The Hotel “Antwerp”
“You see how it is, Inspector,” continued Wraile; “when I first came
here as manager I was very hard up indeed. We had got married just
after the War, when everyone thought they were millionaires and a
golden age was just beginning. You know how all that dream crashed; we
were driven down into two rooms on a top floor back—pretty desperate.
Then I got this job and saw a chance of getting Miriam one too—she had
been a typist and secretary in a small business before we married.
There was a secretary here—an elderly and incompetent female whom I
couldn’t stand; I sacked her and put Miriam in her place—but I didn’t
dare say she was my wife—it would have looked too like a plant. I gave
out that she had been recommended to me by a friend and as she soon
showed herself absolutely efficient no questions were asked. Obviously
she couldn’t give her real address—mine—so she gave the address of an
old nurse who keeps a boarding-house in Bloomsbury Lane and who
forwards any letters there may be and is generally tactful. There’s
been nothing criminal about it—but it was a secret that we could
hardly let out—having gone so far—and she naturally was embarrassed by
your questions.”
Poole wondered just how many of those questions Captain Wraile had
heard. He realized now that he had not heard the door of the Board
Room open but only close—perhaps deliberately closed to catch his
attention just when he had asked that question about the car. He
wondered, too, whether that manœuvring of Miss Saverel’s had been less
to get her back to the light than to get his to the door. Could she
have known that Wraile was coming in?
While Wraile had been talking the detective had been thinking and had
come to the decision not to press his question about the car; it
looked very much as if the Wrailes were on the alert now and if too
much alarmed—that question about the car had perhaps been too clear an
indication of the extent of his knowledge—might bolt before his case
was ready. He could almost certainly find out about the car by having
Wraile watched.
“I quite understand, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry to have upset Mrs.
Wraile—I admit that her answers about the address made me rather
suspicious—I happened to know that she lived in Fulham Road but that
the address she gave here was a Bloomsbury one. I had to have an
explanation—I’m very glad you happened to come in and give it.”
Poole thought he saw a lessening of tension in Captain Wraile’s face;
the latter took out a cigarette-case, offered one to Poole, which was
declined, and took one himself. His first exhalation of a lung-full of
smoke certainly seemed to indicate relief.
“Now you’re here, sir,” continued Poole, “perhaps I may ask you one or
two questions. I’ve already explained to Mr. Blagge and Miss Sav—Mrs.
Wraile, that I am here in connection with the death of Sir Garth
Fratten. It has been suggested that the possibility of Sir Garth
joining the Board was not welcomed by some of the directors; can you
tell me about that?”
Poole noticed that Mrs. Wraile evidently intended to remain in the
room while he interrogated her husband; in the ordinary course he did
not like to question anyone in the presence of a third person, but in
this case he realized that whatever passed would be discussed by
Wraile and his wife whether she was there or not; he thought it might
even be useful to have her there as he might intercept some glance
between the two that might be a guide to him. It was even yet possible
that their connection with the case might be an innocent one; their
joint attitude now might give him an indication as to whether it was
or not.
Wraile had received the detective’s question, first with surprise and
then with a frown of thought.
“I expect I know what you mean, Inspector,” he said at last, “but
though there was some disagreement about it I don’t think it amounted
to anything at all significant. I saw the account of the Inquest; I
gather that you think Sir Garth may have been murdered and that you’re
looking about for a motive. There may have been some lack of
enthusiasm about his joining the Board but it was a molehill that you
mustn’t make a mountain out of.”
Wraile’s smile was disarming.
“I don’t know whether you know our chairman—Sir Hunter Lorne? A damn
good fellow and a fine soldier, but not brimming over with tact. He
threw this business at us like a bomb—without a word of warning—said
he’d invited Sir Garth to join the Board and that he’d as good as
accepted. Of course he’d got no right to invite him without our
consent—or at any rate without consulting us—he’s got a majority of
shares so of course he can outvote us. But his inviting Fratten
without consulting us put us in a very awkward position and he made
out he’d done something wonderful and was only waiting for the
applause. Lessingham was furious and I confess I was a good deal
irritated myself. When I’d had time to think it over I came to the
conclusion that Fratten’s joining the Board would, on balance, be a
good thing; I told Sir Hunter so. I don’t know whether Lessingham came
to that conclusion or not—I’ve only seen him once since and we didn’t
refer to it then—it was after Fratten’s death. You’d better ask him
yourself if you want to know.”
