CHAPTER XXVI.. . . May Be BlindPoole turned back towards his unfortunate subordinate.“What happened?” he asked curtly. “Where’s that constable?”“Revolver, sir, I think,” replied Fallows weakly “—hit me with it—on the head. Munt ran to the body—when it fell. I waited—below stairs—there’s a drop. Chap jumped—hit at me as he came down—knocked me out. Don’t know—where—Munt is.”He gave a gasp and collapsed into unconsciousness. Poole straightened himself and turned again towards the alley-way. As he did so, Ryland Fratten emerged from it, hobbling uncertainly.“Sorry I couldn’t get out before, Inspector,” he said. “My legs were asleep—they’ll hardly carry me now.”“What were you doing up—no, never mind that now; we must find these people.” He ran down into the street and looked to right and left. From the direction of Cannon Street Station a disconsolate-looking uniformed police-constable was approaching at an awkward shuffle.“Where the hell have you been?” demanded the Inspector angrily. “Where have those people got to?”“Couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir,” replied the constable in an aggrieved voice. “When the body fell, sir, I ran to it. Then I ’eard a shout, and lookin’ round, saw the other ’tec bein’ laid out by a bloke with a gun. I darted after ’im” (the idea of the solid police-constable Munt “darting” anywhere would have tickled Poole at any other time). “The girl ’ad gone off down the alley—’er mate follered ’er. I made after ’im and as I turned into the street ’e was waiting for me and caught me slap in the wind with ’is knee—doubled me right up. ’E pushed me over and give me two more with the ’eel of ’is boot—in the belly and them parts—brutal it was, sir. Took me a couple o’ minutes to come round. But I’d seen which way e’d gone—turned up Chaffer’s Way there—’undred yards along—leads into Leadenhall it does. I went after ’em as soon as I could but I couldn’t see nothing of them.”“Did you spread the warning? Did you tell the nearest possible points or patrols?”“No, sir. I come back to see if I could ’elp that pore ’tec what ’ad been knocked out.”“You blasted fool,” exclaimed Poole in a white heat of rage. “Your superintendent shall hear of this. If they get away I’ll have you hounded out of the force. Get off now and telephone to your divisional headquarters—give them a description—Captain and Mrs. Wraile—tell them to look out for a two-seater Caxton coupé and to search all garages in this neighbourhood for it. Tell them to ring all the garages round here and warn them not to let that car out—to hold the owners if they can. Then get round to the men on point duty round here yourself and warn them—and any patrols you meet. It’s murder they’re wanted for, mind. Do this job thoroughly and I may forget the rest. Shift yourself.”P. C. Munt went off at the nearest to a “dart” that he had ever attained. Poole turned to Ryland.“There ought to have been two plain-clothes men here from the Yard long ago,” he explained. “I was going to put them on to the Wrailes in any case; luckily I linked up here with Fallows, who was on your trail, Mr. Fratten, and we picked up that uniformed fool just outside. I can’t stop to explain more now, sir, but if you wouldn’t mind staying with Fallows till I can send an ambulance—I’ll get on to the Yard and get general information out. These people’ll make for the ports in all probability. The roads and railways must both be watched—they may not use their car. I wish I knew what garage they used round here—it must be close at hand—I ought to have asked that fool Munt for the nearest ones—fool myself.”Poole dashed off to the nearest telephone, and was quickly through to the Chief Inspector Barrod. Within half an hour every station in London, and many in the suburbs, was being watched for the Wrailes. Within an hour all County Constabularies within two hundred miles of London had been warned of the possible car or train passengers, whilst every port in the kingdom had a similar description. A message to the divisional police in the Fulham district ensured that the Wrailes’ lodgings would be at once put under watch.Poole’s part in this had taken less than ten minutes—the time of his telephone conversation with Barrod; immediately it was finished, he rang up the divisional station, found out that Munt had put his message through correctly and that all possible steps were being taken to search for the runaways, and finally asked for the locations of the nearest garages to Ald House. Only three were within the five minutes’ walk that Poole, with his knowledge of Mrs. Wraile’s time-table, put as the outside limit. Within another ten minutes Poole had found the car in a garage almost at the back of Ald House—within less than a minute’s walk. The Wrailes had not been near it since it had been left there in the morning.Poole again rang up Scotland Yard and arranged for a plain-clothes man to be posted at the garage, in case the Wrailes even now came for their car. He also arranged for all cab ranks and shelters in the neighbourhood of Ald House to be interrogated—there was a strong possibility of the Wrailes having picked up a taxi as they had not taken their car.Returning to Ald House, Poole found that the two plain-clothes men from Scotland Yard had at last turned up; they had come by Underground from Westminster and had been held up for twenty minutes by a breakdown on the line. Soon after their arrival, a police ambulance had also turned up and removed Fallows and the body of Leopold Hessel. P. C. Munt, who had been explaining the situation to the plain-clothes men, reported that the other gentleman had said that he was returning to Queen Anne’s Gate and would be there for the rest of the evening if Inspector Poole wanted him. The detective felt that Ryland’s explanation of his peculiar behaviour could now wait; there was no longer any possibility that he was a confederate of the murderers. Besides, there was a lot of work still to be done before he could feel that the net spread for the Wrailes was complete; in all probability Chief Inspector Barrod would do all that could be done, but Poole was not going to leave anything to chance now.During the hours that followed, the Victory Finance offices were searched, the Wrailes’ rooms in Fulham not only searched but turned inside out; the owners had not been back since morning and there was no sign of a hurried flight. Poole collected all the papers he could lay his hands on for future inspection, but for immediate use he concentrated on an exhaustive search for photographs of the fugitives—he wanted to get their likenesses broadcast through the country with the least possible delay. A cabinet photograph on Mrs. Wraile’s writing-table gave an excellent representation of Sir Hunter Lorne’s late Brigade Major in uniform, but it was not till a volume of snapshots had been unearthed and searched that a picture of his wife was forthcoming.The rush of work had kept Poole’s mind from the problem of Hessel’s identity with Lessingham. Although it had come as a complete surprise, the detective had felt too suspicious of the banker’s connection with the case—and particularly with the five minutes following the “accident”—to be entirely astonished. Now, as he worked on the creation of the net to catch the living criminals he felt that he could well thrust the problem of the dead one into the background until his immediate task was completed. By the time he got back to his Battersea lodgings, well after midnight, he had forgotten all about it and dropped asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.The succeeding days were trying ones for Inspector Poole. Once the machinery of Scotland Yard and of the County Constabularies was in full working order, there was little he could do himself in the way of pursuit. For days the search went on, at first with confidence, then with patient hope, finally with dogged persistence—but little more.At a conference with the Assistant-Commissioner on the morning after the affair at Ald House it had been decided to take the public fully into the confidence of the police—primarily in order that the full power of the press might be brought to bear in the search. Placards bearing the likeness of James and Miriam Wraile were posted at every police station and post office; all but the most dignified newspapers printed similar reproductions, together with minute descriptions, and every detail of the escape and many possible and impossible theories and suggestions. The B.B.C. gave nightly encouragement to the searchers, both professional and amateur.An inquest was held on the body of Leopold Hessel, at which his identity with the financier, Travers Lessingham, was revealed, together with his association with Captain Wraile in the Rotunda Syndicate transactions. Nothing, however, was said at the first hearing about the Fratten murder, though naturally the public jumped to their own conclusions. The circumstances of Hessel’s death could not, of course, be fully established without the presence of the Wrailes, and the inquest was adjourned for a fortnight.Poole busied himself in connecting up the carefully concealed threads which had united this latest Jekyll and Hyde. Travers Lessingham had apparently been in existence since the year following the war, though he had begun his operations in the City in a very minor key—feeling his way, as Poole phrased it. In addition to his arrangement with the Hotel Antwerp and Mme. Pintole of the Rue des Canetons, Hessel had kept a small studio in the neighbourhood of Gray’s Inn; this he had used for changing from one identity to the other, and as the tone of the lower grades of studio life is anything but inquisitive, there was small risk of anyone giving him away.The actual disguise was a simple matter; a wig of curly black hair, darkened eyebrows and whitened face, tinted spectacles (too common in these days to excite suspicion), a differently shaped dental plate, coat padded on the shoulder-blades, and waistcoat and trousers in front—these required no great skill to adjust and manipulate. His appearances as Lessingham in the City were so rare that no one had time to get to know him and so to begin to take an interest in his movements. That at least was how such of his City acquaintances as admitted to it explained their deception. The complete details of his performance would probably never be known unless the Wrailes chose to reveal it. They must, in the months of his more active life as Lessingham, have manipulated a great deal for him—and they would now, in all probability, never disclose the facts.Ten days after the escape of the Wrailes,—ten days in which not one whiff of scent came to the eager nostrils of the public, so that even their press-fed enthusiasm was beginning to wane—Inez and Ryland Fratten, with Laurence Mangane, were sitting at tea in the morning-room at Queen Anne’s Gate when Golpin entered to announce that Inspector Poole was waiting in the hall and would like to see either Miss or Mr. Fratten or both.“Oh, show him in, Golpin,” said Inez. “And bring another cup. He may have some news.”Mangane rose to his feet, but Inez stretched out a detaining hand.“Don’t go,” she said. “He can’t be here ‘with hostile intent’ now. Ah, there you are, Mr. Poole; come and have some tea. We thought you’d forgotten all about us. Have you got any news?”Poole smiled and took the chair that Ryland pushed across to him.“I haven’t quite forgotten about you, Miss Fratten; I’ve come to ask some questions.”“Oh‑h!” groaned Inez. “I thought that was over.”“Not quite, but to show they aren’t of ‘hostile intent’—as I think I heard you say—I’ll accept your kind offer of some tea.” He turned to Ryland. “It’s you, sir, really, that I want to ask questions. They’re really more to satisfy my own curiosity than of official necessity. D’you mind if I do? They’re quite harmless.”“No, of course he doesn’t,” answered Inez, who had seen Ryland hesitate. “But remember—we’ve got our own curiosity—you won’t do all the asking.”Poole laughed.“That’s a bargain then. It’s just this, Mr. Fratten. I gathered from you that you went up that fire-escape to try and overhear what Wraile and Lessingham were talking about; how did you know they were going to be there, and how did you know about the escape?”“I was there two or three nights before—as I believe you know. I heard Wraile and his secretary—as I believed her to be then—I didn’t recognize her voice—talking about Lessingham—that he’d be there on Tuesday evening after the office closed. I found the fire-escape, because I went back that same night to look for it—as I was going home it suddenly struck me that there might be such a thing and that if there were, it was the very way to hear what was going on.”“Good for you, sir,” said Poole. “But why didn’t you tell me what you were after—that you were on the trail of this Rotunda business?”“Why indeed?” broke in Inez. “Because he was a pig-headed idiot! He wouldn’t tell me when I saw him next morning—snubbed me when I asked him what he was up to—so I didn’t tell him about Miss Saverel being his precious Daphne. Nearly cost him his life, that particular bit of pig-headedness did.”“I’m afraid I’m partly to blame, Inspector,” interposed Mangane. “I put you both on to the same trail without letting the other know. I knew Fratten didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing and I thought that if I told him you were on it too, he might whip off.”“So I should have,” said Fratten. “I don’t suppose any of you’ll understand, but I wanted to do something useful for once in my life, without shouting about it. You see, I’ve behaved like a first-class swine over this whole business—both before and after my father’s death. There’s one question that you haven’t asked me, Inspector, and I know you want to—you’re a real brick not to have let it out. You see, I know that you went to that chap Silence and found out about Sir Horace’s letter—he told me when I repaid him the other day. I want you all to know about that—yes, you too, Mangane—then I shall have got everything off my chest and be able to start again.”Behind the tea-table Inez’s hand crept along the sofa and slipped into Ryland’s.“You know I was engaged to a girl at the ‘Inanity’—Julie Vermont? One says ‘engaged,’ but I don’t think either of us ever thought of getting married—it was just rather fun—and quite a common thing with fellows who went with that crowd. But she meant business—money. When I suggested we should break it off—we’d had quite enough of each other—she talked of breach of promise. I needn’t tell you the whole story—it worked out at £15,000 in the end—practically blackmail—she evidently knew how I stood with my father. I was pretty desperate—I tried to get it out of him—wrote to him. He sent for me and gave me hell—you remember that, Inez—it was the day he had that accident—I couldn’t help it then—he’d got my letter and sent for me. He practically turned me out. You know about that.