“I’m not in a position to contradict that assumption,” Sir Clinton confessed. “But so far as that goes, I think you’ll find the point cleared up in a day or two at the rate we’re going.”
“You’re very optimistic, sir,” was all the Inspector found to reply. “Now I’ve left one matter to the end, because it may have no bearing on the case at all. The last year of that journal is full of groans about his finances. He seems to have spent a good deal more than he could afford, in one way and another. I’ve noted all the passages if you want to read them, sir. They’re among the set marked with white slips.”
“Just give me the gist of them,” the Chief Constable suggested. “From that, I can see whether I want to wade through the whole thing or not.”
“It’s simple enough, sir. He’s been borrowing money on a scale that would be quite big for his resources. And I gather from some of the entries that he had no security that he could produce. It seems he daren’t go to his uncle and ask him to use his capital as security—I mean young Hassendean’s own capital which was under his uncle’s control as trustee. So he was persuaded to insure his life in favour of his creditor for a good round sum—figure not mentioned.”
“So in the present circumstances the moneylender will rake in the whole sum insured, after paying only a single premium?”
“Unless the insurance company can prove suicide.”
Sir Clinton closed the last volume of the journal.
“I’ve heard of that sort of insurance racket before. And of course you remember that shooting affair in Scotland thirty years ago when the prosecution made a strong point out of just this very type of transaction. Have you had time to make any inquiries along that line yet?”
Flamborough was evidently glad to get the opportunity of showing his efficiency.
“I took it up at once, sir. In one entry, he mentioned the name of the company: the Western Medical and Mercantile Assurance Co. I put a trunk call through to their head office and got the particulars of the policy. It’s for £5,000 and it’s in favour of Dudley Amyas Guisborough & Co.—the moneylender.”
“Sounds very aristocratic,” the Chief Constable commented.
“Oh, that’s only his trade sign. His real name’s Spratton.”
“No claim been made yet?”
“No, sir. I don’t suppose he’s hurrying. The inquest was adjourned, you remember; and until they bring in some verdict excluding suicide, Spratton can’t do much. There’s a suicide clause in the policy, I learned. But if it pans out as a murder, then Spratton’s £5,000 in pocket.”
“In fact, Inspector, Mr. Justice is doing a very good bit of work for Dudley Amyas Guisborough & Co.”
Flamborough seemed struck by an idea.
“I’ll go and pay a call on Mr. Spratton, I think. I’ll do it now.”
“Oh, he’s a local light, is he?”
“Yes, sir. He was mixed up in a case last year. You won’t remember it, though. It never came to much. Just an old man who fell into Spratton’s hands and was driven to suicide by the damnable rapacity of that shark. Inspector Ferryside had to look into the matter, and I remember talking over the case with him. That’s how it sticks in my memory.”
“Well, see what you can make of him, Inspector. But I shan’t be disappointed if you come back empty-handed. Even if he were mixed up in this affair, he’ll have taken good care not to leave a straight string leading back to his front door. If it was a case of murder for profit, you know, there would be plenty of time to draw up a pretty good scheme beforehand. It wouldn’t be done on the spur of the moment.”
Chapter Nine
THE CREDITOR
Inspector Flamborough’s orderly mind found something to respect in the businesslike appearance of the moneylender’s premises. As he waited at the counter of the outer office while his card was submitted to the principal, he was struck by the spick-and-span appearance of the fittings and the industry of the small staff.
“Quite impressive as a fly-trap,” he ruminated. “Looks like a good solid business with plenty of money to spend. And the clerks have good manners, too. Spratton’s evidently bent on making a nice impression on new clients.”
He was not kept waiting more than a minute before the clerk returned and ushered him into a room which had very little of the office in its furnishings. As he entered, a clean-shaven man in the late thirties rose from an arm-chair beside the fire. At the first glance, his appearance seemed to strike some chord in the Inspector’s memory; and Flamborough found himself pursuing an elusive recollection which he failed to run to ground.
The moneylender seemed to regard the Inspector’s visit as a perfectly normal event. His manner was genial without being effusive.
“Come in, Inspector,” he invited, with a gesture towards one of the comfortable chairs. “Try a cigarette?”
He proffered a large silver box, but Flamborough declined to smoke.
“And what can I do for you?” Spratton inquired pleasantly, replacing the box on the mantelpiece. “Money’s very tight these days.”
“I’m not a client,” Flamborough informed him, with a slightly sardonic smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
The moneylender’s eyes narrowed, but otherwise he showed no outward sign of his feelings.
“Then I’m rather at a loss to know what you want,” he confessed, without any lapse from his initial geniality. “I run my business strictly within the four corners of the Act. You’ve no complaint about that?”
The Inspector had no intention of wasting time.
“It’s this affair of young Hassendean,” he explained. “The young fellow who was murdered the other day. You must have seen the case in the papers. I understand he was a client of yours.”
