CHAPTER VIII.Ryland FrattenPoole sat for a while in silence, allowing this significant piece of information to sink into his mind.“That means, then,” he said at last, “that if Sir Garth had died on the evening of the 25th of October instead of the 24th, Miss Inez Fratten would have inherited the whole of the residuary estate of her father—nearly half a million pounds—and her brother would have had nothing?”“Not nothing. He was to have received an annuity of £300; Sir Garth did not want him to be quite destitute—he doubted Ryland’s ability to earn a living for himself, and to a certain extent he blamed himself for bringing the boy up in the expectation of idle riches.”“Still, it meant £300 a year instead of £10,000?”“Exactly.”“That,” thought Poole to himself, “may be considered to be a motive for murder.”Aloud, he said: “Did Mr. Ryland Fratten know of this new will?”“That I cannot say for certain,” replied the lawyer. “I gathered that Sir Garth had made use of some expression—something about ‘cutting off’ or ‘disinheriting,’ perhaps—that might have given Mr. Ryland an idea of what was in the wind.”“But did he know that the new will was to have been signed on the day you say it was—25th October?”“That again I don’t know—I should doubt it.”Evidently that was a point that must be looked into; Poole made a mental note of it and turned to another line of approach.“And the cause of the change, sir?”Mr. Menticle, who had been standing all this time, returned to his chair on the other side of the fireplace and slowly filled and lit a long-stemmed brier pipe. Poole got the impression that the lawyer was taking time to arrange his ideas. After a draw or two, and the use of another match, Mr. Menticle replied to the question that had been addressed to him. He spoke slowly and deliberately.“It was, I think, the culmination of a long series of disagreements and even quarrels between the two. Sir Garth was a man of very strict, perhaps narrow, views, particularly as regards women and money. Ryland, on the other hand, though an attractive and charming boy—in my opinion—is very weak on both these points. His head is turned by every girl he meets, with the inevitable consequence of entanglements, and he has no idea of the value of money. When I tell you that he was very keen on everything to do with the theatre and moved in—shall I say—rather Bohemian circles, you can understand what those two weaknesses led him into.”Poole nodded. “Definite trouble?”“Definite trouble. About two years ago he got engaged to a young lady of the name of Crystel—Pinkie Crystel—that was her stage name; her real name was Rosa Glass—I know because I had to negotiate the ransom, so to speak. That cost Sir Garth £10,000. He was very angry—not without reason. Ryland was repentant, swore to leave chorus girls alone, promised definitely not to get engaged again without his father’s consent. Within a month the chorus girl business had begun again—he could not keep away from them—and they cost him money—more than his allowance. From time to time Sir Garth had to hear of it, had to stump up—comparatively small sums, it is true; still the irritation was there. At the same time Ryland, who really, I am sure, was devoted to Sir Garth, felt his affection being chilled by repeated rebukes. He saw less and less of Sir Garth, ceased living in the house—steered clear of him as far as possible. Miss Inez, naturally, was miserable about it—did everything to bring them together, but without success—they were both obstinate men.“Finally, about a fortnight before Sir Garth’s death, he received a letter from Ryland saying that he had got entangled with another girl—I don’t know the name in this case—and that she was asking for £20,000 or matrimony—and Ryland was straight enough to say that he had found he didn’t like her after all and simply couldn’t marry her. Naturally there was a flare up; unfortunately Sir Garth read the letter when he got back to his house just after having an unpleasant shock—a narrow escape from being run over—in the City. No doubt he was feeling unwell; he sent for Ryland, who happened to be in the house—as a matter of fact I believe the boy had come there to face the music—had a first-class row with him and finally packed him off with a ‘curse and a copper coin,’ as it used to be called. Ryland left the house and never returned to it in Sir Garth’s lifetime, and then only at Miss Inez’ urgent entreaty, as she herself told me.”Mr. Menticle turned to the table beside him and began rummaging among the papers that he had brought in.