“Soon after that, Inez got me to go and see Sir Horace Spavage—the doctor—about father’s health. I couldn’t understand much of what he said—it was rather technical—so I got him to write it down. It amounted to a pretty poor ‘life,’ as the insurance people say. I was taking the note back to Inez when it occurred to me that I might use it as security for raising the money. Most of the money-lenders wouldn’t look at me—I’d borrowed all over the place and they knew that father wouldn’t pay up any more—but that fellow Silence will always go one further than the rest—at a price—and I took the note to him. He advanced me the £15,000 on that—for three months—at a terrific rate of interest. It was a gamble. That’s the awful part about it; I didn’t properly realize it at the time, but of course directly he was dead I did—I was gambling with my father’s life.”Ryland stopped and sat, with haggard face, staring at the cup in front of him. Inez gently squeezed his hand, the others sat in awkward silence. Poole was the first to break it.“Good of you to tell me that, sir,” he said. “I appreciate your telling me—I shouldn’t have asked. Well, it’s your turn now, Miss Fratten.” He looked at his watch. “I can give you ten minutes—I’ve got to catch a train.”“Oh, but I’ve got thousands of questions,” exclaimed Inez. “I want to know about Mr. Hessel—did you know he was in it? I couldn’t make out from the inquest.”“I didn’t know he was Lessingham, if that’s what you mean, Miss Fratten. But I had a very strong suspicion that he was in the plot to kill your father. Not at first—he completely deceived me; but as the actual facts of the murder came out—how it was done and how closely the Wrailes’ alibis fitted to the actual time of the attack—it seemed to me that it couldn’t possibly be a chance that your father and Hessel had walked into the trap at the one and only time that would fit in with the alibis that the Wraileshad arranged beforehand—Captain Wraile, remember, had asked someone to visit him at the club at seven, and Mrs. Wraile had to be back in time to see the hall-porter before he went off duty at seven—and couldn’t get away till appreciably after six. No—Sir Garth must have been led at the exactly right moment, into the trap—led by Hessel. I remember now that the first time I interviewed Hessel he told me that your father always walked home across the Park in the evening. That, no doubt, was to make me think that his walk was well known by other people—and on that they based their plan—but theexactnessof the time couldn’t have been counted on—it must have been manufactured.“Then there were the ‘Ethiopian and General’ papers—they were missing from Sir Garth’s carefully collected wrapper on the ‘Victory Finance Company.’ They must have been stolen. The opportunities of stealing them were very slight—Hessel called Mr. Mangane within a few minutes of Sir Garth’s body being carried upstairs out of here, and had the study doors locked—took the keys. He carefully did not come back here till days afterwards, and then only went into the room with Menticle and Mr. Mangane as witnesses—to create the impression that nobody had a chance of touching anything—that nothinghadbeen touched. Actually, there was a possibility that they might have been takenbeforehe and Mangane locked the study. It was hardly likely that they were moved before the body was brought back—though not impossible. While the body was in here, Golpin was in the hall and swears nobody entered the study. Mangane might have gone in from his room—nobody else could have because he was there all the time. But I didn’t think he had—I knew him personally. There remained the possibility that Hessel had gone in himself in those two or three minutes after the body was moved and before he sent for Mangane. There was no earthly reason why he shouldn’t have—I came to the conclusion that he did.“I should say that there’s no doubt that your father had begun to smell trouble about the Ethiopian and General, Miss Fratten, and that his notes made that pretty clear. No doubt that was why he seemed to you to be worried—he was unhappy at finding a friend—Sir Hunter—mixed up in a shady business. That’s why Hessel only took the ‘Ethiopian and General’ papers. Why he left the other notes—the details about the Nem Nem Sohar and South Wales Pulverization and the queries about all three, which attracted our attention to the Ethiopian and General,—I don’t know. Probably he lost his head—or tried to be too clever—it’s generally one of those alternatives that hangs a murderer.“Of course I only came to this point quite late—the last developments came with a rush and I couldn’t do everything at once—I had no time to question him again, though I tried to once—he was away. But we should definitely have linked him up in a day or two. Now, Miss Fratten, I’ve taken rather longer than I meant over that—I haven’t time to answer more questions—because I’ve got something to tell you.“It’s what I really came here for—to read you a letter. My chief—Sir Leward Marradine—told me to come and show it to you—reading will be simplest.“It’s a letter from Captain Wraile—postmark ‘Liverpool,’ date yesterday—no other indication. This is what he says:“Dear Commissioner,I’m taking a leaf out of the book of a man I’ve a great admiration for—the man who killed Sir John Smethrust. After he got clear he wrote to Scotland Yard and explained how he’d done it—said he liked to tidy things up. So do I. By the time you get this—it will be posted ten days from now—Miriam and I will be absolutely clear—not only across the water but across half a continent—start looking for us if you like. If you find us you’re smarter than I give you credit for—but you won’t take us alive—and one or two of you’ll get hurt.There are a few details I’d like to make clear. I take it, as a basis, that you know how the killing was done and the alibis arranged—your Mr. Poole seemed fairly sharp on that, though I don’t quite know how he turned up at Ald House when he did on Tuesday night.”(“By the way, Mr. Fratten, I was following you. Fallows rang up that you slipped him and we traced you there. I was looking for Mrs. Wraile’s way out too—after finding that her husband had left his club by a back window I guessed that they’d repeated the trick at Ald House.”)“After Poole disturbed us, we cut down the escape. Poor Lessingham didn’t know the rail was missing at one turn—he went over—quite accidentally, I needn’t assure, Mr. Commissioner. We slipped your not very vigorous watch-dogs, got a taxi, and so—by stages that I won’t mention—to the beginning of our long journey.Now about earlier times. Lessingham—Hessel—struck on me when I was on my beam ends, like many other soldiers. He was on them too—psychologically, and for a different reason. He had had a devilish time in the war—‘German Jew’ and all the rest of it. His one idea was to get his own back—he was quite unscrupulous—and unreasonable as to how he did it and who he did it to, though he probably wouldn’t have picked on his own friend, Fratten, if Fratten hadn’t stumbled across our path—might have, though—complexes are funny things.You’ve got to the bottom of the Rotunda game by now—I needn’t bother you with that. By the way, my poor old General was quite innocent of what was happening—as he has been all his life—don’t run him in. Resston, too, of course. Lessingham’s official letters were sent by the clerks to the Hotel Antwerp and by them to Mme. Pintole, who destroyed them. But another set, and anything of importance, was sent privately by Miriam to his own home address—as Hessel. In that way he was kept absolutely up to date all the time though he only