Poole looked at him quietly for a second or two, as if to give him time to change his mind; then, with some deliberation, made an entry in his note-book.
“Now, sir, if I may, I want to ask you about a quite different point. When I first spoke to you—last Friday, I think it was—I asked you whether you thought Sir Garth had any enemies; you rather naturally pooh-poohed the idea, or at any rate the implication, and said that of course the death was accidental. I was not in a position to press you on the point at that time—it was before we had definite information to work on—but now that we know for certain that Sir Garth was murdered I must return to that point. You are, I believe, Sir Garth’s executor, and have sole control of his business affairs—his papers and so on. No doubt you have been through them; can you tell me whether you have found anything to indicate that Sir Garth was threatened, or in danger, or likely to be in danger, or engaged in any work which was bringing him into opposition with dangerous people? I am afraid I am being rather vague, but you probably see what I am trying to get at. We are trying to establish a motive for this crime, and, of course, to find out a possible author of it.”
Mr. Hessel answered at once, quietly but firmly.
“In the first place, Inspector, I cannot agree with your assumption that murder has been committed—that of course is only my personal view. Leaving that—assuming your view for the moment—you implied just now that Ryland Fratten had killed his father; now you are asking me to provide you with an entirely different type of murderer—if I may say so, a rather melodramatic type. What am I to understand by this sudden change of front?”
“I think that you misunderstood me, sir,” said Poole. “I did not imply that Mr. Ryland Fratten was the murderer; I asked you for your opinion as to whether he possibly might be; I am looking into various alternatives. Perhaps you will let me have a reply to my questions.”
Hessel frowned; Poole’s remark hinted at a rebuff.
“I don’t think I can help you, Inspector—not by direct information, that is. As a matter of fact, I have not been through Sir Garth’s papers, except very cursorily with Mr. Menticle and Sir Garth’s secretary—Mangane. I am afraid I have been rather remiss; Mangane has been pressing me to do it—I have rather shirked a task that is very unwelcome to me—prying into my dead friend’s affairs. Now, if you like, we will go round to the house this evening, and look into them together—then you can get the information you want directly from the source. Let me see, it’s not far off eight o’clock; will you come and have some food with me? In the meantime, we will warn Mangane that we are coming round. Yes? Capital.”
The arrangement suited the detective well. He would, as Hessel had said, get direct access to Sir Garth’s papers—untouched, as seemed fairly certain, except for the hurried survey that Menticle, Hessel and Mangane had all supervised. Secondly, he would, by dining with him, get an excellent opportunity of sizing up Mr. Hessel himself, and Poole always liked to form a personal opinion of the chief characters in a problem—Hessel was obviously a very important character, with his first-hand evidence that he was able to give and his intimate knowledge of the dead man’s affairs. Poole realized that Mr. Hessel was not altogether in sympathy with him—probably he had been too brusque in pressing him for answers to difficult questions; this would be an opportunity of gaining the banker’s confidence.
By tacit consent, the case under investigation was not referred to during the meal at Rittoni’s, that quiet but very high-grade restaurant below one of the great shipping offices in Cockspur Street. Hessel was an excellent host, not pressing hospitality upon his guest, but seeming to understand by instinct the type of food and wine to suit both taste and occasion. He was a good talker, too, full of quiet but extremely interesting information, and with an individual sense of humour. He did not in any way monopolize the conversation, but drew the detective out—not on the subject of his work, but in an expression of opinion and experience on the general affairs of life. Undoubtedly, both men felt an increased respect for one another by the time they had walked across St. James’s Park—passing, without reference, the scene of Sir Garth’s death—to the Fratten’s home in Queen Anne’s Gate.
Mangane was waiting for them, together with a severe-looking head-housemaid ready to remove—as soon as Hessel unlocked the neglected room—the outer coverings of dust; it was patent from her expression that she regarded men’s methods with anything but approval.