“That, Inspector,” he said, “is all I have to tell you—and I have not enjoyed telling it. Here, if you wish to see it, is the revised—and unsigned—will. After the funeral and the reading of the effective will, I so far forgot myself as to tear this one across—I was upset. But here are the four pieces, they are still quite good as evidence if required—though only corroborative evidence—of mystery, of course. Being unsigned, they are no absolute evidence of Sir Garth’s intention; I might have drafted the will out of my own head, for all anyone knows. There are also, of course, the rough draft and my own notes taken at the time of Sir Garth’s instructions to me, but none of them bears Sir Garth’s signature, nor, I believe, any of his handwriting—he made no corrections.”Poole felt that, for the moment, he had got as much out of Mr. Menticle as he could expect, though he would almost certainly have some more questions to ask him later on. It was by now nearly eight o’clock and the detective felt he had done a fairly full day’s work. In any case, he wanted time to think over things before going any further. Being a single man, living in cheap rooms in Battersea—(he had refused to allow his father to supplement his professional earnings)—he had formed the habit of taking his meals at a variety of inexpensive restaurants in different parts of London. Without revealing his professional identity, he made a point of getting into conversation with the proprietors and waiters, and sometimes with the habitués of these places, with the result that he had picked up a good deal of valuable knowledge about London life, and had made a number of potentially useful friends.On this occasion, he made his way to the “Grand Couronne” in Greek Street, Soho, and after ordering himself a special risotto and a large glass of Münchener—which had to be fetched from “over the way,” the restaurant possessing no licence—set himself to review the progress he had made. In the first place he knew fairly thoroughly the nature of the disease which had resulted in Sir Garth Fratten’s death, together with the circumstances which had led up to it; he had a fairly clear picture of the scene on the Duke of York’s Steps, when the accident which caused his death had occurred; he had, he thought, solved the mystery surrounding the nature of the disease—the ignorance of the family and friends was evidently a foible of Sir Garth’s, and even so, not very closely adhered to; finally he had discovered that one person at any rate had a very strong motive indeed for desiring the death—and the death within very narrow limits of time—of the late banker.Not very much perhaps, but still, more than was known twenty-four hours ago.His satisfaction was somewhat modified when he turned to a consideration of the progress he hadnotmade.He did not know, in the first place, whether a crime had been committed at all—a rather vital point! Assuming that it had, he did not know who had committed it, nor how it had been committed. If he had found one person with a motive, he had by no means eliminated all possible alternative suspects—in spite of Mr. Hessel’s chaff, he still believed that rich and powerful men often made dangerous enemies. On that line alone he had a great deal of ground to cover. He had, in fact, a long way still to go before he even created a case, let alone solved it.Finishing his modest dinner, he invited the manager, Signor Pablo Vienzi, to join him in a cup of coffee and a cigar. Signor Vienzi was only too willing, but was unable to repay this hospitality by any useful information. Poole’s discreet pumping revealed only the fact that the proprietor had never heard either of Mr. Ryland Fratten or of Miss Pinkie Crystel—though Poole did not expect much help from the latter line. The detective paid his bill, said good-night, and went home to bed.Arriving at Scotland Yard soon after nine the next morning, Inspector Poole went through the small amount of routine work that awaited him and made his way to the room of the Assistant Commissioner. On his way there, he hesitated outside the door of Chief Inspector Barrod. He felt that the correct procedure was for him to report in the first place to his immediate superior, and through him, if necessary, to Sir Leward. But Chief Inspector Barrod had been very curt and decided on the point, and Poole, with some misgiving, complied with this short-circuiting of established routine.Sir Leward himself had only just arrived and was going through his letters when Poole reported, but, remembering the charms of the young lady who had inspired this investigation, the Chief sent away his secretary and listened to the detective’s report.“Does Mr. Barrod know about this?” he asked, when Poole had finished.“No, sir. He told me to report direct to you.”“Better . . .” Sir Leward checked himself, remembering the Chief Inspector’s obvious lack of interest. “All right, we’ll keep it to ourselves for the moment. Now what’s the next step?”