Justice
Three people sat in the Board Room of the Victory Finance
Company—Captain James Wraile, his wife, and Mr. Travers Lessingham. A
fire burnt in the hearth, the blinds were down, and the clock on the
mantelpiece recorded 6.23. Lessingham was speaking, in a low and
rather nervous voice.
“The fellow was at my hotel yesterday—they gave him my Brussels
address. It’s ten to one that he’s out there now.”
“He’s not that,” interposed Wraile, “because he was at my office this
afternoon. Yesterday evening he was at my club, sucking in all the
details of the alibi I made for him. I left them vague on purpose when
I talked to him and let him find them out for himself—he’ll think he’s
been clever as hell—till he discovers that there’s not a quarter of an
hour for him to play with. He can hardly accuse me of bumping into
Fratten on the steps and then bumping him off on the Mall all within
fifteen minutes.”
“But he’s been down to my office in Monument Lane too, I tell you,”
persisted Lessingham. “A fellow on the floor below told me—described
him to me. He’s on our track, Wraile.”
“He may be, but I don’t believe he’s got anything definite against us.
Of course, he must know something about the Rotunda, but there’s
nothing criminal about that—folly’s not indictable, you know,” he
added with a laugh.
“What about the General, Jim? I don’t like their sending for him,”
said Mrs. Wraile.
“I’d forgotten that for the moment. But what can he tell? Only about
the Company’s connection with the E. & G. and possibly the Rotunda—and
that they know already.”
“He was very queer when he came back. He didn’t send for me for his
evening letters as he usually does; he just sent for Blagge and I
could hear their voices booming away through the wall for nearly an
hour. I just caught a glimpse of his face through the door as he went
away—it was quite different—grey and lined and black under the eyes.
He didn’t say good-night to anyone—as he always does.”
“Eh, what, my boy?” quoted Wraile. “Of course he looked grey if the
Yard had been putting him through it—generals aren’t accustomed to
that kind of thing.”
“Yes, yes, Wraile, that’s all very clever but you’re not facing facts.
They’ve dropped young Fratten, they . . .”
“They haven’t; he’s shadowed wherever he goes.”
“Only by an underling, to keep an eye on him. They don’t suspect him
any longer. There’s no use in hanging on now—we can never make the
market now—too much’ll be known.”
“Don’t you believe it; unless they prove anything criminal against us
they’ll never put their feet into business—it’s not their job. I’m
going to hang on as . . .”
Wraile stopped abruptly, his head cocked on one side as he looked at
the window nearest to him. The blind was down and nothing was to be
seen—nor, as the pause lengthened, could anything be heard save the
steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. After their first glance
of surprise, following his to the window, Wraile’s two companions
turned their eyes back to his face; evidently they had seen and heard
nothing and were looking to him for an explanation. Wraile rose
quietly to his feet.
“Someone on the fire-escape,” he whispered, and began tiptoeing
towards the window, signing to his wife to do the same. Slowly he drew
an automatic pistol from his hip-pocket and waited, his ears straining
for a sound. His wife, on the other side of the window, quietly
watched him, knowing that her instructions would come; Lessingham
remained seated, a look of strained expectancy on his face.
Suddenly, at a touch from Mrs. Wraile, the blind flew up; almost
simultaneously Wraile flung up the window and, thrusting the pistol in
front of him, called out: “Put up your hands, you!”
Lessingham shrank back in his chair, his hands clutching at the arms.
He could see nothing beyond the figures of Wraile and his wife;
unknown danger lurked beyond. Again the sharp command of the
ex-soldier broke the short silence.
“Now come in—don’t drop your hands for a second.”
He drew back slightly and Lessingham could see a man’s leg flung over
the window-sill, followed presently by a crouching body and two
outstretched arms. As the man straightened himself up and, his hands
still above his head, turned to face his captors, Lessingham gave a
gasp of surprise and, half-rising from his chair, stared blankly at
the intruder. It was Ryland Fratten.
