“Sir Garth was a rich man, Mr. Hessel, and of course, in his way, a powerful man. I suppose it is possible that he may have made enemies?”
But Hessel was not to be drawn. He smiled and shook his head.
“Aren’t we verging a little bit on the melodramatic, Inspector?” he said. “I suppose your suggestion is that some City magnate hired an assassin to put a hated rival out of the way. That may have been the custom a couple of centuries ago, but hardly today—quite apart from the fact that I can’t see how you make the death out to be anything but accidental.”
Poole realized that he had now lost the sympathy of his audience; he wisely decided to go. Thanking the banker for his help and courtesy, as well as for his tea, the detective made his way out into the street. When he called upon Mr. Menticle in the afternoon he had learned that the latter lived in Lincoln’s Inn, as well as working there, and might well be at home later in the day. He decided now to try his luck again.
He arrived at Mr. Menticle’s chambers at about six o’clock and found that the owner had “sported his oak.” In ordinary circumstances Poole, as an Oxford man, would have respected this appeal for privacy, but as it was he felt that the chariot wheels of justice must roll through even this sacred tradition. He knocked firmly on the outer door.
There was no answer to his first knock, but he had the curious feeling that the silence within had become even more silent. He knocked more sharply and soon heard footsteps approaching, followed by the opening of the inner door; he stepped back a pace and the heavy outer door swung slowly out towards him. In the doorway stood a curious figure, which might have stepped out of a page of Dickens; an elderly man, dressed in baggy subfuscous trousers, a worn velvet jacket, and a tasselled cap, such as Poole imagined to have been extinct since Balmoral lifted its ban upon smoking. The face underneath the cap, however, was by no means Victorian; the nose certainly was aquiline and carried a pair of gold pince-nez, but the skin was clear and healthy, the mouth sensitive, and the eyes bright and intelligent. Probably Mr. Menticle amused himself in his solitude by posing as a participator in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
At the moment there was a frown of displeasure on the lawyer’s fine brow. He remained in the doorway, waiting for his visitor to explain his presence.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Poole. “My card will explain my insistence.”
Mr. Menticle took the card, glanced at it, and, with a short nod, signed to Poole to come in.
“Shut the outer door behind you,” said Mr. Menticle. “It may prevent our being disturbed.”