“That’s as you decide, sir. If I might make a suggestion, I think I ought now to interview Mr. Ryland Fratten and find out whether he knew about that will and the date of its signature.”“He’d hardly tell you, would he?”“He might, if he were off his guard; or at any rate he might make some statement which might later be proved false. Assuming, that is, for the moment, that he is guilty. And that’s a big assumption, sir, when we don’t even know that there has been a crime.”“No. I suppose we don’t. Still, it looks more like it than it did. You’ve done very well, Poole, to get so far with so little to go on.”Poole shook his head.“I didn’t do well with the doctor, sir. I don’t know now whether he examined the body for marks of violence or not; he only said that there weren’t any.”“A different thing, eh?”“Yes, sir; he was angry and wanted to get rid of me. I oughtn’t to have let him get angry. He wasn’t an easy subject though, sir.”“I’ll bet he wasn’t; I know those knighted physicians—benighted, most of them.”It took Poole the better part of the day to find Ryland Fratten. He had not the heart to go and ask Inez Fratten for her brother’s address; it was so like asking her to help in putting an halter round his neck. He did not care, either, to ask the butler at Queen Anne’s Gate; he did not want to start any gossip yet in that quarter. He ran him to earth at length, by dint of trying all the theatrical and semi-theatrical clubs in London in turn.The “Doorstep” Club, in Burlington Gardens, caters for a mixed clientele—(it is a proprietary affair, and a very profitable one at that)—of young bucks interested in boxing, horse-racing, and the stage. Apart from the young bucks themselves, many of the leading jockeys, the more amusing actors, and the least unsuccessful boxers, were members of the club, though their subscriptions were in many cases “overlooked” by the intelligent proprietor. Poole was admitted, presumably on the strength of his good looks or his athletic figure, by a hall porter who ought to have known better. He was shown into the small and dark room on the ground-floor-back which was reserved for visitors, and his private card: “John Poole, 35 Vincent Gardens, S.W.”—a guileless looking affair—sent up by a “bell-hop” to Mr. Fratten.Ryland Fratten appeared after about ten minutes, with a half-finished cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.“Sorry to keep you waiting. Have a cocktail. Here, boy, wait a minute. What’ll you have? Strongly recommend a ‘Pirate’s Breath.’ ”“No, thanks,” said Poole, omitting the “sir” in the presence of the boy. “I won’t keep you a minute.”“Quite sure? All right; hop it, Ferdinand.”When the door had closed behind the boy, Poole held out his official card.“I’m sorry to bother you in your club, sir,” he said. “I didn’t quite know where to find you.”Ryland Fratten looked with surprise at his visitor. His first impression of him had suggested anything but a policeman.“What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Not the usual car-obstruction rot?”Poole smiled.“No, sir. It’s rather a confidential matter. I wondered if I might have a talk with you somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed—your rooms, perhaps.”“I haven’t got much in the way of rooms,” said Fratten, “and they’re a long way off. No one’s in the least likely to barge into this coal-cellar. I wish you’d have a drink. Have a cigarette, anyway.”“No, thank you, sir. I’ve been instructed to ask you for certain information regarding the death of your father, Sir Garth Fratten.”Poole watched his companion closely as he said these words. He saw the light-hearted, careless expression on his face change to one of serious attention—Ryland Fratten was listening now, very carefully.“To be quite frank,” the detective continued, “we are not quite satisfied with the circumstances surrounding Sir Garth’s death; there really should, strictly speaking, have been an inquest, though Sir Horace Spavage informs us that he was perfectly satisfied that death was due to natural causes, arising out of his disease, and that he had no hesitation in giving a certificate. Can you by any chance throw any light on the matter?”“I don’t think so. What sort of light?”“You weren’t with your father, or near him, when the accident occurred?”“No, I wasn’t,” said Fratten. “I didn’t hear anything about it till my sister got on to me at Potiphar’s in the middle of supper. I’d been to a show—she didn’t know how to find me.”Poole noticed that he did not give any indication of his lack of touch with his father; still, he had not been definitely untruthful on the subject.“Were you surprised when you heard of your father’s death?”