“Search him, Miriam,” said Wraile curtly. The girl passed her hands
lightly over Ryland’s pockets.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Bit rash aren’t you, young fellow, to come burgling without a gun?”
asked Wraile lightly. “What’s your game, anyway? There’s no till in a
Finance Company’s office.”
Ryland paid no attention to him. He was staring in amazement at the
girl beside him.
“Good God; are you Daphne?” he said at last in a strangled voice.
Wraile searched his face closely and evidently gathered that surprise
or misunderstanding would be waste of time.
“From which I take it,” he said, “that you’re Master Fratten, the
Banker’s son—or bastard, or whatever you are. I had a shrewd suspicion
of it before you spoke, though I hadn’t had the good fortune to see
you before. Yes, that’s Daphne—and that makes your position a bit
awkward—you know rather more than is convenient.”
Ryland stared at him, but soon turned his eyes back to “Daphne.”
“What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “I hardly recognize you.”
“Wonderful what a difference a black wig makes,” replied Mrs. Wraile
lightly. “Our acquaintance was so short that I’m quite surprised at
your recognizing me at all.”
“When you’ve quite done your charming reminiscences—which, I may say,
are hardly tactful in the presence of the aggrieved husband—we’ll just
go through the mere formality of tying you up, young fellow. Got any
rope about the office, Miriam?”
“There’s some cord of sorts, I believe in the clerks’ room.”
“Get it, there’s a good girl. If it won’t do we’ll have to use the
blind cord. Oh, by the way, you can put your hands down now—but stand
back in that corner where my gun’ll reach you before your fists can do
any harm.”
Wraile, for all his bantering manner, did not for a second take his
eye off his captive, while he kept him covered with an unwavering
pistol. Miriam Wraile was soon back with a length of coarse but strong
packing cord.
“Now, Lessingham,” said Wraile, “it’s about time you took the
stage—you truss him up—then you’ll be as guilty as we are. Give it
him, darling.”
Lessingham recoiled from the proffered cord.
“I—I’d rather not,” he said. “I don’t know how to—I don’t think I’ve
ever tied anything.”
Wraile looked at him with surprise, not unmixed with contempt.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “Give it to me. You’ll note he doesn’t
protest against the assault, Fratten; his moral assent to it is just
as incriminating as active participation. What a pity there’s no one
to witness it.”
“Oh, I’ll do that for you,” said Ryland. “Don’t worry; you’re
evidently all in it.”
“Yes, but the trouble is that—well, you know the old proverb—too
hackneyed to quote.”
While he was speaking Wraile had tied Ryland’s hands behind his back
and also bound his ankles together, while Mrs. Wraile kept the
unfortunate young man covered with her husband’s automatic. At the
last words Ryland’s normally pale face turned a dead white, by
comparison with which his accustomed pallor seemed the glow of health.
“Just what do you mean by that?” he asked, in a voice that he was
evidently doing his utmost to keep steady.
Wraile laughed shortly and was about to reply when Lessingham broke
in:
“I—I don’t like this,” he said. “What are you going to do, Wraile?
You’re not going to . . .”
“Oh, dry up,” the other broke in curtly, his patience with his
confederate evidently wearing thin. “You know perfectly well we can’t
afford to let this chap go now.”
“Yes, but can’t we put him somewhere till we’re—till we’re—you know
what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, and I’m not going to—not yet—not till I’m
at my last gasp do I give up this chance of a lifetime now that it’s
at our very mouths. No, we’re going through with this—and this young
fool’ll have to be put out of the way.”
“Aren’t you being just the least bit cold-blooded? discussing the poor
boy’s fate in front of his eyes?” interposed Mrs. Wraile. “Supposing
we adjourn to my office.”
“Not much, there’s no fire there. We’ll put him in there if you like.
No, don’t shout, Fratten; no one’ll hear you and you’ll get a bullet
for a certainty; as it is, you’ve got just a hundred to one chance
that we may hit on some way of pulling this off without wringing your
neck. Lessingham will plead for you and I’m sure your Daphne’ll do all
she can for her fancy boy. Come on, you’ll have to hop.”
