Alibi
The two trails that Poole was now following—excluding, for the moment,
Ryland Fratten—had diverged; one remained in London, the other led to
Belgium—Brussels. He had to decide which to follow himself and which
to allot to an assistant. His inclination was to give Lessingham the
place of honour, but if he were to go off to Brussels now he would be
out of touch with events in London—and he had a feeling that events
would soon become more rapid. It was possible, too, that though
Lessingham’s trail led to Brussels, he himself might still be in
London. Poole decided, therefore, to send Sergeant Gower to the
address in the Rue de Canetons, whilst he himself investigated the
alibis so kindly provided for him by Captain and Mrs. Wraile.
Returning to Scotland Yard, he sent for Sergeant Gower and told him to
look up the train and air services to the Belgian capital and to be
ready to catch whatever would get him there quickest. Gower, who had
the reputation of being a walking Bradshaw, replied at once that there
was an 8.30 p. m. train from Liverpool Street to Harwich which would
get him to Brussels some time after 9 a. m. the following morning. As
it was not barely six there would be no difficulty about catching it;
what were his instructions? The question at once brought Poole to a
realization of the difficulty that confronted him. It was easy enough
to say: find Lessingham; but, if found, what was to be done with him?
It was not, as yet, a question of arrest; when that time came the
Belgian police might have to be called in. It was rather a question of
interrogation and Poole wanted to do that himself. For the moment,
therefore, he instructed Sergeant Gower to investigate the address; if
possible get in touch with Lessingham, and then telephone to him,
Poole, for further instructions. He gave certain definite hours at
which he would try to be on the end of the telephone at Scotland Yard.
When Gower had gone, Poole took a sheet of foolscap and started to
work on the Wraile alibis. Assuming for the moment that Mrs. Wraile
was the driver of the car, and Wraile the man who had first jostled
and then shot Sir Garth, he jotted down the times within which each of
them must have been away from their alibi. Reviewing all the evidence
as to time, it seemed fairly certain that the accident on the Duke of
York’s Steps had taken place at 6.30 p. m., the death a few minutes
later. With that assumption the time-table worked out as follows:
Mrs. Wraile must have been in position near the Admiralty Arch by 6.25
p. m. at the latest, probably by 6.20 p. m. In a car, it would take
her quite 15 minutes to get from Ald House to the Admiralty Arch. She
might therefore have left Ald House at 6.5 or 6.10 p. m. That was a
significant time: it allowed the remainder of the staff to have left
(and supplied her with the first part of her alibi) before she left
herself. As for her return, she would probably have dropped her
husband somewhere near his alibi (Pall Mall) and driven straight back
to Ald House; getting there any time after 6.45. Canting, the
hall-porter, had said that she left the building just before he went
off duty at 7 p. m. It was a close squeeze, but just possible. How she
dodged Canting so as to make him think that was the first time she
left the building that evening, had yet to be shown.
Now for Captain Wraile. He must have been near the top of the Duke of
York’s Steps by about 6.20 p. m. That was, at the most, five minutes’
walk from his club (The Junior Services in Pall Mall) which he must
have left at 6.15. If, after the shooting of Fratten, Mrs. Wraile had
driven straight up the Mall and turned past Marlborough House into
Pall Mall she could have dropped her husband near his club by 6.40.
Wraile had, therefore, only to be absent from his club from 6.15 to
6.40 p. m. It remained for Poole to find out whether that could have
been done.
Having completed his schedule, the detective looked at his watch; it
was twenty minutes to seven, a comparatively quiet time at clubs—and
the same staff would probably be on duty as were there at the time of
Wraile’s alibi for 24th October. Poole put on his hat and coat, walked
out into Whitehall, flung himself on to a 53 bus as it gathered way
past the Home Office, and was duly dropped as it swung past the Guards
Memorial in Waterloo Place. From there it was two minutes’ walk to the
Junior Services—at least two minutes to come off Wraile’s
danger-period.