“It was a great shock, naturally, but I wasn’t really surprised; I knew that he was very ill—that he had something the matter with him that might cause his death at any time.”“Heart trouble, wasn’t it?”“Yes—no. That is to say, I used to think it was heart trouble, but actually it was a thing called an aneurism—something wrong with an artery.”Poole wondered whether the sudden correction was a slip or a lightning decision that deception was too dangerous. For all his careless manner, Fratten had intelligent eyes and Poole was not at all convinced that he was a fool. He decided to try fresh ground—and to take a risk over it.“There’s a point I wanted to ask you about the will,” he said. “When did you discover that your father was making a fresh will?”“When he . . . Good God, what do you mean? What are you suggesting?” Fratten had sprung to his feet and his dark eyes blazed out of a white face. “Are you trying to make out that I killed my father? You damned swine! You can take yourself straight to hell!”He stood for a moment glaring down at Poole, then swung on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The detective rose slowly to his feet. A glow of satisfaction was spreading over him. This was something better than he had hoped. That second correction, within a bare minute of the first, was unmistakable. Fratten had begun automatically to answer the question about his knowledge of the new will, had pulled himself up with a jerk and, to cover the slip, had put up a display of righteous indignation. He had been extraordinarily quick, too, at picking up the implication of Poole’s question. It was obvious, of course, but only a clever man could have picked it up so instantaneously. Undoubtedly the plot was thickening.Poole picked up his hat and had taken a step or two towards the door when it opened and Ryland Fratten came back into the room. His face was still white but his eyes were calm.“I’ve come to apologize,” he said. “I had no right to say that to you—I didn’t really mean it to you personally—of course you’re only doing your duty. Will you please forgive me?”When Poole left the club a minute or two later, most of the satisfaction had died out of him. Instead, he had a curious sensation of shame at ever having felt satisfaction.
Poole sat for a while in silence, allowing this significant piece of information to sink into his mind.
“That means, then,” he said at last, “that if Sir Garth had died on the evening of the 25th of October instead of the 24th, Miss Inez Fratten would have inherited the whole of the residuary estate of her father—nearly half a million pounds—and her brother would have had nothing?”
“Not nothing. He was to have received an annuity of £300; Sir Garth did not want him to be quite destitute—he doubted Ryland’s ability to earn a living for himself, and to a certain extent he blamed himself for bringing the boy up in the expectation of idle riches.”
“Still, it meant £300 a year instead of £10,000?”
“Exactly.”
“That,” thought Poole to himself, “may be considered to be a motive for murder.”
Aloud, he said: “Did Mr. Ryland Fratten know of this new will?”
“That I cannot say for certain,” replied the lawyer. “I gathered that Sir Garth had made use of some expression—something about ‘cutting off’ or ‘disinheriting,’ perhaps—that might have given Mr. Ryland an idea of what was in the wind.”
“But did he know that the new will was to have been signed on the day you say it was—25th October?”
“That again I don’t know—I should doubt it.”
Evidently that was a point that must be looked into; Poole made a mental note of it and turned to another line of approach.
“And the cause of the change, sir?”
Mr. Menticle, who had been standing all this time, returned to his chair on the other side of the fireplace and slowly filled and lit a long-stemmed brier pipe. Poole got the impression that the lawyer was taking time to arrange his ideas. After a draw or two, and the use of another match, Mr. Menticle replied to the question that had been addressed to him. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
“It was, I think, the culmination of a long series of disagreements and even quarrels between the two. Sir Garth was a man of very strict, perhaps narrow, views, particularly as regards women and money. Ryland, on the other hand, though an attractive and charming boy—in my opinion—is very weak on both these points. His head is turned by every girl he meets, with the inevitable consequence of entanglements, and he has no idea of the value of money. When I tell you that he was very keen on everything to do with the theatre and moved in—shall I say—rather Bohemian circles, you can understand what those two weaknesses led him into.”