came near us about once a month. In the same way, he wrote to her or to me. It all went swimmingly till Fratten blew in.The idea of how to kill him was Hessel’s—I wish I could claim the credit for it. On the very day that Fratten told him about having been invited to join our Board he also told him about having a thorasic aneurism. By the merest chance, Hessel knew what a thorasic aneurism was—and where it was—he’d had a relation or someone with it. What’s more, just after he heard about it, Fratten was nearly run over by a motor and the shock nearly did him in—that gave Hessel the idea. The affair on the Steps of course, we staged to distract attention from the actual attack. It would probably be put down to an accident and it was a million to one against my being traced. I don’t know now how you got on to it. After the ‘accident’ I made for the car and Hessel led Fratten exactly where we wanted him, waving a bright cigar end to mark his course. The shooting was easy, but the damn slug caught somewhere and the cord broke. I went back to look for it but couldn’t find it—perhaps you did.My own disguise for the part, of course, was very slight—moustache darkened with grease stick—easily wiped off—and a clerk’s voice. My overcoat and hat I’d hung on the visitors’ peg in the passage outside the small library—the coat was a shabby one, so I’d walked in with it over my arm. My appointment with Lukescu was made officially by my office for 6.30—no doubt you checked that—but I telephoned to him privately not to come till 7. Of course the times were very carefully worked out and Hessel neatly steered Fratten into them.Just two small points to interest the good Inspector. When he and Miss Fratten sleuthed us on the Underground that evening and we slipped out at Charing Cross Station, we took the only taxi on the rank—pure luck that—we’d had no time to plan—and then slipped down into the tube at Piccadilly Circus. When he came to interview Blagge and ‘Miss Saverel’ at the Conservative office, she sent a note to me from under his very nose, telling me he was there and asking me to cut her out. I did.Anything more you want to know, you must ask—but you’ll probably be blue in the face before you get an answer.Adieu, cher Commissionaire,James Wraile.P. S. I dedicate the identical cross-bow—it’s killed Boches as well as bankers—to the Black Museum—you’ll find it in the cloak-room at King’s Cross.”“That’s the letter, Miss Fratten.”“Well I’m dashed, he’s got a nerve,” said Ryland.“So they’ve slipped you after all, Mr. Poole,” said Inez—her voice poised half-way between relief and disappointment.Poole shook his head.“Four days ago,” he said, “a bus conductor recovered from an attack of influenza—and saw our appeal. He came to me and told me that the Wrailes had boarded his bus in Leadenhall Street and got off at King’s Cross. He probably wouldn’t have noticed where they got off if they’d got off in the crowd at the King’s Cross stop—but (as I found on pressing him) they got off one street short of it, by pulling the cord—and he noticed them. They took that turn to the left—they didn’t go to King’s Cross or St. Pancras.“I searched the neighbourhood and found a garage from which they took theirothercar. They were already slightly disguised—in their walk from the bus to the garage—evidently they always carried small sticks of make-up in case a bolt was necessary. They had bought that car months ago and kept it in that garage—for the bolt and for one other purpose. That evening they drove quietly out of London, stopping somewhere to change their appearance properly—no doubt a make-up box was part of the car’s equipment. They drove through the night—no one was looking out for a Morris saloon with a middle-aged couple in it—down to their cottage in North Wales—near Ruthin. From there, of course, it was a simple matter to run up to Liverpool—yesterday—and post that letter. They’d taken that cottage last spring and been there for very occasional week-ends—as the middle-aged Mr. and Mrs. Waterford—in that Morris car. [‘That’s the car she drove me in,’ thought Ryland.] Nobody had paid any attention to them—nobody does now—except the police. The last link in the story that I’ve been telling you was completed by us this morning; their place will be surrounded as soon as it’s dark—it is already. I’m going down now to take them.”Poole rose to his feet.“My train’s at seven—I must go. Good-night, Miss Fratten—thank you for giving me tea—and for all you’ve done to make a beastly job bearable. Good-night, Mr. Fratten—you won’t mind if I wish you good luck? Good-night, Mr. Mangane.”He turned on his heel and walked quickly to the door. The three others still sat, almost petrified by astonishment at the sudden change of situation. Inez was the first to recover herself; she sprang to her feet and ran after Poole shutting the door firmly behind her. The detective was just opening the front door.“Mr. Poole, wait!” she said.He turned back to meet her.“I just wanted to say—that letter of Captain Wraile’s—they’re desperate people, Mr. Poole—do be—do be as careful as you can.”Poole looked down into the girl’s flushed face and sparkling eyes—eyes in which sympathy and anxiety at least were present. A great longing seized him.“If you . . .” he forced back the words that were surging to his lips. “Thank you, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I shall do my duty.”He turned abruptly, opened the door, and walked out into the night.
Poole turned back towards his unfortunate subordinate.
“What happened?” he asked curtly. “Where’s that constable?”
“Revolver, sir, I think,” replied Fallows weakly “—hit me with it—on the head. Munt ran to the body—when it fell. I waited—below stairs—there’s a drop. Chap jumped—hit at me as he came down—knocked me out. Don’t know—where—Munt is.”
He gave a gasp and collapsed into unconsciousness. Poole straightened himself and turned again towards the alley-way. As he did so, Ryland Fratten emerged from it, hobbling uncertainly.
“Sorry I couldn’t get out before, Inspector,” he said. “My legs were asleep—they’ll hardly carry me now.”
“What were you doing up—no, never mind that now; we must find these people.” He ran down into the street and looked to right and left. From the direction of Cannon Street Station a disconsolate-looking uniformed police-constable was approaching at an awkward shuffle.
“Where the hell have you been?” demanded the Inspector angrily. “Where have those people got to?”
“Couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir,” replied the constable in an aggrieved voice. “When the body fell, sir, I ran to it. Then I ’eard a shout, and lookin’ round, saw the other ’tec bein’ laid out by a bloke with a gun. I darted after ’im” (the idea of the solid police-constable Munt “darting” anywhere would have tickled Poole at any other time). “The girl ’ad gone off down the alley—’er mate follered ’er. I made after ’im and as I turned into the street ’e was waiting for me and caught me slap in the wind with ’is knee—doubled me right up. ’E pushed me over and give me two more with the ’eel of ’is boot—in the belly and them parts—brutal it was, sir. Took me a couple o’ minutes to come round. But I’d seen which way e’d gone—turned up Chaffer’s Way there—’undred yards along—leads into Leadenhall it does. I went after ’em as soon as I could but I couldn’t see nothing of them.”
“Did you spread the warning? Did you tell the nearest possible points or patrols?”
“No, sir. I come back to see if I could ’elp that pore ’tec what ’ad been knocked out.”