Poole knew the ways—the excellent ways—of Club servants; they would
give him no information whatever concerning their members. He
therefore asked for the Secretary and was lucky enough to find him in.
Captain Voilance had been a Regular in his young days, had left the
army in order to make a living on which to keep a young and attractive
wife, had made that living working as a super-shopwalker in a big
men’s outfitting store in New York, had thrown up his job in August
1914 in order to re-join his regiment and had lost any chance of
recovering it by having his face mutilated by a bomb in the
Hohenzollern Redoubt in 1915. Three years of home duty and constant
operations had not sapped his courage, but they had sapped his
capital, for his pretty wife was bitten by the war fever for restless
enjoyment, and when she left him for a better-looking hero in 1918,
Voilance found himself with about four hundred pounds, a daughter aged
five, and his honourable scars.
Fortunately for him, those scars did actually—and exceptionally—profit
him in his search for work. The Committee of The Junior Services,
realizing that a sentimental public draws the line at grotesque
horrors, appointed him Secretary of their club out of an application
list approaching four figures. They got a very grateful and a very
competent servant.
After the first shock, Poole realized at once that he was dealing with
a man—not a “correct” machine. He gave Captain Voilance his
professional card.
“I am a Scotland Yard detective, as you can see, sir,” he said. “I
have come here to get information about one of your members. I know
that clubs don’t give information about their members to
detectives—not till they’re absolutely forced to. It would take me a
little time to put force into action and I don’t want to do it—I want
willing co-operation. I’ll put my cards on the table.”
Poole sketched the history of the case, without mentioning the name of
Lessingham or Mrs. Wraile.
“My point is this, sir,” he concluded. “A particularly beastly crime
has been committed—apart from the murder, the attempts to incriminate
an innocent man puts the murderer beyond sympathy. I strongly suspect
Captain Wraile of being at least closely connected with the crime. He
has told me a story which puts him in this club all the time that the
murder was being prepared for and committed. I want you to help me
either to prove or disprove his story. If it is proved, then he is
cleared; if it is definitely disproved, then there can be no shadow of
doubt that he is a murderer and that the sooner he ceases to be a
member of your club the better for the club. Will you help, sir?”
Voilance sat for a minute looking blankly at the calendar in front of
him.
“I know what my own answer is, Inspector,” he said. “But I’m bound to
consult a member of the Committee if there’s one in the club. If
you’ll wait a minute . . .”
Within three minutes he was back.
“Not one of ’em in,” he reported. “General Cannup was leaving the club
as I came down the stairs—I wasn’t quick enough to catch him.” A
shadow of a smile flickered across the distorted features. “I must
decide for myself. I’ll do what I can to help you. What’s the first
move?”
“Time of entering and leaving club—do you keep a check on that?”
“We do, as far as possible.” Captain Voilance turned to the
house-telephone. “Send me up the entry book covering 24th October,” he
said.
“Then,” continued Poole, “I want to know what Captain Wraile was doing
while he was in the club—he says he had tea and that later a visitor
came to see him—a Roumanian gentleman called Lukescu.”
“Better have the hall-porter up himself.” Captain Voilance had
recourse once more to the house-telephone. Within half a minute the
porter appeared—a well set-up, handsome man of about fifty, with a
fine show of medals on his livery.
“Come in, Parlett. This is Inspector Poole, of Scotland Yard. He’s
making some confidential enquiries about a member—Captain Wraile. I’ve
heard all the facts of the case and decided that the club shall give
Mr. Poole all the information it can; it’s really in Captain Wraile’s
interest. Sit down, Parlett; now, Inspector, fire away.”
Poole drew out his note-book.
“You’ve got the Entry Book there, Mr. Parlett,” he said. “Can you tell
me what time Captain Wraile entered the club on 24th October?”
Parlett turned the pages.
“5.45 p. m., sir. Colonel Croope came in at the same time.”
“And left?” More pages turned.
