Once again the three knocks—more insistent than before—shattered the silence.
“Open this door, please!”
The sharp, authoritative ring of the voice left no doubt as to its owner’s status.
“Police!” gasped Lessingham, clutching at the table before him, and staring wildly at his companions.
Miriam Wraile slipped quickly to her husband’s side and whispered in his ear. He shook his head.
“No—no. It may be watched. We must bluff them,” he whispered. Then, aloud: “Who’s that? What do you want?”
“Police officer. Will you open the door, sir, please?”
“Board-meeting! Papers, Miriam! Take the Chair, Lessingham!” whispered Wraile. He pushed back his chair, walked slowly to the door, and—as Miriam slipped back into the room with a bundle of papers and scattered them on the table, turned the key and opened the door.
“What on earth do you want?” he said.
Without answering, Inspector Poole stepped quietly into the room, almost brushing Wraile aside as he did so. The latter took a quick look out on to the landing and then shut the door, but did not resume his seat. Poole’s eyes moved quickly round the room, resting for a second on Lessingham and Mrs. Wraile, and taking in the details of the scene. There was no expression, either of disappointment or surprise or pleasure on his face as he addressed himself to Lessingham, now seated in the Chairman’s place at the end of the table.