Poole nodded. “Definite trouble?”
“Definite trouble. About two years ago he got engaged to a young lady of the name of Crystel—Pinkie Crystel—that was her stage name; her real name was Rosa Glass—I know because I had to negotiate the ransom, so to speak. That cost Sir Garth £10,000. He was very angry—not without reason. Ryland was repentant, swore to leave chorus girls alone, promised definitely not to get engaged again without his father’s consent. Within a month the chorus girl business had begun again—he could not keep away from them—and they cost him money—more than his allowance. From time to time Sir Garth had to hear of it, had to stump up—comparatively small sums, it is true; still the irritation was there. At the same time Ryland, who really, I am sure, was devoted to Sir Garth, felt his affection being chilled by repeated rebukes. He saw less and less of Sir Garth, ceased living in the house—steered clear of him as far as possible. Miss Inez, naturally, was miserable about it—did everything to bring them together, but without success—they were both obstinate men.
“Finally, about a fortnight before Sir Garth’s death, he received a letter from Ryland saying that he had got entangled with another girl—I don’t know the name in this case—and that she was asking for £20,000 or matrimony—and Ryland was straight enough to say that he had found he didn’t like her after all and simply couldn’t marry her. Naturally there was a flare up; unfortunately Sir Garth read the letter when he got back to his house just after having an unpleasant shock—a narrow escape from being run over—in the City. No doubt he was feeling unwell; he sent for Ryland, who happened to be in the house—as a matter of fact I believe the boy had come there to face the music—had a first-class row with him and finally packed him off with a ‘curse and a copper coin,’ as it used to be called. Ryland left the house and never returned to it in Sir Garth’s lifetime, and then only at Miss Inez’ urgent entreaty, as she herself told me.”
Mr. Menticle turned to the table beside him and began rummaging among the papers that he had brought in.
“That, Inspector,” he said, “is all I have to tell you—and I have not enjoyed telling it. Here, if you wish to see it, is the revised—and unsigned—will. After the funeral and the reading of the effective will, I so far forgot myself as to tear this one across—I was upset. But here are the four pieces, they are still quite good as evidence if required—though only corroborative evidence—of mystery, of course. Being unsigned, they are no absolute evidence of Sir Garth’s intention; I might have drafted the will out of my own head, for all anyone knows. There are also, of course, the rough draft and my own notes taken at the time of Sir Garth’s instructions to me, but none of them bears Sir Garth’s signature, nor, I believe, any of his handwriting—he made no corrections.”
Poole felt that, for the moment, he had got as much out of Mr. Menticle as he could expect, though he would almost certainly have some more questions to ask him later on. It was by now nearly eight o’clock and the detective felt he had done a fairly full day’s work. In any case, he wanted time to think over things before going any further. Being a single man, living in cheap rooms in Battersea—(he had refused to allow his father to supplement his professional earnings)—he had formed the habit of taking his meals at a variety of inexpensive restaurants in different parts of London. Without revealing his professional identity, he made a point of getting into conversation with the proprietors and waiters, and sometimes with the habitués of these places, with the result that he had picked up a good deal of valuable knowledge about London life, and had made a number of potentially useful friends.
On this occasion, he made his way to the “Grand Couronne” in Greek Street, Soho, and after ordering himself a special risotto and a large glass of Münchener—which had to be fetched from “over the way,” the restaurant possessing no licence—set himself to review the progress he had made. In the first place he knew fairly thoroughly the nature of the disease which had resulted in Sir Garth Fratten’s death, together with the circumstances which had led up to it; he had a fairly clear picture of the scene on the Duke of York’s Steps, when the accident which caused his death had occurred; he had, he thought, solved the mystery surrounding the nature of the disease—the ignorance of the family and friends was evidently a foible of Sir Garth’s, and even so, not very closely adhered to; finally he had discovered that one person at any rate had a very strong motive indeed for desiring the death—and the death within very narrow limits of time—of the late banker.
