“I lent Mr. Fratten £15,000 for three months only, at 10% per month. The rate of interest is high but Mr. Fratten’s reputation is not good. I know well what trouble others in my profession have had to recover their advances. I could only do business on very special terms.”
“And the security?”
“A note of hand only.”
“Surely something more? If Mr. Fratten’s reputation is so bad, what expectation could you have had of being repaid within three months?”
The moneylender fidgeted uneasily.
“He showed me a letter,” he said at last, “a letter from his father’s (Sir Garth Fratten’s) doctor. I gathered from it that Sir Garth’s expectation of life was very short; Mr. Fratten was his heir. I took a risk; it came off.”
A shadow of a smile crossed the pale face. Poole felt a shudder of repugnance—this gambling upon a man’s life was an ugly business. Ugly enough, from the moneylender’s point of view—hideous when applied to father and son.
He learnt nothing more of interest from the rather melodramatic moneylender, except the significant fact that the transaction was affected on 17th October, exactly half-way between the date of Ryland Fratten’s threatened disinheritance by his father and the latter’s death. After a thoroughly blank and unpromising beginning, Poole felt that the day had ended well. He went home to bed, carefully folding his evening clothes before putting them away until next time.
The following day was a Sunday, but on Monday morning Poole reported again to Sir Leward and the latter, after hearing what he had to say, decided that the time had come to call Chief Inspector Barrod into their councils. Barrod listened with attention to the précis of the case given by Poole, but showed no sign of making any amends for his former scepticism.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “you’ve got the motive all right; you’ve probably got the murderer; but have you got the murder?”