CHAPTER XXV.Justice

CHAPTER XXV.JusticeThree 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.

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.

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