Читать книгу The Duke of York's Steps - Sir Henry Lancelot Aubrey-Fletcher - Страница 8

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Detective-Inspector John Poole had had, as Chief Inspector Barrod had told Sir Leward Marradine, a good education. That is to say, he had been to a private school, one of the smaller public schools, and to the University of Oxford, where he had been an exhibitioner of St. James’s College. It was at Oxford that the seed of his rather eccentric ambition had been sown in him. His father, a country doctor with a comfortable practice, had intended him at first to follow in his own footsteps, but when John began to show signs of brain power above the family average, without feeling any of the “call” to a career of healing that is so essential to success in that profession, he had substituted the Bar as the goal of the boy’s academical efforts. John had a cool, clear brain, the facility to express himself concisely, and a capacity for hard and persistent work—a dogged pursuit of results—all admirable qualities in a barrister.

For a time young Poole followed the course laid down for him willingly enough. He took his Law Prelim. in his stride, and settled down to the pursuit of Final Honours—a First if possible, a Second as very second best. At the same time he did not neglect either the athletic or social side of University life. In his third year he got an Athletic Half-Blue, running as second string in the Low Hurdles, whilst in the summer he played cricket for his College and once figured, but without conspicuous success, in a Seniors’ Match. He began to rehearse a small part in The Winter’s Tale for the O.U.D.S. but, finding it took too much of his time, mostly spent in hanging about watching the stars spread themselves, he gave it up and took to political and other debating societies.

It was at a meeting of the Justice Club that he first made his mark. The society was debating the rights and wrongs of a certain celebrated criminal trial, and Poole, rising as a comparatively unknown member when the discussion had reached a stage of considerable confusion and imminent collapse, had reviewed the evidence for the prosecution from so original a standpoint and with such logical precision that the “jury” had returned an enthusiastic and overwhelming majority for the defence. As a result of this speech, Poole had been elected a member of the Criminologists Club, a much older and more reputable body, at whose meetings celebrated old members often attended and spoke. Here he had met Harry Irving, whose personality had fired John with his own enthusiastic interest in the fascinating subject of crime. On another occasion the principal speaker—not a member—was the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, who, speaking on the subject of police work generally and criminal investigation in particular, had definitely opened John Poole’s eyes to the possibility of crime investigation as a career.

At first the young undergraduate thought of becoming an independent investigator—a private detective—possibly after a short career at the Bar with the object of picking up the legal side of the work. But after thinking over again all that the Chief Commissioner had said, and reading such books on the subject as he could lay his hands on, Poole came to the conclusion that the powers and machinery of the official police gave them such an overwhelming advantage over the “amateurs” that in the Force itself alone lay the prospects of really great achievement.

For the high offices in the Police Force, the Chief Constables of County Constabularies, the Chief and Assistant-Commissioners of the Metropolitan and City Police, it was not of course necessary to have been a policeman. Such posts usually went to soldiers and sailors, or even occasionally to barristers, though in some of the Borough Police forces promotion from the ranks was becoming more common. But, from the first moment, Poole set his mind on one post, for which—though it was generally so filled—he did not consider that an army or navy training was sufficient. He wanted to be Head of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.

He quite appreciated the commonly accepted attitude that a Chief Commissioner or a Chief Constable (outside Scotland Yard) needed a wider training, a broader outlook, than were to be obtained by step-by-step promotion in the police force. But for the particular and expert work of criminal investigation, for a degree of experience and proficiency such as he believed a great chief of the C.I.D. ought to have, he did not believe that any soldier, sailor, or barrister was qualified. On the other hand, he doubted, as did the authorities and public opinion generally, whether any policeman, as at present recruited, had the necessary qualifications, of the broader kind, either; in fact, he doubted whether, under present conditions, any individual living was properly qualified for the post he sought.

Poole therefore determined to qualify himself by obtaining both the broad outlook and the expert knowledge which he postulated. He completed his time at Oxford, taking a Second Class in Law at the end of his third year; then, in order to get some insight into the legal side of his work, he was called to the Bar and was lucky enough to get into the chambers of Edward Floodgate, the well-known criminal lawyer, who afterwards leapt into fame in the course of the astounding Hastings trial. With Floodgate he remained for a year, working with great energy to acquire as much knowledge and experience as possible in the short time at his disposal. At the age of twenty-three he joined the Metropolitan Police as a recruit, and after serving for fifteen months as a Constable in “C” Division, succeeded in catching the eye of the authorities and was transferred to the C.I.D. at Scotland Yard. At the age of twenty-seven he was promoted Sergeant and soon afterwards was lucky enough to figure prominently in two celebrated cases, in the latter of which, known as the Curzon case, he had come under the notice of Sir Leward Marradine himself. The A.C.C. was so impressed by the intelligence and persistence displayed by the young Detective-Sergeant that he put his name down for accelerated promotion, a step, as we have seen, not fully approved by Chief Inspector Barrod, in whose section he worked.

