wants to see you, please, Miss
Saverel,” he said solemnly.
The girl looked up quickly. Her fine, arched eyebrows rose slightly,
but no expression, either of alarm or excitement, appeared on her
attractive face. She sat for a moment, as if in thought, her eyes
fixed on the centre button of Mr. Blagge’s black coat.
“All right,” she said. “I’ve just got this to get off—then I’ll go and
see him.” She tapped a few bars on her typewriter, whisked the paper
out, scribbled a signature, folded and placed the letter in an
envelope and addressed it. Rising, she went out into the narrow
passage and opened the door into the clerks’ room.
“Take that round at once, please, Smithers,” she said, then closing
the door, walked down the short passage to the Board Room.
“You want to see me?” she asked lightly.
Poole found himself admiring the calmness and poise of this woman,
who, if she was what he thought her, must know herself to be face to
face with deadly peril—at the very least, an appalling ordeal. He
could not be certain that she was the girl Inez Fratten had pointed
out to him on Friday evening and who had slipped him at Charing Cross.
He had not had a close view of “Daphne,” who, in any case, was wearing
a hat and an overcoat. This girl was certainly of much the same build,
a slim, graceful figure, with short, fair hair and extremely
attractive brown eyes. She was dressed in a black skirt and grey silk
shirt, with a touch of white at her throat.
“I have to ask you one or two questions, Miss Saverel,” he said, “some
of them routine questions—in connection with the death of Sir Garth
Fratten. You perhaps know that Sir Garth was invited by your Chairman,
Sir Hunter Lorne, to join the Board of the Company; we have reason to
believe that that invitation was not acceptable to every member of the
Board; can you confirm that?”
“I can’t,” replied Miss Saverel calmly.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“How should I?”
“Surely you must have heard some conversation about it—the matter must
have been discussed in your presence at one time or another?”
Miss Saverel shrugged her shoulders but said nothing.
“I’m afraid I must press you for an answer, Miss Saverel.”
“You can press as much as you like. Even if I knew anything I
shouldn’t tell you; there is such a thing as being loyal to your
employers.”
“Not in the eyes of the law, if it involves shielding criminals.
Please think again, Miss Saverel.”
The girl merely shook her head. Poole could not help admiring her
attitude; whether she was a guilty party or not she was playing the
right game for her side. He tried a new and more direct attack.
“Then I must ask you something about yourself. This is quite a routine
question, as a matter of fact—I have to ask it of everyone even
remotely connected with the case; where were you on the evening of
Thursday 24th October, between six and seven? That is roughly the
time, I should tell you, at which Sir Garth Fratten was killed.”
Miss Saverel seemed not in the least disturbed by the question.
“I was here till six, anyhow,” she said. “I may have been here longer.
I’ll have a look in my diary—it’s in the other room—you can come with
me if you think I’m liable to bolt.”
Poole opened the door for her and watched her go down the passage and
enter the small room next door; he heard Mr. Blagge speak to her and
her reply; immediately afterwards she came out with a diary in her
hand.
“October 24th,” she said, turning over the pages. “October 24th—here
it is—oh yes, I was here till quite late that evening—look.” She
showed him the diary; under the date, October 24th, were written, in a
bold, clear hand, the words: “Captain W. and Chairman discussed Annual
Report a. m. Typed draft till 7.”
“You were here till seven?”
“I was, for my sins—and no overtime.”
“Was anyone here with you?”
“Not after six. Smithers and Varle, the two clerks leave then. After
that I was alone.”
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“Canting may have—the hall-porter. He’s generally about—but he’d
hardly remember the day.”
“Nobody else?”
“I don’t think so. I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it—or
not.”
“Thank you, Miss Saverel; now just one thing more. Would you mind
telling me where you live?”
He took out his note-book as if to compare her answer with an address
in his book. The girl looked at him keenly, then moved towards the
window.
“It’s dark in here with that blind down,” she said, “you can hardly
see your book.”
She pulled the blind up the few inches that it had dropped, then
turned back towards him. Poole realized that she now had her back to
the light, whilst he had it in his eyes, his back to the door into the
outer lobby. He thought, however, that he could still see her face
sufficiently well to make it unnecessary for him to manœuvre for
position.
“It’s very charming of you to take such an interest in me,” she said.
“I live in Bloomsbury Lane—94; fashionable neighbourhood—in my
grandmother’s time.”
“You haven’t ever lived in the Fulham Road, have you?”
There was the merest fraction of a pause before the answer came.
“The Fulham Road? No, never. You must be getting me mixed up with
Captain Wraile, one of the directors—he lives there.”
“But you haven’t lived there yourself?”
“No, I told you I hadn’t.”
“But you go there sometimes?” persisted Poole.
“Aren’t you being rather offensive?” she said.
“Please answer my questions; do you ever go to the Fulham Road?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
“I expect I’ve been down it at times—it’s not out of bounds, is it?”
“Have you been there lately?”
“I may have.”
“Were you there last Friday morning?”
Poole felt sure that there was a waver in the assurance of the fine
brown eyes that had looked so calmly into his.
“I think you’re trying to insinuate something beastly; I shan’t answer
you.”
“You refuse to answer?”
“Certainly I do; I don’t know what right you have to ask me that.”
“Then I will ask you something else; do you drive a car?”
Before there was time for a reply, Poole heard the door of the room
close—the door on to the landing. He turned quickly and saw standing
just inside the room a well-built, soldierly-looking man—the man whom
he had seen on Friday evening leaving this building in company with
the girl whom Inez Fratten had declared to be “Daphne.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector; my name is Wraile,” he said. “Blagge told
me you were here. Miss Saverel is rather embarrassed by your question
about the Fulham Road; you see, you’ve stumbled on a secret that we
were trying to keep—Miss Saverel is my wife.”