Within two minutes, Ryland Fratten was securely tied to the table on
which Mr. Blagge was accustomed to do the daily and exciting tasks
which were his work in life. With his back flat along the table top,
one arm tied to each table leg at one end and an ankle to each at the
other—with a ruler stuffed in his mouth and tied round his head with a
duster, Ryland was unable to move an inch or make the slightest sound.
“We’ll leave your eyes and ears free,” said Wraile jokingly—and
thereby made, in all probability, the most vital mistake of his life.
The door closed, and Ryland was left alone in the dark and bitter
cold—alone with his thoughts and with fear—the fear of death,
immediate and solitary—death without a word or a look from his
friends, from those he loved—not a touch of the hand from the girl who
had just begun to dawn, in all her loveliness, upon his awakening
consciousness. In a frenzy of rage and terror Ryland struggled to free
his wrists or legs, to shout for help—even if it meant bringing death
upon him; not a sound could he make, not the slightest loosening of
his bonds could he effect; he could not even move the table to which
he was bound.
Back in the Board Room, Wraile dropped the chaffing manner that had
carried him through the none-too-pleasant task of preparing a fellow
man for his death. His face now was hard and drawn. Lessingham greeted
him with a nervous protest.
“Look here, Wraile,” he cried, “this is madness. You can’t kill the
boy like this—here, in our own office, without any preparations, any
plans. Think of all the time and trouble we had to take to . . . even
that has been as good as found out. If we do this now, they’re bound
to trace it to us.”
“Oh, cut it out!” exclaimed Wraile angrily. “D’you think I’m going to
slit his throat here and let him bleed all over Blagge’s papers? Give
me a minute or two to make a plan, for God’s sake. You must see that
we can’t let the fellow go now. Apart from his recognizing
Miriam—that’s one thing they haven’t spotted yet—he may have heard
everything we were saying in here. I can’t remember now exactly what
we did say, but we must have given ourselves away pretty completely.”
While this wrangle over a man’s life was going on, Miriam Wraile sat,
swinging a leg, on one end of the Board table, busily engaged in
polishing her well-shaped nails with a small pad taken from her
handbag. It was evident that, as far as she was concerned, the issue
would be settled by her husband—all she had to do was to wait for
orders.
Lessingham, too, apparently recognized that he could not,
single-handed, oppose the stronger will of his confederate; he
relapsed into gloomy silence. Wraile sat, his elbows on the table, his
head in his hands, deeply wrapped in thought. Once more silence, save
for the ticking of the clock. . . .
Slowly the minute hand moved towards the hour; there was a faint
preliminary whirr, a short pause, and then—ping, ping, ping, ping,
ping, ping, ping. The noise penetrated to Wraile’s consciousness; he
lifted his head and looked round. As he did so, startlingly loud in
the silent building, three sharp taps sounded upon the outer door—the
door opening on to the staircase.
The three occupants of the room sat, rigid with consternation, staring
at the door; even Wraile’s usually calm face mirrored the shock of
this startling summons. In the next room, Ryland had heard it too;
hope leapt into his heart; he concentrated all his strength on one
despairing effort.
Once again the three knocks—more insistent than before—shattered the
silence.
“Open this door, please!”
The sharp, authoritative ring of the voice left no doubt as to its
owner’s status.
“Police!” gasped Lessingham, clutching at the table before him, and
staring wildly at his companions.
Miriam Wraile slipped quickly to her husband’s side and whispered in
his ear. He shook his head.
“No—no. It may be watched. We must bluff them,” he whispered. Then,
aloud: “Who’s that? What do you want?”
“Police officer. Will you open the door, sir, please?”
“Board-meeting! Papers, Miriam! Take the Chair, Lessingham!” whispered
Wraile. He pushed back his chair, walked slowly to the door, and—as
Miriam slipped back into the room with a bundle of papers and
scattered them on the table, turned the key and opened the door.
“What on earth do you want?” he said.
