“Mr. Hessel, sir; if the Wrailes had the close-fitting time-table I think they had it seems to me more than a coincidence that Sir Garth should have walked right into it; I can’t help thinking that he was led into it.”
Sir Leward whistled. Barrod was silent.
“Have you questioned him since you had that idea in your head?”
“No, sir; it’s only very hazy—and I’ve been afraid of putting him on his guard prematurely. It’s only since yesterday that I’ve realized just how close the Wraile alibi must be. Shall I see him again?”
It was agreed that Poole should interview Hessel that morning and try to probe the latter’s possible connection with the Wrailes and Lessingham. At one o’clock he was to be back at the Yard in expectation of a telephone call from Sergeant Gower in Brussels; at three he was to interview Buntle, the club waiter. It looked like being another full day.
Mr. Hessel, however, was not at Fratten’s Bank; the manager thought he was away in the country as he had not returned since the week-end. His address was so-and-so. Poole returned to the Yard and, taking out his note-book, went through the whole case from beginning to end to see whether any fresh light struck him. As he read, he felt a growing conviction that Hessel must have known of the projected attack upon his friend. Upon his friend! It was impossible to believe that any man could be guilty of such treachery—the luring of a friend to his death—the act of a Judas.
Deep in these thoughts Poole was startled by a call to the telephone—a call from Brussels. Faint but distinct came the voice of Sergeant Gower. He had called at 175 Rue des Canetons and found it a mean tobacconist’s shop kept by an old woman of the name of Pintole. The lady had blankly denied all knowledge of anyone of the name of Lessingham but a combination of threat and bribery—threat of the Bureau de Police and the flourishing of a hundred-Belgian note—had at last pierced her obstinacy and she had confessed that a gentleman of that name had once called there and arranged for her to receive—for a consideration—any letters addressed to him there—and to destroy them. No, he never came there himself—she had not set eyes on him since his first visit, more than a year ago.
Poole instructed his subordinate to call at the headquarters of the Brussels Police and try to trace Lessingham through them, but he felt small hope of success—the trail, he was sure, led back to London. Nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush now; he must go to the offices of the Ethiopian and General and try to get in touch with Lessingham through them. Although it was the middle of the luncheon-hour Poole made his way at once to the City and, having found that both Captain Wraile and his secretary were out at lunch, tried to pump the junior clerks on duty. Wraile, however, evidently knew how to discipline his staff—with the exception of the clerk whom Mangane had been able to bribe; anyhow, Poole could get nothing from them but a request to wait till Mr. Lacquier, the secretary, returned. When he did return the result was little better—Mr. Lessingham was to be found at the offices of the Rotunda Syndicate—137A Monument Lane.
This was nothing more than he had learnt on the previous afternoon—but it was all that he was to learn on the subject from that office, even when Captain Wraile returned and graciously received him.
Feeling savage, and defeated, Poole made his way back by bus to Pall Mall. It was four o’clock by the time he got to The Junior Service Club but he was soon introduced to the bereaved waiter. Mr. Buntle proved to be as shrewd a man as the early disposal of his mother-in-law suggested. He quite well remembered Captain Wraile sending him with a message to the hall-porter about a Mr. Lukescu (he pronounced it Look-askew) being expected. The Captain was sitting in the small library at the back—the room to which visitors were generally taken for prolonged conversation; he was actually sitting at the writing table in the window when he (Buntle) entered.