“I am Inspector Poole, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard,” he said in a crisp voice. “I have come to ask you for information regarding a sum of money advanced by you to Mr. Ryland Fratten.”
This was banking rather heavily upon the slender framework of his late informant’s credibility. Poole was relieved to see an unmistakable flutter of apprehension pass over the otherwise inscrutable features in front of him. Following up his advantage, Poole assumed his most official manner.
“You will probably realize,” he said, “that you will be well advised not to attempt to conceal any phase of this transaction. The consequences of any deception would be very serious for you.”
He paused to let these words sink in.
“What precisely do you want to know?” Silence asked, in a low but curiously refined voice.
“I want to know how much you lent Mr. Fratten, on what security, and at what rate of interest?”
The man remained silent, his fingers beating a tattoo, his eyes cast down upon the writing-pad before him.
“My business is supposed to be confidential,” he said at last.
“I realize that, but if the police require information it will be advisable for you not to withhold it.”
Poole knew that this was a delicate point as between police and public, but a man engaged in such a business as this probably was, could afford to run no risks. He was not mistaken.