Not very much perhaps, but still, more than was known twenty-four hours ago.
His satisfaction was somewhat modified when he turned to a consideration of the progress he hadnotmade.
He did not know, in the first place, whether a crime had been committed at all—a rather vital point! Assuming that it had, he did not know who had committed it, nor how it had been committed. If he had found one person with a motive, he had by no means eliminated all possible alternative suspects—in spite of Mr. Hessel’s chaff, he still believed that rich and powerful men often made dangerous enemies. On that line alone he had a great deal of ground to cover. He had, in fact, a long way still to go before he even created a case, let alone solved it.
Finishing his modest dinner, he invited the manager, Signor Pablo Vienzi, to join him in a cup of coffee and a cigar. Signor Vienzi was only too willing, but was unable to repay this hospitality by any useful information. Poole’s discreet pumping revealed only the fact that the proprietor had never heard either of Mr. Ryland Fratten or of Miss Pinkie Crystel—though Poole did not expect much help from the latter line. The detective paid his bill, said good-night, and went home to bed.
Arriving at Scotland Yard soon after nine the next morning, Inspector Poole went through the small amount of routine work that awaited him and made his way to the room of the Assistant Commissioner. On his way there, he hesitated outside the door of Chief Inspector Barrod. He felt that the correct procedure was for him to report in the first place to his immediate superior, and through him, if necessary, to Sir Leward. But Chief Inspector Barrod had been very curt and decided on the point, and Poole, with some misgiving, complied with this short-circuiting of established routine.
Sir Leward himself had only just arrived and was going through his letters when Poole reported, but, remembering the charms of the young lady who had inspired this investigation, the Chief sent away his secretary and listened to the detective’s report.
“Does Mr. Barrod know about this?” he asked, when Poole had finished.
“No, sir. He told me to report direct to you.”
“Better . . .” Sir Leward checked himself, remembering the Chief Inspector’s obvious lack of interest. “All right, we’ll keep it to ourselves for the moment. Now what’s the next step?”
“That’s as you decide, sir. If I might make a suggestion, I think I ought now to interview Mr. Ryland Fratten and find out whether he knew about that will and the date of its signature.”
“He’d hardly tell you, would he?”
“He might, if he were off his guard; or at any rate he might make some statement which might later be proved false. Assuming, that is, for the moment, that he is guilty. And that’s a big assumption, sir, when we don’t even know that there has been a crime.”
“No. I suppose we don’t. Still, it looks more like it than it did. You’ve done very well, Poole, to get so far with so little to go on.”
Poole shook his head.
“I didn’t do well with the doctor, sir. I don’t know now whether he examined the body for marks of violence or not; he only said that there weren’t any.”
“A different thing, eh?”
“Yes, sir; he was angry and wanted to get rid of me. I oughtn’t to have let him get angry. He wasn’t an easy subject though, sir.”
“I’ll bet he wasn’t; I know those knighted physicians—benighted, most of them.”
It took Poole the better part of the day to find Ryland Fratten. He had not the heart to go and ask Inez Fratten for her brother’s address; it was so like asking her to help in putting an halter round his neck. He did not care, either, to ask the butler at Queen Anne’s Gate; he did not want to start any gossip yet in that quarter. He ran him to earth at length, by dint of trying all the theatrical and semi-theatrical clubs in London in turn.
The “Doorstep” Club, in Burlington Gardens, caters for a mixed clientele—(it is a proprietary affair, and a very profitable one at that)—of young bucks interested in boxing, horse-racing, and the stage. Apart from the young bucks themselves, many of the leading jockeys, the more amusing actors, and the least unsuccessful boxers, were members of the club, though their subscriptions were in many cases “overlooked” by the intelligent proprietor. Poole was admitted, presumably on the strength of his good looks or his athletic figure, by a hall porter who ought to have known better. He was shown into the small and dark room on the ground-floor-back which was reserved for visitors, and his private card: “John Poole, 35 Vincent Gardens, S.W.”—a guileless looking affair—sent up by a “bell-hop” to Mr. Fratten.