Barrod, however, was a fair-minded man, and though he had no high opinion of his new Inspector, he did not allow the latter to be aware of the fact. It was with no misgiving, therefore, that Poole answered the summons to report himself to the A.C.C. Certainly his appearance, as he respectfully acknowledged Sir Leward’s greeting, did not belie his reputation. Standing about five feet ten inches, he had the straight hips, small waist and wide shoulders of the ideal athlete, though his clothes were cut to conceal, rather than accentuate, these features. His face, except for the eyes, was not remarkable; the chin was well-moulded rather than strong, the mouth quietly firm, and the forehead of medium height. But the eyes were, to anyone accustomed to study faces, an indication of his character—grey, steady eyes that looked quietly at the object before them, with a curiously unblinking gaze that allowed nothing to escape them. They had, for a detective, the distinct disadvantage that, to anyone who had encountered them, they were not easily forgotten.

“Sir Leward wants you to look into a case for him, Poole,” said the Chief Inspector. “It would probably save time, sir,” he added turning to Marradine, “if you gave him the facts and your instructions yourself.”

Marradine repeated his account of his interview with Miss Fratten and his own impressions on the subject.

“You’ll see, Poole,” he said, “that so far there is no real case to investigate; the doctor signed a death certificate without question, nobody has laid any information or in any way hinted at foul play. And yet I’m not satisfied—and clearly Miss Fratten is not satisfied. I want you to make one or two very quiet and discreet inquiries. It mustn’t get about that Scotland Yard is moving in the matter—we don’t want to bring a hornet’s nest about our ears. Of course, you will have to act in your official capacity—the people whom you question will have to know that we are interested—but it must not go any further. Impress that upon them. I would suggest your seeing the doctor—Spavage, I think his name was—and the solicitor. Possibly that chap Hessel, who was with Sir Garth when he died.”

Chief Inspector Barrod had been turning the pages of a Medical Directory.

“Sir Horace Spavage, M.D. 1902, L.R.C.B. Lond. 1910, etc., etc., Phys. in Ord. to H.M. the King. Cons. Phys. Heart Hospital ... is that the chap?” he asked.

“Yes, that’ll be him; I remember, the name now—Sir Horace Spavage. The solicitor you’ll have to get from Miss Fratten—I don’t know anything about him. When you’ve had a talk with them, come and see me and we’ll decide whether it’s worth while going any further.”

Sir Leward nodded in dismissal and his two subordinates left the room, Poole following the Chief Inspector to the office which the latter shared with three other Chief Inspectors. Barrod sat down at his desk and started to go through some papers. Poole waited in silence for a minute and then, thinking that perhaps his superior had forgotten his presence, he coughed discreetly. Barrod lifted his head and looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Yes?” he said.

“Any instructions, sir?”

“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.

“This dates him a bit, doesn’t it?” Poole muttered to himself, as he glanced up at the name of the street.

Fortunately for him, Sir Horace’s house was at the Cavendish Square end, so that he was saved a possible ten minutes walk of infinite dreariness. Only one plate was on the massive door, he noticed as he rang the bell. Probably that meant that Sir Horace lived here, poor devil. The door was opened by a man-servant in a white jacket. Poole explained that he had no appointment but that, if Sir Horace had a quarter of an hour to spare in the near future, he would like to consult him upon a matter of some importance. The man-servant showed Poole into a waiting-room faintly redolent of mutton and retired, bearing with him Poole’s private card. After the customary twenty minutes wait, the man-servant returned to say that, owing to the failure of a patient, Sir Horace was fortunately able to see Mr. Poole at once—the usual formula of the unengaged.

Poole was shown into a large room, full—or so it seemed—of dark heavy furniture and a countless array of signed photographs; on the big writing table, Their Gracious Majesties; on the mantelpiece, Their various Royal Highnesses—mostly ten or twenty years younger than life; on occasional tables and round the walls the lesser, but still noble fry: Caroline Kent, Minon Lancashire, Grace Wilbraham-Hamilton, George Gurgles—“truthfully yours,” leaders of fashion, men and women of the world, actors and actresses—of the type eligible for “birthday honours”—sportsmen, financiers—yes, prominently now, though probably retrieved by recent notoriety from comparative obscurity, an indifferent portrait of “Garth Fratten.”

Naturally, Inspector Poole did not take in all these photographic “warrants” at one glance, rather they impressed themselves upon his sub-conscious notice and gradually presented themselves one by one, during the course of the interview, to his observant eye. At the moment he was engaged in taking in the principal feature of the room, Sir Horace Spavage himself. Sir Horace was not a tall man, he was in fact, about five foot six, but he was, as he liked to put it, a man of good proportions and of a noticeable presence. His hair was now white and rather long, he had a curling white moustache, good teeth—too good to be true—and more than a suspicion of side-whiskers. He wore a frock-coat and a double cravat embellished by a fine pearl pin.

When Poole entered, Sir Horace was standing behind his desk, tapping the former’s card against his well-kept nails. After a quick glance at his visitor, to see perhaps if he looked sufficiently noble to be shaking hands with, Sir Horace abandoned any such intention that he may have fostered, and waved to a chair.

“Sit down, Mr.—er—Poole. What may I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

The detective remained standing. He handed across the table his official card.

“That will explain who I am, sir. I thought it better not to send it in by your servant; the matter is confidential.”

