Poole saw that he might be seriously delayed if he stopped to explain. With a sudden wrench he burst his way clear and dashed up the stairs, followed by the loud shouts of the officials. The ticket collector at the top tried to bar his way, but the detective dodged past him and made for the entrance. By the time he got out the other passengers had dispersed, though there were plenty of people about; there was no sign of Daphne and her companion, but a taxi was disappearing past the Playhouse and Poole felt convinced that his quarry were in it. Not another cab was within sight and before he had time to go in search of one or to make enquiries a couple of railroad porters had seized him and pulled him back into the entrance hall, where they were soon joined by the stationmaster and the angry victim of his assault.
Poole had no difficulty in explaining what had occurred and his ample apologies soon elicited the sympathy and help of his former pursuers. Exhaustive enquiries established the probable identity of the taxi—which had been noticed waiting for fares—and, after taking its number, and the name of its driver (an habitué of the station rank) Poole started to walk back to Scotland Yard. Inez Fratten had not appeared and it was clear that the sudden move of the quarry had been too quick for her; she would probably get out at Westminster or St. James’s Park and go either to Scotland Yard or to her own home—there was no point in Poole’s searching for her.
The detective felt thoroughly displeased with himself; he had got a sight of two, if not three, people whose whereabouts ought to be known to the police and he had allowed all three to escape him; following his double rebuke from Barrod earlier in the day this, unless it could be quickly remedied—he was too honest a man to conceal it—would be serious for him.
Having decided to make a clean breast of his failure to his superior, Poole was none the less sensibly relieved to discover that Chief Inspector Barrod had already gone home; something might be done during the remainder of the evening to restore the situation. In the first place, he set in motion machinery to trace the taxi which had just picked up Miss Saverel and her friend at Charing Cross Underground Station—a very simple matter in view of his probable knowledge of the driver’s identity. He found plenty else to keep him busy. The plain-clothes man he had put on to watch Hessel had returned; Poole sent for him and learnt that the man had established beyond reasonable doubt that the banker was right-handed; he had seen Hessel use his right hand to blow his nose, use his latch-key, light a match, carry an umbrella—more important still, change the umbrella into his left hand in order to use his right for picking up a fallen handbag; he had not seen him use his left hand for any active purpose. It was not conclusive evidence, but it was convincing.
Following on the heels of the plain-clothes man came the Park-keeper, Blossom. P. C. Lolling had told him to report to Inspector Poole at Scotland Yard as soon as he came off duty, and though he doubted whether he was under any obligation to do so, Blossom was too deeply interested in the case to stand on his dignity. Poole explained to him something—not all—of his theory of a waiting motor-car and was at once rewarded by a definite response.
“Why, sir, I saw the very car!” exclaimed the Park-keeper excitedly. “A two-seater it was—Cowpay I think they call them—the sort that shuts up like a closed car but opens down when you wants ’em to. It was standin’ there near the arch—about opposite the Royal Marines’ statue I should say—for quite a time that evening. There was a girl in it—couldn’t see much of her, ’cause she’d got a newspaper up in front of her as she made out to be readin’. She wasn’t readin’ it all the time though, ’cause I saw her watching up the Mall—towards the Duke’s Steps, now I come to think of it—as if she was waitin’ for someone—her young man I took it to be. I didn’t see him come, nor I didn’t see her move off—more’s the pity—but I know she was there soon after six, ’cause I saw her when I come out from my tea, and I knew she was there for some time ’cause I didn’t go into the Park at once but stayed talkin’ to a friend or two—that was how I come to notice that she was watchin’ for someone. She was gone at seven when I come back that way again.”
Poole was deeply stirred by this information; it fitted in so exactly with the theory that he had begun to form. He tried his utmost to get a description of the girl but Blossom could only say that she seemed youngish and didn’t wear spectacles; he asked for the number of the car: Blossom had not noticed it, though he had noticed the type of body; he couldn’t even give the make, though it wasn’t a Rolls, a Daimler, or an original Ford—the only makes he could recognize. It was desperately tantalizing, but even without identification or exact descriptions the information was of great value.
Having got so far, Poole felt that the time had come for another reconstruction. He was so eager to make it that he decided not to wait till the small hours of the night but to take advantage of the quiet period between the ingoing and outcoming of the theatres. Chief Inspector Barrod would not, of course, be present—Poole did not feel inclined to face the unpopularity of recalling his superior officer from his evening’s recreation—but Barrod’s presence, though helpful, was also rather damping. Discovering that neither Detective-Constable Rawton nor his Irish mate had yet gone off duty, Poole arranged for them to report to him at half-past nine; he also secured the services of a closed police car. Having made these preparations he took himself off to the nearest restaurant for a little supper.
During his meal, the detective studiously switched his mind off his problem—thought was bad for digestion—and read the evening paper, but over a cup of coffee and a pipe he allowed it to return to the absorbing subject. One point in particular worried him—the identity of the girl in the waiting car. The obvious inference was that she was the “Daphne” who had lured Ryland Fratten into a compromising situation and left him there to incur inevitable suspicion—the “Daphne” who, according to Inez Fratten, was Miss Saverel, secretary of the Victory Finance Company. It was a tempting theory—so tempting and so obvious as to make him mistrust it.
The thought that worried him was that the whole theory of this girl—her incarnation as Daphne and her identity as Miss Saverel—depended so far upon the evidence of the two Frattens—the two people (Poole hated himself for the thought) who really benefited by the death of Sir Garth. It was true that he had himself seen a reputed Miss Saverel this evening and that she and her companion had behaved in a highly suspicious manner by giving him the slip at Charing Cross. But, now that he came to analyse it, their conduct was not necessarily suspicious—it was only so if she were the girl the Frattens said she was; there might be a perfectly natural and simple explanation of their action—a forgotten appointment—a sudden change of mind.