A flash of intelligence passed over the moneylender’s face, but he suppressed it almost instantly.
“Hassendean?” he repeated, as though cudgelling his memory. “I’ve some recollection of the name. But my business is a large one, and I don’t profess to carry all the details in my head.”
He stepped over to the bell and rang it. When a clerk appeared in answer to the summons, the moneylender turned to give an order:
“I think we had some transactions with a Mr. Hassendean—Mr. Ronald Hassendean, isn’t it?” he glanced at Flamborough for confirmation, and then continued: “Just bring me that file, Plowden.”
It did not take the Inspector long to make up his mind that this by-play was intended merely to give Spratton time to find his bearings; but Flamborough waited patiently until the clerk returned and placed a filing-case on the table. Spratton turned over the leaves for a few moments, as though refreshing his memory.
“This fellow would have made a good actor,” Flamborough reflected with a certain admiration. “He does it deuced well. But who the devil does he remind me of?”
Spratton’s nicely-calculated interlude came to an end, and he turned back to the Inspector.
“You’re quite right. I find that he had some transactions with us!”
“They began about eleven months ago, didn’t they?”
The moneylender nodded in confirmation.
“I find that I lent him £100 first of all. Two months after that—he not having repaid anything—I lent him £200. Then there was a further item of £300 in April, part of which he seems to have paid back to me later on in order to square up for the interest which he hadn’t paid.”
“What security had you for these loans?”
Again the moneylender’s eyes narrowed for a moment; but his manner betrayed nothing.
“Up to that time, I was quite satisfied with his prospects.”
And after that he borrowed more from you?”
“Apparently.” Spratton made a pretence of consulting the file. “He came to me in June for another £500, and of course the interest was mounting up gradually.”
“He must have been making the money fly,” Flamborough suggested with a certain indifference. “I wish I could see my way to s
plash dibs at that rate. It would be a new experience. But when it came to figures of that size, I suppose you expected something better in the way of security?”
Despite the Inspector’s casual tone, the moneylender seemed to suspect a trap.
“Well, by that time he was in my books for well over a thousand.”
He appeared to feel that frankness would be best.
“I arranged matters for him,” he continued. “He took out a policy on his life with the Western Medical and Mercantile. I have the policy in my safe if you wish to see it.”
“Of course you allowed a reasonable margin for contingencies, I suppose?” Flamborough inquired sympathetically.
“Oh, naturally I expected him to go on borrowing, so I had to allow a fair margin for contingencies. The policy was for £5,000.”
“So you’re about £4,000 in pocket, now that he’s dead,” Flamborough commented enviously. “Some people are lucky.”
“Against that you’ve got to offset the bad debts I make,” Spratton pointed out.
Flamborough could not pretend to himself that he had managed to elicit much of importance during his call; but he had no excuse for prolonging the interview. He rose to his feet.
“I don’t suppose we shall need any of these facts if it comes to trying anyone,” he said, as he prepared to leave. “If we do, you’ll have plenty of warning, of course.”
The moneylender opened a door which allowed a direct exit into the corridor, and Flamborough went out. As he walked along the passage, he was still racking his memory to discover who Spratton resembled; and at last, as he reached the pavement outside, it flashed into his mind.
“Of course! It’s the Chief! Put a moustache on to that fellow and dye his hair a bit and he might pass for Driffield in the dusk. He’s not a twin-brother; but there’s a resemblance of sorts, undoubtedly.”
He returned to headquarters feeling that he had wasted his time over the moneylender. Except that he had now seen the man in the flesh and had an opportunity of sizing him up, he was really no further forward than he had been before; for the few actual figures of transactions which he had obtained were obviously of little interest in themselves.
As he entered the police station, a constable came forward.
“There’s a gentleman here, Inspector Flamborough. He’s called about the Silverdale case and he wants to see you. He’s a foreigner of the name of Renard.”
“Very well. Send him along to me,” Flamborough ordered.
In a few moments, the constable ushered in a small man with a black moustache and a shock of stiffly-brushed hair which gave him a foreign appearance. The Inspector was relieved to find that he spoke perfect English, though with a slight accent.
“My name is Octave Renard,” he introduced himself. “I am the brother of Mrs. Yvonne Silverdale.”
Flamborough, with a certain admiration for the fortitude of the little man in the tragic circumstances, made haste to put him at his ease by expressing his sympathy.
“Yes, very sad,” said the little Frenchman, with an obvious effort to keep himself under control. “I was very fond of my sister, you understand. She was so gay, so fond of life. She enjoyed herself every moment of the day. And now——”
A gesture filled out the missing phrase.
Flamborough’s face betrayed his commiseration; but he was a busy man, and could ill afford to waste time.
“You wished to see me about something?”
“All I know is what was printed in the newspapers,” Renard explained. “I would like to learn the truth of the case—the real facts. And you are in charge of the case, I was told. So I come to you.”