The detective thanked Wraile for his very lucid and helpful
explanation and asked his “routine” question about his whereabouts on
the evening of 24th October. Wraile looked in his diary and replied
that he must have been at his office—the Ethiopian and General
Development Company’s office—till nearly half-past five as he had had
an appointment with a man named Yardley, managing-director of Canning,
Herrup, at five and their talk couldn’t have lasted much less than
half an hour—Yardley might be able to confirm that. He had then gone
to his club, the Junior Services, in Pall Mall, had tea, and had
another interview there with a potential client—Lukescu, the Roumanian
company promoter. He was at the club certainly till seven, if not
half-past, because Lukescu had been late for his appointment. There
should be no difficulty in proving that because he had been very
annoyed about being kept waiting and had more than once enquired
whether the man had not come. Probably the hall-porter or one of the
waiters would remember something about it.
Poole made careful notes of this story and tried to pin Captain Wraile
down to more exact time, but the latter did not appear to take great
interest in the subject and declared himself quite incapable of being
more exact. The detective realized that he must go to the club and
make some very close enquiries—an extremely difficult task, as clubs
are very reticent about the doings of their members. There was other
work nearer at hand, however, and Poole, taking a respectful leave of
Captain and Mrs. Wraile, made his way down the four flights of stairs
and introduced himself to the hall-porter.
Mr. Canting proved to be a man who did the duty that he was paid for.
His employer gave him, he said, a good wage to be on duty in the hall,
or in his cubby-hole looking into it, or working the lift, between the
hours of 9 a. m. and 7 p. m. on week-days, 9 and 1.30 on Saturdays,
with reasonable time off for meals. Being an old soldier (his row of
medals—M.M., 1914 star; British and Allied Victory Medals; Belgian
Croix de Guerre—showed that his had been no hollow service) he knew
his duty and did it. He remembered 24th October because General Lorne,
under whom he had served and who had got him this job, had given him a
tip for the Ormonde Plate which had come off. The General always put
him on to anything good that was going and very seldom let him down—if
he did he sometimes gave him something to make up for it—a proper
gentleman he was. On this occasion the General had said early in the
morning he was going to Newbury and would not be back again that day.
That same evening, just before he went off duty at 7 p. m., he
remembered Miss Saverel, as she went out, saying something to him
about “Blue Diamond” having won—had chaffed him about his “Turf
successes,” as she called them. A very nice young lady, pleasant but
not familiar—always said good-night to him when she left. This had
been one of her late evenings; about once a week on an average she
stayed for an hour or two after the others had gone—probably finishing
up some work. In reply to Poole’s enquiry, Canting was quite sure that
she had not left earlier and come back, as he had been in the hall or
his office (as he rather euphemistically described his cubby-hole) all
the evening—he always was. Oh yes, he sometimes left it to work the
lift—often during the daytime but seldom in the evening—it was all
“down and out,” not “in and up” then. After 6 he didn’t suppose he
worked that lift once in a blue moon—certainly he hadn’t within the
last month or so. No, there was no back- or side-door; everyone coming
out had to pass him.
This rather water-tight alibi sounded to the detective much less
genuine than the more loose and casual one of Captain Wraile; Miss
Saverel had so clearly impressed her late exit upon Canting by
referring to a horse whose victory could be exactly dated by reference
to the sporting press. Poole was prepared to bet that if he questioned
the clerks and Mr. Blagge he would find that she had also drawn their
attention to her presence in the office at the last possible moment.
When he had time he would get a time-schedule down on paper and see
what her limits—if she was indeed the driver of the wanted car—must
have been; he would then know exactly what he had got to tackle. In
the meantime, he must get in touch with Lessingham before closing
time.
