“You’ve had your instructions from the Chief.”
Inspector Poole felt slightly uncomfortable—as if there was a hitch somewhere.
“I report progress through you, I suppose, sir, as usual?”
“Sir Leward told you to report to him. You’d better do as you’re told. This case has nothing to do with me.”
Decidedly, a hitch. “Very good, sir.”
Poole left the room, wondering just what the trouble was. He was not at all pleased at getting on the wrong side of Chief Inspector Barrod at this stage of his career, though he could not see what he himself had done to bring this about. Perhaps the Chief Inspector had forgotten his Kruschen that morning—or taken an overdose. More probably, he had been himself ticked off about something and this was just a case of the office-boy taking it out of the cat. Anyway, Poole did not propose to allow himself to be put out by this little cloud on the horizon.
The story that he had heard had rather intrigued him. For the moment, of course, there was very little in it; from a criminal point of view there would probably prove to be nothing in it at all. But the chief characters concerned were undoubtedly interesting. In the first place, Sir Garth Fratten, the great banker, whose reputation for financial ability amounting almost to genius had penetrated well beyond the bounds of the City. Then there was his daughter, Miss Fratten. Sir Leward had not, of course, revealed the physical side of his attraction to her—he had not referred in any way to her appearance or qualities; but it was quite clear that she was a girl of character and determination; she would almost certainly be an interesting person to meet. Finally there was the doctor, Sir Horace Spavage—a man of established reputation, “Physician in Ordinary to the King.” If it turned out that there had been foul play—and he had given a death certificate of “natural causes”—he would be in a funny position.
Poole decided first of all to visit the doctor. If there was anything questionable about Sir Garth’s death it was essential to find out the actual cause. So far he was very vague on this subject.
Leaving Scotland Yard, the detective crossed Whitehall, automatically raising his hat to the Cenotaph as he did so. Having been too young to serve in the Great War, and having himself lost no near relations in it, he naturally did not feel the same personal interest in the national memorial as those who had, but he liked the custom of this quiet salute and always observed it. Taking a S.C. Bus, he was soon crashing down the wide thoroughfare from which the Empire is governed. Past the delicate Horse Guards building, nestling between the sombre Treasury and the great barrack of the Admiralty; past the pretentious massif of the new War Office, its grossness shamed by the dignified beauty of its small neighbour “Woods and Forests”; through the lower part of Trafalgar Square, threatened now by the shadow of architectural disaster; into the whirl of one-way traffic round the Guards Crimean Memorial; through the blatant vulgarities of Piccadilly Circus and up between the glaring new commercial palaces of Regent Street; Poole at most times had an eye for London, for its beauties and its tragic blunders, but today his mind was upon the problem in front of him.
Automatically he got down at Oxford Circus, disengaged himself from the “monstrous regiment” of female shoppers, and cutting across Cavendish Square, turned into the long and sombre avenue of Harley Street.