“You blasted fool,” exclaimed Poole in a white heat of rage. “Your superintendent shall hear of this. If they get away I’ll have you hounded out of the force. Get off now and telephone to your divisional headquarters—give them a description—Captain and Mrs. Wraile—tell them to look out for a two-seater Caxton coupé and to search all garages in this neighbourhood for it. Tell them to ring all the garages round here and warn them not to let that car out—to hold the owners if they can. Then get round to the men on point duty round here yourself and warn them—and any patrols you meet. It’s murder they’re wanted for, mind. Do this job thoroughly and I may forget the rest. Shift yourself.”
P. C. Munt went off at the nearest to a “dart” that he had ever attained. Poole turned to Ryland.
“There ought to have been two plain-clothes men here from the Yard long ago,” he explained. “I was going to put them on to the Wrailes in any case; luckily I linked up here with Fallows, who was on your trail, Mr. Fratten, and we picked up that uniformed fool just outside. I can’t stop to explain more now, sir, but if you wouldn’t mind staying with Fallows till I can send an ambulance—I’ll get on to the Yard and get general information out. These people’ll make for the ports in all probability. The roads and railways must both be watched—they may not use their car. I wish I knew what garage they used round here—it must be close at hand—I ought to have asked that fool Munt for the nearest ones—fool myself.”
Poole dashed off to the nearest telephone, and was quickly through to the Chief Inspector Barrod. Within half an hour every station in London, and many in the suburbs, was being watched for the Wrailes. Within an hour all County Constabularies within two hundred miles of London had been warned of the possible car or train passengers, whilst every port in the kingdom had a similar description. A message to the divisional police in the Fulham district ensured that the Wrailes’ lodgings would be at once put under watch.
Poole’s part in this had taken less than ten minutes—the time of his telephone conversation with Barrod; immediately it was finished, he rang up the divisional station, found out that Munt had put his message through correctly and that all possible steps were being taken to search for the runaways, and finally asked for the locations of the nearest garages to Ald House. Only three were within the five minutes’ walk that Poole, with his knowledge of Mrs. Wraile’s time-table, put as the outside limit. Within another ten minutes Poole had found the car in a garage almost at the back of Ald House—within less than a minute’s walk. The Wrailes had not been near it since it had been left there in the morning.
Poole again rang up Scotland Yard and arranged for a plain-clothes man to be posted at the garage, in case the Wrailes even now came for their car. He also arranged for all cab ranks and shelters in the neighbourhood of Ald House to be interrogated—there was a strong possibility of the Wrailes having picked up a taxi as they had not taken their car.
Returning to Ald House, Poole found that the two plain-clothes men from Scotland Yard had at last turned up; they had come by Underground from Westminster and had been held up for twenty minutes by a breakdown on the line. Soon after their arrival, a police ambulance had also turned up and removed Fallows and the body of Leopold Hessel. P. C. Munt, who had been explaining the situation to the plain-clothes men, reported that the other gentleman had said that he was returning to Queen Anne’s Gate and would be there for the rest of the evening if Inspector Poole wanted him. The detective felt that Ryland’s explanation of his peculiar behaviour could now wait; there was no longer any possibility that he was a confederate of the murderers. Besides, there was a lot of work still to be done before he could feel that the net spread for the Wrailes was complete; in all probability Chief Inspector Barrod would do all that could be done, but Poole was not going to leave anything to chance now.
During the hours that followed, the Victory Finance offices were searched, the Wrailes’ rooms in Fulham not only searched but turned inside out; the owners had not been back since morning and there was no sign of a hurried flight. Poole collected all the papers he could lay his hands on for future inspection, but for immediate use he concentrated on an exhaustive search for photographs of the fugitives—he wanted to get their likenesses broadcast through the country with the least possible delay. A cabinet photograph on Mrs. Wraile’s writing-table gave an excellent representation of Sir Hunter Lorne’s late Brigade Major in uniform, but it was not till a volume of snapshots had been unearthed and searched that a picture of his wife was forthcoming.
The rush of work had kept Poole’s mind from the problem of Hessel’s identity with Lessingham. Although it had come as a complete surprise, the detective had felt too suspicious of the banker’s connection with the case—and particularly with the five minutes following the “accident”—to be entirely astonished. Now, as he worked on the creation of the net to catch the living criminals he felt that he could well thrust the problem of the dead one into the background until his immediate task was completed. By the time he got back to his Battersea lodgings, well after midnight, he had forgotten all about it and dropped asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
The succeeding days were trying ones for Inspector Poole. Once the machinery of Scotland Yard and of the County Constabularies was in full working order, there was little he could do himself in the way of pursuit. For days the search went on, at first with confidence, then with patient hope, finally with dogged persistence—but little more.
At a conference with the Assistant-Commissioner on the morning after the affair at Ald House it had been decided to take the public fully into the confidence of the police—primarily in order that the full power of the press might be brought to bear in the search. Placards bearing the likeness of James and Miriam Wraile were posted at every police station and post office; all but the most dignified newspapers printed similar reproductions, together with minute descriptions, and every detail of the escape and many possible and impossible theories and suggestions. The B.B.C. gave nightly encouragement to the searchers, both professional and amateur.
An inquest was held on the body of Leopold Hessel, at which his identity with the financier, Travers Lessingham, was revealed, together with his association with Captain Wraile in the Rotunda Syndicate transactions. Nothing, however, was said at the first hearing about the Fratten murder, though naturally the public jumped to their own conclusions. The circumstances of Hessel’s death could not, of course, be fully established without the presence of the Wrailes, and the inquest was adjourned for a fortnight.
Poole busied himself in connecting up the carefully concealed threads which had united this latest Jekyll and Hyde. Travers Lessingham had apparently been in existence since the year following the war, though he had begun his operations in the City in a very minor key—feeling his way, as Poole phrased it. In addition to his arrangement with the Hotel Antwerp and Mme. Pintole of the Rue des Canetons, Hessel had kept a small studio in the neighbourhood of Gray’s Inn; this he had used for changing from one identity to the other, and as the tone of the lower grades of studio life is anything but inquisitive, there was small risk of anyone giving him away.
The actual disguise was a simple matter; a wig of curly black hair, darkened eyebrows and whitened face, tinted spectacles (too common in these days to excite suspicion), a differently shaped dental plate, coat padded on the shoulder-blades, and waistcoat and trousers in front—these required no great skill to adjust and manipulate. His appearances as Lessingham in the City were so rare that no one had time to get to know him and so to begin to take an interest in his movements. That at least was how such of his City acquaintances as admitted to it explained their deception. The complete details of his performance would probably never be known unless the Wrailes chose to reveal it. They must, in the months of his more active life as Lessingham, have manipulated a great deal for him—and they would now, in all probability, never disclose the facts.