There were two obvious ways of doing this; one by going to the address
given him by the Victory Finance Company—the Hotel Antwerp in Adam
Street; the other by trying the office of the Rotunda Syndicate.
Obviously, Lessingham would not be at his hotel at four o’clock in the
afternoon; he might be at his office. Poole went to the nearest
telephone-box and looked up the Rotunda Syndicate; it did not figure
in the directory.
On second thoughts the detective realized that the Rotunda Syndicate
was just the kind of concern (from what he had heard of it) that
would _not_ be in the Telephone Directory, though it might be
on the telephone. There remained the Ethiopian and General
Development Company, which would certainly have the address, or its
managing-director, Captain Wraile; the latter was closer at hand but
Poole thought he had been disturbed quite enough for one afternoon.
To the offices of the Ethiopian and General, therefore, Poole made his
way and, after asking for the manager—who, of course, was not
in—obtained what he wanted, without too great a strain upon his skill
and veracity, from the head-clerk.
137A Monument Lane was the address of the Rotunda Syndicate and, when
found, proved to be a tall and narrow building squeezed between two
more imposing edifices. It also proved to have no lift, and Poole had
the pleasure of climbing six flights of stone stairs—only to find a
locked and unresponsive door at the top.
“One man show, for a monkey,” thought Poole.
Nobody in the building knew anything about Mr. Lessingham, of the
Rotunda Syndicate, but a clerk on the floor below had occasionally
seen a stoutish middle-aged chap with a stoop mounting to, or
descending from, the top floor. Once or twice, also, he had seen a
girl, who looked as if she might be a typist. Poole realized that he
had stupidly forgotten to ask Mr. Blagge for a description of
Lessingham, but he felt pretty certain that this must be he.
There remained the Hotel Antwerp; at least something could be learnt
about Lessingham there, even though it was not likely to produce a
meeting. On reaching Adam Street, Poole was surprised to find that the
Hotel Antwerp was a small and rather shabby affair, which seemed
hardly the place to provide congenial accommodation for a financier,
even if he were not a particularly stable one. However, there was no
accounting for taste; possibly Mr. Travers Lessingham preferred to
economize on his bedroom in order to allow of expansion elsewhere.
Within a few minutes Poole was closeted in the manager’s office with
Mr. Blertot, himself a citizen of the no mean city from which his
establishment took its name. This, the detective decided, was a case
where authority, rather than tact, was required. With the more select
hotels and, still more with clubs, it was inadvisable to display the
mailed fist—managers and secretaries, not to mention hall-porters, in
those places, were extremely jealous of the confidential status of
their clients and members, and needed very gentle handling if any
information was to be obtained. But a small, second-rate hotel desired
above all things to be on good terms with the police; therefore Poole
produced his official card and corresponding manner.
“I am, as you see, a police-officer, Mr. Blertot,” he said “an
Inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I
require some information about one of your patrons, and I must impress
upon you how serious would be your position if you withheld
information or divulged the fact that you have been asked for it.”
“But yes, of course, of course. Anything I can do,” the manager—and
proprietor—hastened to assure him. “You have but to say how
it is that I can serve you, sir. My hotel, it is absolutely
respectable—absolutely. I hope, I sincerely hope, that nothing has
happened that will bring discredit upon it.”
Poole ignored the pious—and probably optimistic hope.
“The person in question,” he continued, “is Mr. Travers Lessingham; I
understand that he is a permanent, or at any rate a regular, visitor
here.”
Mr. Blertot looked surprised.
“A visitor yes, certainly; but a permanent, a regular, no, not at
all.”
It was Poole’s turn to look surprised.
“But is he not staying here now?” he asked.
“Oh no, indeed no,—not for some time. I get you the Visitors’ Book; it
is all in order, most regular.”
He sprang to his feet, as if eager to prove the immaculate compliance
of his establishment with the laws of his adopted land; Poole waved
him to his seat.
“Not necessary at the moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some more
questions first. You might ring for it, though,” he added as an
after-thought. “I certainly was given to understand that this was Mr.
Lessingham’s permanent address; is not that the case?”