“7.40 p. m., sir.”
“Do you know anything about him between those times?”
Parlett looked blank.
“It’s three weeks ago, sir. I’m afraid I . . .”
“I’ll jog your memory; a foreign gentleman—a Mr. Lukescu—was to call
on him that evening.”
Parlett’s face at once brightened.
“Oh, yes, sir; now I remember well; the gentleman was late—Captain
Wraile was in a proper fuss about it. I’ve got the time Mr. Lukescu
arrived in the Visitors’ Book, but I remember well enough—he was
expected at 6.30 but he didn’t come and didn’t come—not until close on
7. One of the waiters came and told me that the gentleman was expected
at 6.30; I made a note of it on my pad. He didn’t come, though, and
Captain Wraile kept on popping down to see if he hadn’t come and been
shown somewhere else.”
It was Poole’s turn to look blank.
“Do you mean to say that you saw Captain Wraile yourself between 6.30
and 7?”
“Yes, sir—two or three times.”
“You can’t say exactly what time? Could it have been before 6.45 that
you saw him?”
“I couldn’t say that I’m sure, sir. I only know that he came along at
intervals to ask if his guest hadn’t come.”
“And the waiter who told you about Mr. Lukescu coming—did he bring
that as a message from Captain Wraile?”
“That’s right, sir; came straight from him!”
“At what time?”
Parlett scratched his head.
“Trying to think which one it was, sir; might have been Buntle or it
might have been Gyne—most likely Gyne—he would have been on the
smoking-room bell. Shall I send for him, sir?”
“Find out first if he remembers the incident,” said Captain Voilance.
“If not, try Buntle.”
“I can’t try him, sir; he’s away today—burying a mother-in-law or
something.”
Poole groaned.
“It’ll be him for certain, then,” he said. “Just a moment before you
go, Parlett; could Captain Wraile have left the club without your
seeing him—between those hours you’ve given me, I mean?”
“Could have, sir; but most unlikely; either I or one of my assistants
is in the box all the time—we could hardly have missed him—not at that
time of day.”
“No other door? Ladies’ annex, or anything?”
The hall-porter snorted.
“No, sir, there’s not. We leave ladies’ annexes to the Guards and the
Carlton,” with which withering remark he set out in quest of Mr. Gyne.
“Looks pretty water-tight so far, doesn’t it?” said Voilance.
“It’s an open question yet, sir—my time theory isn’t burst yet—not
definitely, though it looks as if I should have my work cut out to
prove it. That’s the trouble; the proof lies with me, not with him.”
Within five minutes Parlett returned, to report that Gyne knew nothing
of the incident—it must have been Buntle who brought the message.
Gyne, however, remembered Captain Wraile having tea in the
smoking-room at close on six one day about that time—had said
something to him about it’s being so late but he’d had no lunch.
Gyne was interviewed and was able to fix the date as after 19th
October because he had been ill for a week before that, and not within
the last week or two—he was sure of that. On reference to his book
Parlett was able to say that 24th October was the only day since the
club had re-opened after its annual cleaning that Captain Wraile had
come in before dinner-time. That seemed to fix Gyne’s recollection to
24th October—not an important contribution in any case. Parlett
reported that he expected Buntle back on duty at 3 p. m. the following
afternoon. Poole rose to leave but the Secretary detained him.
“How long do you go on working, Inspector?” he asked when Parlett had
left. “All night?”
Poole laughed.
“No, sir; not always. As a matter of fact I shall knock off now;
nothing more I can usefully do tonight.”
“I wish you’d take pity on a lonely man and come and dine with me—not
here—too near our work. It would be a treat to me to have a yarn with
someone who isn’t a stereotyped soldier or sailor.”
Poole was more than delighted to fall in with the suggestion and the
two men spent a pleasant evening, dining at Pisotto’s in Greek Street
and, after a leisurely meal strung out by much reminiscent
conversation, turning in at the Avenue Pavilion to see the revival of
one of Stroheim’s early masterpieces. It was twelve o’clock before
Poole got into his bed in Battersea—tired, but much refreshed by his
evening’s relaxation.