Ten days after the escape of the Wrailes,—ten days in which not one whiff of scent came to the eager nostrils of the public, so that even their press-fed enthusiasm was beginning to wane—Inez and Ryland Fratten, with Laurence Mangane, were sitting at tea in the morning-room at Queen Anne’s Gate when Golpin entered to announce that Inspector Poole was waiting in the hall and would like to see either Miss or Mr. Fratten or both.
“Oh, show him in, Golpin,” said Inez. “And bring another cup. He may have some news.”
Mangane rose to his feet, but Inez stretched out a detaining hand.
“Don’t go,” she said. “He can’t be here ‘with hostile intent’ now. Ah, there you are, Mr. Poole; come and have some tea. We thought you’d forgotten all about us. Have you got any news?”
Poole smiled and took the chair that Ryland pushed across to him.
“I haven’t quite forgotten about you, Miss Fratten; I’ve come to ask some questions.”
“Oh‑h!” groaned Inez. “I thought that was over.”
“Not quite, but to show they aren’t of ‘hostile intent’—as I think I heard you say—I’ll accept your kind offer of some tea.” He turned to Ryland. “It’s you, sir, really, that I want to ask questions. They’re really more to satisfy my own curiosity than of official necessity. D’you mind if I do? They’re quite harmless.”
“No, of course he doesn’t,” answered Inez, who had seen Ryland hesitate. “But remember—we’ve got our own curiosity—you won’t do all the asking.”
Poole laughed.
“That’s a bargain then. It’s just this, Mr. Fratten. I gathered from you that you went up that fire-escape to try and overhear what Wraile and Lessingham were talking about; how did you know they were going to be there, and how did you know about the escape?”
“I was there two or three nights before—as I believe you know. I heard Wraile and his secretary—as I believed her to be then—I didn’t recognize her voice—talking about Lessingham—that he’d be there on Tuesday evening after the office closed. I found the fire-escape, because I went back that same night to look for it—as I was going home it suddenly struck me that there might be such a thing and that if there were, it was the very way to hear what was going on.”
“Good for you, sir,” said Poole. “But why didn’t you tell me what you were after—that you were on the trail of this Rotunda business?”
“Why indeed?” broke in Inez. “Because he was a pig-headed idiot! He wouldn’t tell me when I saw him next morning—snubbed me when I asked him what he was up to—so I didn’t tell him about Miss Saverel being his precious Daphne. Nearly cost him his life, that particular bit of pig-headedness did.”
“I’m afraid I’m partly to blame, Inspector,” interposed Mangane. “I put you both on to the same trail without letting the other know. I knew Fratten didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing and I thought that if I told him you were on it too, he might whip off.”
“So I should have,” said Fratten. “I don’t suppose any of you’ll understand, but I wanted to do something useful for once in my life, without shouting about it. You see, I’ve behaved like a first-class swine over this whole business—both before and after my father’s death. There’s one question that you haven’t asked me, Inspector, and I know you want to—you’re a real brick not to have let it out. You see, I know that you went to that chap Silence and found out about Sir Horace’s letter—he told me when I repaid him the other day. I want you all to know about that—yes, you too, Mangane—then I shall have got everything off my chest and be able to start again.”
Behind the tea-table Inez’s hand crept along the sofa and slipped into Ryland’s.
“You know I was engaged to a girl at the ‘Inanity’—Julie Vermont? One says ‘engaged,’ but I don’t think either of us ever thought of getting married—it was just rather fun—and quite a common thing with fellows who went with that crowd. But she meant business—money. When I suggested we should break it off—we’d had quite enough of each other—she talked of breach of promise. I needn’t tell you the whole story—it worked out at £15,000 in the end—practically blackmail—she evidently knew how I stood with my father. I was pretty desperate—I tried to get it out of him—wrote to him. He sent for me and gave me hell—you remember that, Inez—it was the day he had that accident—I couldn’t help it then—he’d got my letter and sent for me. He practically turned me out. You know about that.
“Soon after that, Inez got me to go and see Sir Horace Spavage—the doctor—about father’s health. I couldn’t understand much of what he said—it was rather technical—so I got him to write it down. It amounted to a pretty poor ‘life,’ as the insurance people say. I was taking the note back to Inez when it occurred to me that I might use it as security for raising the money. Most of the money-lenders wouldn’t look at me—I’d borrowed all over the place and they knew that father wouldn’t pay up any more—but that fellow Silence will always go one further than the rest—at a price—and I took the note to him. He advanced me the £15,000 on that—for three months—at a terrific rate of interest. It was a gamble. That’s the awful part about it; I didn’t properly realize it at the time, but of course directly he was dead I did—I was gambling with my father’s life.”
Ryland stopped and sat, with haggard face, staring at the cup in front of him. Inez gently squeezed his hand, the others sat in awkward silence. Poole was the first to break it.
“Good of you to tell me that, sir,” he said. “I appreciate your telling me—I shouldn’t have asked. Well, it’s your turn now, Miss Fratten.” He looked at his watch. “I can give you ten minutes—I’ve got to catch a train.”
“Oh, but I’ve got thousands of questions,” exclaimed Inez. “I want to know about Mr. Hessel—did you know he was in it? I couldn’t make out from the inquest.”
“I didn’t know he was Lessingham, if that’s what you mean, Miss Fratten. But I had a very strong suspicion that he was in the plot to kill your father. Not at first—he completely deceived me; but as the actual facts of the murder came out—how it was done and how closely the Wrailes’ alibis fitted to the actual time of the attack—it seemed to me that it couldn’t possibly be a chance that your father and Hessel had walked into the trap at the one and only time that would fit in with the alibis that the Wraileshad arranged beforehand—Captain Wraile, remember, had asked someone to visit him at the club at seven, and Mrs. Wraile had to be back in time to see the hall-porter before he went off duty at seven—and couldn’t get away till appreciably after six. No—Sir Garth must have been led at the exactly right moment, into the trap—led by Hessel. I remember now that the first time I interviewed Hessel he told me that your father always walked home across the Park in the evening. That, no doubt, was to make me think that his walk was well known by other people—and on that they based their plan—but theexactnessof the time couldn’t have been counted on—it must have been manufactured.