Sir Horace frowned. He also remained standing.

“What is it you want, Inspector? I have only a few minutes. My next patient ...”

“I quite understand, sir. I have been instructed to make one or two enquiries about the death of Sir Garth Fratten. Some question has been raised about the actual cause of death—about the circumstances, too, that led up to it. As regards the first question, you, naturally, can give us the information we want.”

“You will find the necessary information in my death certificate, Inspector. I don’t understand the necessity for your coming to me about it. The matter was all in order.”

“Quite so, sir, but I shall be glad, all the same, if you will tell me about it in your own words. Possibly some amplification of the information contained in the certificate may clear things up.”

“What do you mean, ‘clear things up’? There is nothing to clear up, so far as I know.”

“Probably not, sir, but we want to be quite certain on that point. I understand that the cause of death was the rupture of an aneurism. Can you tell me how long Sir Garth had suffered from this—disability?”

The physician stood for a moment looking down at the writing-pad in front of him, his fingers playing an irritated tattoo on the woodwork of the table. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he sat down, signing to the detective to do the same.

“Very well,” he said, “I suppose I had better do what you want, though it seems a complete waste of time—yours as well as mine. Sir Garth Fratten had been suffering from a thorasic aneurism for about a year. It was very slight at first, and I had hoped by treatment—the injection of gelatine solution—to cure it. Within the last three months, however, the dilatation had noticeably increased. I ordered complete rest—owing to the position, in the chest, an operation was out of the question—but Sir Garth was a self-willed man and would not listen to reason. He preferred, he said, to die in harness rather than lead an idle and useless life, though he did agree to knock off a certain amount of his work. There was always great danger of the aneurism bursting in the event of sudden shock and, though I hadn’t expected it quite so soon, I was in no way surprised when it occurred.”

“I’m afraid I’m very ignorant, sir,” said Poole. “Would you mind telling me, not too technically, what an aneurism is?”

This was pie to Sir Horace and he answered with a better grace than he had yet shown.

“An aneurism is a blood-containing cavity, the walls of which are formed from the dilatation of an artery, or of its surrounding tissues. The dilatation is due to local weakness, caused by injury or disease. You might say that the general effect was rather like the ballooning of an inner tube through the outer cover of a motor tire. Naturally, if the aneurism bursts, the blood escapes from the artery into the pleura and death rapidly ensues. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite, sir. Now can you tell me if it is the case that Sir Garth’s family was in ignorance of this condition?”

“Certainly not. Not, that is to say, at the time of his death. It is true that for some time Sir Garth told his family and friends that it was his heart that was troubling him—he considered that deception, I believe, to be a euphemism. But he made no stipulation to me about it and I myself told his son what was the matter with him. The boy and his sister were worried by a slight accident that had occurred to Sir Garth—only a week or two before his death, it was, as a matter of fact—and young Fratten came up here to see me about it. I wrote him out a note of explanation to show his sister—he wasn’t sure that he could explain it to her himself. It was obviously desirable that they should know, so that they could use their influence to restrain him from overdoing himself.”

Poole felt a slight stirring of interest as he listened, though he was not sure exactly what had aroused it. But he was now coming to the awkward part of his interrogation.

“About the actual cause of Sir Garth’s death, sir. I understand about the aneurism bursting, but what exactly caused it to burst?”

Sir Horace fidgeted with a paper-knife.

“Surely,” he said, “your people read the papers? There was a slight accident, very slight. Someone stumbled against Sir Garth, upset him to a certain extent. No doubt it was a shock, as it was on the occasion of which I have already spoken—he was nearly run over in the City by a motor-bicycle. The shock and excitement were quite sufficient to burst the aneurism. I had no difficulty in deciding the cause of death and in giving a certificate to that effect.”

Poole took the plunge.

“You will forgive me, sir,” he said, “but I shall be glad if you will tell me whether you are quite sure that there is no possibility of mistake. Is it impossible that death was due to some other cause, such as a blow? Some deliberate cause, that is to say?”

Sir Horace sat up abruptly.

“What on earth do you mean, sir?” he exclaimed. “Are you throwing doubts upon my diagnosis?”

“Not for a minute,” Poole hastened to assure him. “I fully accept the cause of death as being the rupture of the aneurism, but I would like to know whether it could possibly have been deliberately brought about—by a blow, for instance. May I ask whether you examined the body for any signs of a blow—any wounds or bruising?”

Sir Horace sprang to his feet, his face flushed, his eyes congested with anger.

“This is beyond sufferance!” he exclaimed. “You come here and cross-question me about the way I carry out my duties! Me, a Physician to His Majesty the King! Sir Wilfred (he was referring to the Home Secretary) shall hear of this! It is preposterous!”

He struck a hand-bell angrily:

“Of course there was no wound or bruising. The cause of death was quite simple and in accordance with my certificate. The whole of this questioning is ridiculous. Have the goodness to remove yourself, sir. Frazer, show this man out.”

Inspector Poole retired with what grace he could, but with a smile at the back of his mouth. As the front door closed sharply behind him, he said to himself:

“That chap’s got the wind up.”