The following morning Poole had a long interview with Sir Leward
Marradine and Chief Inspector Barrod, reporting the result of his
visit to the Victory Finance Company’s office, his interviews with Mr.
Blagge, Miss Saverel, and Captain Wraile—especially the relationship
between the two last, and his failure to get in touch with Travers
Lessingham. In his turn he learnt of Sir Leward’s interview with the
Chairman of the Company and particularly of Sir Hunter’s declaration
as to Wraile’s experience of such weapons as cross-bows—a regular
genius in inventing devilments of that kind, Sir Hunter had reported
his late Brigade Major to have been. As a result of the discussion
that followed it was decided that warrants should be issued against
Captain and Mrs. Wraile, to be executed in the event of Poole being
able to break down their alibis, but that nothing definite could yet
be charged against Lessingham; a good deal must depend on Sergeant
Gower’s report and Poole’s subsequent interview. A statement from one
or both of the Wrailes after arrest might, of course, implicate
Lessingham, but Poole doubted if either of them was the type to give
away a friend.
“And young Fratten?” asked Barrod. “What about him?”
“Oh surely you’re not still after him?” said Sir Leward, who was
hoping to return to favour in Queen Anne’s Gate. “He’s cleared by the
exposure of this Wraile conspiracy, isn’t he?”
“More likely to be in it,” growled Barrod. “Don’t forget that Poole
saw him coming away from the Victory Finance offices the other day.”
“Fallows reports he’s been quite quiet lately, sir,” interposed Poole.
“He hasn’t tried to give him the slip again. I haven’t forgotten about
him though, sir—I’m trying to see where he fits in. There’s someone
else I’m not quite happy about either.”
“Eh, who’s that?”
“Mr. Hessel, sir; if the Wrailes had the close-fitting time-table I
think they had it seems to me more than a coincidence that Sir Garth
should have walked right into it; I can’t help thinking that he was
led into it.”
Sir Leward whistled. Barrod was silent.
“Have you questioned him since you had that idea in your head?”
“No, sir; it’s only very hazy—and I’ve been afraid of putting him on
his guard prematurely. It’s only since yesterday that I’ve realized
just how close the Wraile alibi must be. Shall I see him again?”
It was agreed that Poole should interview Hessel that morning and try
to probe the latter’s possible connection with the Wrailes and
Lessingham. At one o’clock he was to be back at the Yard in
expectation of a telephone call from Sergeant Gower in Brussels; at
three he was to interview Buntle, the club waiter. It looked like
being another full day.
Mr. Hessel, however, was not at Fratten’s Bank; the manager thought he
was away in the country as he had not returned since the week-end. His
address was so-and-so. Poole returned to the Yard and, taking out his
note-book, went through the whole case from beginning to end to see
whether any fresh light struck him. As he read, he felt a growing
conviction that Hessel _must_ have known of the projected attack upon
his friend. Upon his friend! It was impossible to believe that any man
could be guilty of such treachery—the luring of a friend to his
death—the act of a Judas.
Deep in these thoughts Poole was startled by a call to the telephone—a
call from Brussels. Faint but distinct came the voice of Sergeant
Gower. He had called at 175 Rue des Canetons and found it a mean
tobacconist’s shop kept by an old woman of the name of Pintole. The
lady had blankly denied all knowledge of anyone of the name of
Lessingham but a combination of threat and bribery—threat of the
Bureau de Police and the flourishing of a hundred-Belgian note—had at
last pierced her obstinacy and she had confessed that a gentleman of
that name had once called there and arranged for her to receive—for a
consideration—any letters addressed to him there—and to destroy them.
No, he never came there himself—she had not set eyes on him since his
first visit, more than a year ago.