“Then there were the ‘Ethiopian and General’ papers—they were missing from Sir Garth’s carefully collected wrapper on the ‘Victory Finance Company.’ They must have been stolen. The opportunities of stealing them were very slight—Hessel called Mr. Mangane within a few minutes of Sir Garth’s body being carried upstairs out of here, and had the study doors locked—took the keys. He carefully did not come back here till days afterwards, and then only went into the room with Menticle and Mr. Mangane as witnesses—to create the impression that nobody had a chance of touching anything—that nothinghadbeen touched. Actually, there was a possibility that they might have been takenbeforehe and Mangane locked the study. It was hardly likely that they were moved before the body was brought back—though not impossible. While the body was in here, Golpin was in the hall and swears nobody entered the study. Mangane might have gone in from his room—nobody else could have because he was there all the time. But I didn’t think he had—I knew him personally. There remained the possibility that Hessel had gone in himself in those two or three minutes after the body was moved and before he sent for Mangane. There was no earthly reason why he shouldn’t have—I came to the conclusion that he did.
“I should say that there’s no doubt that your father had begun to smell trouble about the Ethiopian and General, Miss Fratten, and that his notes made that pretty clear. No doubt that was why he seemed to you to be worried—he was unhappy at finding a friend—Sir Hunter—mixed up in a shady business. That’s why Hessel only took the ‘Ethiopian and General’ papers. Why he left the other notes—the details about the Nem Nem Sohar and South Wales Pulverization and the queries about all three, which attracted our attention to the Ethiopian and General,—I don’t know. Probably he lost his head—or tried to be too clever—it’s generally one of those alternatives that hangs a murderer.
“Of course I only came to this point quite late—the last developments came with a rush and I couldn’t do everything at once—I had no time to question him again, though I tried to once—he was away. But we should definitely have linked him up in a day or two. Now, Miss Fratten, I’ve taken rather longer than I meant over that—I haven’t time to answer more questions—because I’ve got something to tell you.
“It’s what I really came here for—to read you a letter. My chief—Sir Leward Marradine—told me to come and show it to you—reading will be simplest.
“It’s a letter from Captain Wraile—postmark ‘Liverpool,’ date yesterday—no other indication. This is what he says:
“Dear Commissioner,I’m taking a leaf out of the book of a man I’ve a great admiration for—the man who killed Sir John Smethrust. After he got clear he wrote to Scotland Yard and explained how he’d done it—said he liked to tidy things up. So do I. By the time you get this—it will be posted ten days from now—Miriam and I will be absolutely clear—not only across the water but across half a continent—start looking for us if you like. If you find us you’re smarter than I give you credit for—but you won’t take us alive—and one or two of you’ll get hurt.There are a few details I’d like to make clear. I take it, as a basis, that you know how the killing was done and the alibis arranged—your Mr. Poole seemed fairly sharp on that, though I don’t quite know how he turned up at Ald House when he did on Tuesday night.”
“Dear Commissioner,
I’m taking a leaf out of the book of a man I’ve a great admiration for—the man who killed Sir John Smethrust. After he got clear he wrote to Scotland Yard and explained how he’d done it—said he liked to tidy things up. So do I. By the time you get this—it will be posted ten days from now—Miriam and I will be absolutely clear—not only across the water but across half a continent—start looking for us if you like. If you find us you’re smarter than I give you credit for—but you won’t take us alive—and one or two of you’ll get hurt.
There are a few details I’d like to make clear. I take it, as a basis, that you know how the killing was done and the alibis arranged—your Mr. Poole seemed fairly sharp on that, though I don’t quite know how he turned up at Ald House when he did on Tuesday night.”
(“By the way, Mr. Fratten, I was following you. Fallows rang up that you slipped him and we traced you there. I was looking for Mrs. Wraile’s way out too—after finding that her husband had left his club by a back window I guessed that they’d repeated the trick at Ald House.”)
“After Poole disturbed us, we cut down the escape. Poor Lessingham didn’t know the rail was missing at one turn—he went over—quite accidentally, I needn’t assure, Mr. Commissioner. We slipped your not very vigorous watch-dogs, got a taxi, and so—by stages that I won’t mention—to the beginning of our long journey.Now about earlier times. Lessingham—Hessel—struck on me when I was on my beam ends, like many other soldiers. He was on them too—psychologically, and for a different reason. He had had a devilish time in the war—‘German Jew’ and all the rest of it. His one idea was to get his own back—he was quite unscrupulous—and unreasonable as to how he did it and who he did it to, though he probably wouldn’t have picked on his own friend, Fratten, if Fratten hadn’t stumbled across our path—might have, though—complexes are funny things.You’ve got to the bottom of the Rotunda game by now—I needn’t bother you with that. By the way, my poor old General was quite innocent of what was happening—as he has been all his life—don’t run him in. Resston, too, of course. Lessingham’s official letters were sent by the clerks to the Hotel Antwerp and by them to Mme. Pintole, who destroyed them. But another set, and anything of importance, was sent privately by Miriam to his own home address—as Hessel. In that way he was kept absolutely up to date all the time though he only came near us about once a month. In the same way, he wrote to her or to me. It all went swimmingly till Fratten blew in.The idea of how to kill him was Hessel’s—I wish I could claim the credit for it. On the very day that Fratten told him about having been invited to join our Board he also told him about having a thorasic aneurism. By the merest chance, Hessel knew what a thorasic aneurism was—and where it was—he’d had a relation or someone with it. What’s more, just after he heard about it, Fratten was nearly run over by a motor and the shock nearly did him in—that gave Hessel the idea. The affair on the Steps of course, we staged to distract attention from the actual attack. It would probably be put down to an accident and it was a million to one against my being traced. I don’t know now how you got on to it. After the ‘accident’ I made for the car and Hessel led Fratten exactly where we wanted him, waving a bright cigar end to mark his course. The shooting was easy, but the damn slug caught somewhere and the cord broke. I went back to look for it but couldn’t find it—perhaps you did.My own disguise for the part, of course, was very slight—moustache darkened with grease stick—easily wiped off—and a clerk’s voice. My overcoat and hat I’d hung on the visitors’ peg in the passage outside the small library—the coat was a shabby one, so I’d walked in with it over my arm. My appointment with Lukescu was made officially by my office for 6.30—no doubt you checked that—but I telephoned to him privately not to come till 7. Of course the times were very carefully worked out and Hessel neatly steered Fratten into them.Just two small points to interest the good Inspector. When he and Miss Fratten sleuthed us on the Underground that evening and we slipped out at Charing Cross Station, we took the only taxi on the rank—pure luck that—we’d had no time to plan—and then slipped down into the tube at Piccadilly Circus. When he came to interview Blagge and ‘Miss Saverel’ at the Conservative office, she sent a note to me from under his very nose, telling me he was there and asking me to cut her out. I did.Anything more you want to know, you must ask—but you’ll probably be blue in the face before you get an answer.Adieu, cher Commissionaire,James Wraile.P. S. I dedicate the identical cross-bow—it’s killed Boches as well as bankers—to the Black Museum—you’ll find it in the cloak-room at King’s Cross.”