“In a sense, yes, perhaps it is. Letters for him come here often; we
send them on to him. He has an arrangement with us to do so—for a
small consideration. He lives mostly, Mr. Lessingham, in Brussels, I
understand, but comes over sometimes for business in London. Then he
comes here, to the Hotel Antwerp; we make him so comfortable, he says.
Sometimes he comes, but not to stay—to fetch any letters, perhaps to
lunch or dine—our _cuisine_ is first-rate. Ah, here is the book!”
A waiter, who had previously answered the bell, laid a large and
rather soiled black volume upon the table before his employer. From
the book’s appearance Poole judged that the flow of visitors was not
sufficiently rapid to necessitate its frequent renewal. The manager
ran his finger quickly up and down the names—scrawling, ill-written
signatures for the most part—written carelessly or in a hurry with the
indifferent pen and worse ink provided by the management.
“Ah, see, here he is!” exclaimed M. Blertot. “October 11th, almost a
month ago. As I say, he is not regular, not at all. I look back.”
An exhaustive search through the book revealed the fact that for the
last two years Mr. Lessingham had visited the hotel at fairly regular
intervals of about three weeks, sometimes more frequently, sometimes
less, but averaging out at three weeks. Sometimes he stayed for a
night only, sometimes two, three, or even four; there again, the
average was something between two and three. The letters, mostly in
typewritten envelopes, came—also on the average—about twice a week and
were at once forwarded, with the extra stamp, to Mr. Lessingham’s
Brussels address, unless he had notified the management that he was on
the point of visiting the hotel.
“And the address?” asked Poole.
“175 Rue des Canetons, Brussels, IV.”
“And you know of no other address of his in London?”
“No, absolutely.”
Poole made a note of the address, asked the manager to let him know at
once if Lessingham came to the hotel, and took his departure. What he
had just learnt puzzled him considerably, but it did not altogether
surprise him. According to Mr. Blagge, Lessingham had been in London
the previous afternoon; he might of course have arrived from Brussels
in the morning and returned the same night, but according to M.
Blertot, when he did that he generally called at the hotel for
letters. According to Mr. Blagge again, Lessingham’s visits to the
Victory Finance office corresponded—so far as regards intervals—with
his visits to the hotel; it would be a simple matter to check the
actual dates with the list he had noted down from the “Antwerp’s”
Visitors’ Book. That must remain till tomorrow, however; Poole did not
feel inclined to return to Fenchurch Street that evening. He wanted,
before taking any further action, to get down to pencil and paper and
work out the possibilities of the Wraile alibi—male and female. When
he knew exactly what he was up against he would know where to begin in
his task of breaking it down.
As he walked down the Strand towards Whitehall his mind reverted, by a
natural chain of thought, to the last occasion on which he had been in
that romantic thoroughfare in connection with the case, and so, by a
further step, to the rather melodramatic interview that he had had
with the hump-backed moneylender, Silence. It struck him that he had
allowed that unsavoury episode to pass too completely into the back of
his mind; could it be that he had deliberately pushed it there,
influenced, as Chief Inspector Barrod had hinted, by his sympathy
for—perhaps, even his attraction to—Ryland Fratten’s charming
“sister”?
Now, as he walked, he deliberately forced himself to review the ugly
subject again. Silence had told him that on 17th October, a week
before Sir Garth’s death, Ryland Fratten had borrowed from him
£15,000—at an exorbitant rate of interest—on the sole security of a
note from Sir Horace Spavage saying that Sir Garth’s expectation of
life was very short. The money was lent for three months only, so that
Ryland must have expected the death within that period. What
justification had he for doing so? Sir Horace Spavage certainly had
put no such limit on his patient’s life, though he had not been in the
least surprised when death had come to him so suddenly. He determined
to try and see the actual note, or at any rate to get Sir Horace’s
version of what it contained.
In the meantime he resolved to review Ryland Fratten’s connection with
the case, to keep a closer eye upon his movements, and to thrust all
unprofessional sympathy out of his mind. He had taken up the trail of
Lessingham and the Wrailes with such keenness that he had neglected
his first objective; it was not impossible that Ryland might be
involved with them.