Poole instructed his subordinate to call at the headquarters of the
Brussels Police and try to trace Lessingham through them, but he felt
small hope of success—the trail, he was sure, led back to London.
Nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush now; he must go to
the offices of the Ethiopian and General and try to get in touch with
Lessingham through them. Although it was the middle of the
luncheon-hour Poole made his way at once to the City and, having found
that both Captain Wraile and his secretary were out at lunch, tried to
pump the junior clerks on duty. Wraile, however, evidently knew how to
discipline his staff—with the exception of the clerk whom Mangane had
been able to bribe; anyhow, Poole could get nothing from them but a
request to wait till Mr. Lacquier, the secretary, returned. When he
did return the result was little better—Mr. Lessingham was to be found
at the offices of the Rotunda Syndicate—137A Monument Lane.
This was nothing more than he had learnt on the previous afternoon—but
it was all that he was to learn on the subject from that office, even
when Captain Wraile returned and graciously received him.
Feeling savage, and defeated, Poole made his way back by bus to Pall
Mall. It was four o’clock by the time he got to The Junior Service
Club but he was soon introduced to the bereaved waiter. Mr. Buntle
proved to be as shrewd a man as the early disposal of his
mother-in-law suggested. He quite well remembered Captain Wraile
sending him with a message to the hall-porter about a Mr. Lukescu (he
pronounced it Look-askew) being expected. The Captain was sitting in
the small library at the back—the room to which visitors were
generally taken for prolonged conversation; he was actually sitting at
the writing table in the window when he (Buntle) entered.
“You don’t remember what time, that was, Buntle?” asked Poole eagerly.
“I do so; Captain Wraile asked me what time it was—he couldn’t see the
clock from where he sat, sir. It was 6.25 pip emma.”
“6.25! You’re certain?”
“Absolutely, sir; because he said the gentleman was expected at 6.30
and I thought to myself ‘I must slip along or he’ll be here before I
get there.’”
Poole felt blank depression settle upon him. This was surely cutting
Wraile’s limits too close for possibility.
“That clock,” he asked, “is it accurate—does it usually keep good
time? Is it set regularly?”
“Every day, sir; my own duty, as soon as it comes through each
morning, is to get round and check every clock in the Club by the time
from 2 LO. That clock’s dead regular.”
Poole groaned. This was surely defeat.
“That’s what made me wonder, sir, when I checked the clocks next day
and found this one was ten minutes fast.”
Poole leapt to his feet.
“Ten minutes fast! Do you mean—do you mean that it had been put on?”
“Looks re—markably like it, don’t it, sir?” said Buntle with a wink.
Poole stared for a second at the clock, then dashed to the window and
threw it open.
“Where does this give on to?” he exclaimed ungrammatically.
“Yard at the back, sir, leading into St. James’s Alley.”
Poole leaned out. Dark as it was, he could see just below him the top
of a large ash-bin. It would be a simple matter for an active man to
climb out of the window—and in again.
“By God, I’ve got him,” exclaimed the detective eagerly. “Called the
waiter in to see him at 6.15—clock at 6.25—slipped out of the window
the moment he was out of the room; back at 6.40 and straight down to
the hall-porter—apparently only 15 minutes unaccounted for! Now for
Mrs.—? What’s her game?—probably the window-trick again—they generally
repeat themselves.”
Poole hurried to the nearest call-box and was soon through to Chief
Inspector Barrod at Scotland Yard.
“The bottom’s out of Wraile’s alibi, sir. I’m going down now to see
about his wife’s. But we ought to have them both shadowed from now on;
if you agree, sir, will you send me down a couple of plain-clothes men
to Ald House, in Fenchurch Street, about thirty yards west of Tollard
Lane? I’ll put them on to their people.”
“Yes, that’s all right,” came the reply; “but hold on a minute,
there’s a message for you. Fallows rang up half an hour ago to say
that Mr. Fratten had slipped him again; he’s trying to pick up the
trail.”