“After Poole disturbed us, we cut down the escape. Poor Lessingham didn’t know the rail was missing at one turn—he went over—quite accidentally, I needn’t assure, Mr. Commissioner. We slipped your not very vigorous watch-dogs, got a taxi, and so—by stages that I won’t mention—to the beginning of our long journey.
Now about earlier times. Lessingham—Hessel—struck on me when I was on my beam ends, like many other soldiers. He was on them too—psychologically, and for a different reason. He had had a devilish time in the war—‘German Jew’ and all the rest of it. His one idea was to get his own back—he was quite unscrupulous—and unreasonable as to how he did it and who he did it to, though he probably wouldn’t have picked on his own friend, Fratten, if Fratten hadn’t stumbled across our path—might have, though—complexes are funny things.
You’ve got to the bottom of the Rotunda game by now—I needn’t bother you with that. By the way, my poor old General was quite innocent of what was happening—as he has been all his life—don’t run him in. Resston, too, of course. Lessingham’s official letters were sent by the clerks to the Hotel Antwerp and by them to Mme. Pintole, who destroyed them. But another set, and anything of importance, was sent privately by Miriam to his own home address—as Hessel. In that way he was kept absolutely up to date all the time though he only came near us about once a month. In the same way, he wrote to her or to me. It all went swimmingly till Fratten blew in.
The idea of how to kill him was Hessel’s—I wish I could claim the credit for it. On the very day that Fratten told him about having been invited to join our Board he also told him about having a thorasic aneurism. By the merest chance, Hessel knew what a thorasic aneurism was—and where it was—he’d had a relation or someone with it. What’s more, just after he heard about it, Fratten was nearly run over by a motor and the shock nearly did him in—that gave Hessel the idea. The affair on the Steps of course, we staged to distract attention from the actual attack. It would probably be put down to an accident and it was a million to one against my being traced. I don’t know now how you got on to it. After the ‘accident’ I made for the car and Hessel led Fratten exactly where we wanted him, waving a bright cigar end to mark his course. The shooting was easy, but the damn slug caught somewhere and the cord broke. I went back to look for it but couldn’t find it—perhaps you did.
My own disguise for the part, of course, was very slight—moustache darkened with grease stick—easily wiped off—and a clerk’s voice. My overcoat and hat I’d hung on the visitors’ peg in the passage outside the small library—the coat was a shabby one, so I’d walked in with it over my arm. My appointment with Lukescu was made officially by my office for 6.30—no doubt you checked that—but I telephoned to him privately not to come till 7. Of course the times were very carefully worked out and Hessel neatly steered Fratten into them.
Just two small points to interest the good Inspector. When he and Miss Fratten sleuthed us on the Underground that evening and we slipped out at Charing Cross Station, we took the only taxi on the rank—pure luck that—we’d had no time to plan—and then slipped down into the tube at Piccadilly Circus. When he came to interview Blagge and ‘Miss Saverel’ at the Conservative office, she sent a note to me from under his very nose, telling me he was there and asking me to cut her out. I did.
Anything more you want to know, you must ask—but you’ll probably be blue in the face before you get an answer.
Adieu, cher Commissionaire,
James Wraile.
P. S. I dedicate the identical cross-bow—it’s killed Boches as well as bankers—to the Black Museum—you’ll find it in the cloak-room at King’s Cross.”
“That’s the letter, Miss Fratten.”
“Well I’m dashed, he’s got a nerve,” said Ryland.
“So they’ve slipped you after all, Mr. Poole,” said Inez—her voice poised half-way between relief and disappointment.
Poole shook his head.
“Four days ago,” he said, “a bus conductor recovered from an attack of influenza—and saw our appeal. He came to me and told me that the Wrailes had boarded his bus in Leadenhall Street and got off at King’s Cross. He probably wouldn’t have noticed where they got off if they’d got off in the crowd at the King’s Cross stop—but (as I found on pressing him) they got off one street short of it, by pulling the cord—and he noticed them. They took that turn to the left—they didn’t go to King’s Cross or St. Pancras.
“I searched the neighbourhood and found a garage from which they took theirothercar. They were already slightly disguised—in their walk from the bus to the garage—evidently they always carried small sticks of make-up in case a bolt was necessary. They had bought that car months ago and kept it in that garage—for the bolt and for one other purpose. That evening they drove quietly out of London, stopping somewhere to change their appearance properly—no doubt a make-up box was part of the car’s equipment. They drove through the night—no one was looking out for a Morris saloon with a middle-aged couple in it—down to their cottage in North Wales—near Ruthin. From there, of course, it was a simple matter to run up to Liverpool—yesterday—and post that letter. They’d taken that cottage last spring and been there for very occasional week-ends—as the middle-aged Mr. and Mrs. Waterford—in that Morris car. [‘That’s the car she drove me in,’ thought Ryland.] Nobody had paid any attention to them—nobody does now—except the police. The last link in the story that I’ve been telling you was completed by us this morning; their place will be surrounded as soon as it’s dark—it is already. I’m going down now to take them.”
Poole rose to his feet.
“My train’s at seven—I must go. Good-night, Miss Fratten—thank you for giving me tea—and for all you’ve done to make a beastly job bearable. Good-night, Mr. Fratten—you won’t mind if I wish you good luck? Good-night, Mr. Mangane.”
He turned on his heel and walked quickly to the door. The three others still sat, almost petrified by astonishment at the sudden change of situation. Inez was the first to recover herself; she sprang to her feet and ran after Poole shutting the door firmly behind her. The detective was just opening the front door.
“Mr. Poole, wait!” she said.
He turned back to meet her.
“I just wanted to say—that letter of Captain Wraile’s—they’re desperate people, Mr. Poole—do be—do be as careful as you can.”
Poole looked down into the girl’s flushed face and sparkling eyes—eyes in which sympathy and anxiety at least were present. A great longing seized him.
“If you . . .” he forced back the words that were surging to his lips. “Thank you, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I shall do my duty.”
He turned abruptly, opened the door, and walked out into the night.