Ryland Fratten appeared after about ten minutes, with a half-finished cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Have a cocktail. Here, boy, wait a minute. What’ll you have? Strongly recommend a ‘Pirate’s Breath.’ ”
“No, thanks,” said Poole, omitting the “sir” in the presence of the boy. “I won’t keep you a minute.”
“Quite sure? All right; hop it, Ferdinand.”
When the door had closed behind the boy, Poole held out his official card.
“I’m sorry to bother you in your club, sir,” he said. “I didn’t quite know where to find you.”
Ryland Fratten looked with surprise at his visitor. His first impression of him had suggested anything but a policeman.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Not the usual car-obstruction rot?”
Poole smiled.
“No, sir. It’s rather a confidential matter. I wondered if I might have a talk with you somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed—your rooms, perhaps.”
“I haven’t got much in the way of rooms,” said Fratten, “and they’re a long way off. No one’s in the least likely to barge into this coal-cellar. I wish you’d have a drink. Have a cigarette, anyway.”
“No, thank you, sir. I’ve been instructed to ask you for certain information regarding the death of your father, Sir Garth Fratten.”
Poole watched his companion closely as he said these words. He saw the light-hearted, careless expression on his face change to one of serious attention—Ryland Fratten was listening now, very carefully.
“To be quite frank,” the detective continued, “we are not quite satisfied with the circumstances surrounding Sir Garth’s death; there really should, strictly speaking, have been an inquest, though Sir Horace Spavage informs us that he was perfectly satisfied that death was due to natural causes, arising out of his disease, and that he had no hesitation in giving a certificate. Can you by any chance throw any light on the matter?”
“I don’t think so. What sort of light?”
“You weren’t with your father, or near him, when the accident occurred?”
“No, I wasn’t,” said Fratten. “I didn’t hear anything about it till my sister got on to me at Potiphar’s in the middle of supper. I’d been to a show—she didn’t know how to find me.”
Poole noticed that he did not give any indication of his lack of touch with his father; still, he had not been definitely untruthful on the subject.
“Were you surprised when you heard of your father’s death?”
“It was a great shock, naturally, but I wasn’t really surprised; I knew that he was very ill—that he had something the matter with him that might cause his death at any time.”
“Heart trouble, wasn’t it?”
“Yes—no. That is to say, I used to think it was heart trouble, but actually it was a thing called an aneurism—something wrong with an artery.”
Poole wondered whether the sudden correction was a slip or a lightning decision that deception was too dangerous. For all his careless manner, Fratten had intelligent eyes and Poole was not at all convinced that he was a fool. He decided to try fresh ground—and to take a risk over it.
“There’s a point I wanted to ask you about the will,” he said. “When did you discover that your father was making a fresh will?”
“When he . . . Good God, what do you mean? What are you suggesting?” Fratten had sprung to his feet and his dark eyes blazed out of a white face. “Are you trying to make out that I killed my father? You damned swine! You can take yourself straight to hell!”
He stood for a moment glaring down at Poole, then swung on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The detective rose slowly to his feet. A glow of satisfaction was spreading over him. This was something better than he had hoped. That second correction, within a bare minute of the first, was unmistakable. Fratten had begun automatically to answer the question about his knowledge of the new will, had pulled himself up with a jerk and, to cover the slip, had put up a display of righteous indignation. He had been extraordinarily quick, too, at picking up the implication of Poole’s question. It was obvious, of course, but only a clever man could have picked it up so instantaneously. Undoubtedly the plot was thickening.
Poole picked up his hat and had taken a step or two towards the door when it opened and Ryland Fratten came back into the room. His face was still white but his eyes were calm.
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said. “I had no right to say that to you—I didn’t really mean it to you personally—of course you’re only doing your duty. Will you please forgive me?”
When Poole left the club a minute or two later, most of the satisfaction had died out of him. Instead, he had a curious sensation of shame at ever having felt satisfaction.