Captain Voilance had been a Regular in his young days, had left the army in order to make a living on which to keep a young and attractive wife, had made that living working as a super-shopwalker in a big men’s outfitting store in New York, had thrown up his job in August 1914 in order to re-join his regiment and had lost any chance of recovering it by having his face mutilated by a bomb in the Hohenzollern Redoubt in 1915. Three years of home duty and constant operations had not sapped his courage, but they had sapped his capital, for his pretty wife was bitten by the war fever for restless enjoyment, and when she left him for a better-looking hero in 1918, Voilance found himself with about four hundred pounds, a daughter aged five, and his honourable scars.
Fortunately for him, those scars did actually—and exceptionally—profit him in his search for work. The Committee of The Junior Services, realizing that a sentimental public draws the line at grotesque horrors, appointed him Secretary of their club out of an application list approaching four figures. They got a very grateful and a very competent servant.
After the first shock, Poole realized at once that he was dealing with a man—not a “correct” machine. He gave Captain Voilance his professional card.
“I am a Scotland Yard detective, as you can see, sir,” he said. “I have come here to get information about one of your members. I know that clubs don’t give information about their members to detectives—not till they’re absolutely forced to. It would take me a little time to put force into action and I don’t want to do it—I want willing co-operation. I’ll put my cards on the table.”
Poole sketched the history of the case, without mentioning the name of Lessingham or Mrs. Wraile.
“My point is this, sir,” he concluded. “A particularly beastly crime has been committed—apart from the murder, the attempts to incriminate an innocent man puts the murderer beyond sympathy. I strongly suspect Captain Wraile of being at least closely connected with the crime. He has told me a story which puts him in this club all the time that the murder was being prepared for and committed. I want you to help me either to prove or disprove his story. If it is proved, then he is cleared; if it is definitely disproved, then there can be no shadow of doubt that he is a murderer and that the sooner he ceases to be a member of your club the better for the club. Will you help, sir?”
Voilance sat for a minute looking blankly at the calendar in front of him.
“I know what my own answer is, Inspector,” he said. “But I’m bound to consult a member of the Committee if there’s one in the club. If you’ll wait a minute . . .”
Within three minutes he was back.
“Not one of ’em in,” he reported. “General Cannup was leaving the club as I came down the stairs—I wasn’t quick enough to catch him.” A shadow of a smile flickered across the distorted features. “I must decide for myself. I’ll do what I can to help you. What’s the first move?”