Without answering, Inspector Poole stepped quietly into the room,
almost brushing Wraile aside as he did so. The latter took a quick
look out on to the landing and then shut the door, but did not resume
his seat. Poole’s eyes moved quickly round the room, resting for a
second on Lessingham and Mrs. Wraile, and taking in the details of the
scene. There was no expression, either of disappointment or surprise
or pleasure on his face as he addressed himself to Lessingham, now
seated in the Chairman’s place at the end of the table.
“Very sorry to disturb your meeting, sir,” he said. “There’s a report
of a man having been seen to enter your offices by way of the
emergency staircase. May I ask if you have seen him?”
“A man? No, certainly not,” answered Lessingham. His glance strayed
towards Wraile, who quickly took command of the situation.
“How long ago is this supposed to have happened, Inspector? By the
way, Lessingham, this is Inspector Poole, who came to see me yesterday
about poor Fratten’s death.”
Lessingham bowed, and Poole half raised his hand to his bared head.
“About half an hour ago, sir. The information was a bit slow getting
to us and then we had to find out from the porter which offices it
would be.”
“Half an hour ago? Oh, no; we’ve been in here ever since six and Miss
Saverel’s been in her office—she’s only just come in. That’s the only
other room that opens on to the escape. The porter must have made a
mistake.”
Poole hesitated for a second, as if doubtful what to do in the face of
this direct denial. The momentary pause was ended by a terrific crash
from the adjoining room. Quicker almost than thought, the detective
whipped an automatic from his pocket.
“Stand back!” he cried. “Put your hands up, Captain Wraile—all of
you—back in that corner.”
He took a quick step back to the door and, with his left hand, felt
for and turned the key, which he slipped into his pocket. Still
keeping his pistol pointed at the group across the table, he moved
quickly across to the door into the passage leading to the manager’s
and clerks’ rooms.
“Stay where you are till I come back,” he exclaimed sharply and,
leaving the Board room door open, darted quickly into the manager’s
office. A glance showed him a heavy table turned over on its side and
on it the crucified form of Ryland Fratten. Snatching a knife from his
pocket he had just cut the cord binding Fratten’s right hand when he
heard the door of the Board Room shut and the lock snap. At the same
instant a window was flung up and there came the sound of hurried
footsteps on the iron staircase.
Poole dashed to his own window, forced back the catch, threw up the
sash and had got one leg across the sill before he realized that there
was no staircase outside it. A laugh came from the darkness and
Wraile’s mocking voice:
“Sorry, Poole; I misled you about the fire-escape. This is the only
window that has it. You must try the stairs!”
The detective flashed a torch to the sound of the voice and followed
its beam with the pistol in his other hand, but, though he made out a
dim movement below him, the twisting flights of stairs made shooting
impossible, even had it been advisable. Thrusting his body out as far
as it would go he bellowed with all the force of his lungs:
“Hold them, Fallows! Hold them!”
There came an answering shout from below, a moment’s pause, and then a
terrible cry of fear, followed, a moment later, by the sickening thud
of a heavy body striking the hard ground.
Poole sprang back from the window, thrust the knife into Ryland’s free
hand, and darted down the passage into the clerks’ room. The outer
door on to the staircase was locked, the key nowhere to be seen. It
was useless to return to the Board room; that would mean certainly
one, and probably two locked doors. Placing the muzzle of his pistol
against the keyhole Poole fired twice, then, drawing back, crashed his
heel twice above the shattered lock. The door, of course, was made to
open inwards and so could not be forced out, but after two more shots
the detective was able to tear his way out on to the landing. Dashing
down the stairs, three steps at a time, Poole rushed out into the
street and up an alley on the right of Ald House. In a small yard at
the back, he came upon Detective Fallows seated on the ground, propped
against the wall, his face white and a bleeding cut on his forehead. A
few yards away lay a huddled form. Poole strode up to it and flashed
his torch upon the face. What seemed to be a black wig had been forced
over one ear, a broken dental plate protruded from the gaping mouth,
but, in the bright beam of light, there was no mistaking the dead face
of Leopold Hessel.