Flamborough, after a moment’s hesitation, gave him an outline of the bungalow tragedy, softening some of the details and omitting anything which he thought it undesirable to make public. Renard listened, with an occasional nervous twitch which showed that his imagination was at work, clothing the bare bones of the Inspector’s narrative with flesh.
“It is a bad business,” he said, shaking his head mournfully as Flamborough concluded. “To think that such a thing should have happened just when she had had her great stroke of good-fortune! It is incredible, the irony of Fate.”
The Inspector pricked up his ears.
“She’d had a piece of good luck, lately, you say, Mr. Renard? What was that?”
“You do not know?” the little man inquired in surprise. “But surely her husband must have told you? No?”
Flamborough shook his head.
“That is strange,” Renard continued. “I do not quite understand that. My sister was the favourite of her aunt. She was down in her will, you understand? And my aunt was a very wealthy woman. Pots of money, as you English say. For some time my aunt has been in feeble health. She has been going downhill for the last year or more. A heart trouble, you understand. And just a fortnight ago, puff!—she went out like that. Like a blown-out candle.”
“Yes?” the Inspector prompted.
“Her will was in the keeping of her lawyer and he communicated the contents to myself and my sister. We were trustees, you see. I had a little bequest to myself; but the principal sum went to my sister. I was surprised; I had not thought that my aunt had so much money—mostly in American stocks and shares. In your English money it came to about £12,000. In francs, of course, it is colossal—a million and a half at least.”
“Ah!” interjected Flamborough, now keenly interested. “And your sister knew of this?”
“She learned it from me just two days before her death. And you understand, there was no grief with it. My aunt had suffered terribly in the last few months. Angina pectoris, very painful. We were quite glad to see her suffering at an end.”
Flamborough felt that this fresh piece of information needed consideration before he ventured on to the ground which had been disclosed.
“Are you staying in Westerhaven, Mr. Renard?” he inquired.
“Yes, for a few days yet, I expect,” the little man answered. “I have some legal matters in my hands which need my presence on the spot. As my sister is now dead, there is the disposal of this money to be considered. I find difficulties which I had not expected.”
“And your address during your stay will be?”
“I am at the Imperial Hotel. You can always find me there.”
“Well, Mr. Renard, I’d like to have a talk with you later on, if I may. Just at present, I’m very busy. Perhaps you could spare a few minutes when my hands are free.”
“I shall be delighted,” Renard acquiesced. “Whenever you wish to see me, send a message. I am much worried, you understand?” he concluded, with a quiver in his voice which pierced through the official coating of Flamborough and touched the softer material inside.
Chapter Ten
INFORMATION RECEIVED
For the next day or two, Sir Clinton’s interest in the Hassendean case appeared to have faded out; and Inspector Flamborough, after following up one or two clues which eventually proved useless, was beginning to feel perturbed by the lack of direct progress which the investigation showed. Rather to his relief, one morning the Chief Constable summoned him to his office. Flamborough began a somewhat apologetic account of his fruitless investigations; but Sir Clinton cut him short with a word or two of appreciation of his zeal.
“Here’s something more definite for you to go on,” he suggested. “I’ve just had a preliminary report from the London man whom we put on to search for the poison. I asked him to let me have a private opinion at the earliest possible moment. His official report will come in later, of course.”
“Has he spotted it, sir?” the Inspector inquired eagerly.
“He’s reached the same conclusion as I did—and as I suppose you did also,” Sir Clinton assured him.
Flamborough looked puzzled.
“I didn’t spot it myself,” he confessed diffidently. “In fact, I don’t see how there was anything to show definitely what stuff it was, barring dilatation of the eye-pupi
ls, and that might have been due to various drugs.”
“You should never lose an opportunity of exercising your powers of inference, Inspector. I mustn’t rob you of this one. Now put together two things: the episode of the mixed melting-point and the phrase about his ‘triumph’ that young Hassendean wrote in his journal. Add the state of the girl’s pupils as a third point—and there you are!”
Flamborough pondered for a while over this assortment of information, but finally shook his head.
“I don’t see it yet, sir.”
“In that case,” Sir Clinton declared, with the air of one bestowing benevolence, “I think we’d better let it dawn on you slowly. You might be angry with yourself if you realised all of a sudden how simple it is.”
He rose to his feet as he spoke.
“I think we’ll pay a visit to the Croft-Thornton Institute now, and see how Markfield has been getting along with his examination. We may as well have a check, before we begin to speculate too freely.”
They found Markfield in his laboratory, and Sir Clinton came to business at once.
“We came over to see how you were getting on with that poison business, Dr. Markfield. Can you give us any news?”
Markfield indicated a notebook on his desk.
“I’ve got it out, I think. It’s all there; but I haven’t had time to write a proper report on it yet. It was——”
“Hyoscine?” Sir Clinton interrupted.
Markfield stared at him with evident appreciation.
“You’re quite right,” he confirmed, with some surprise. “I suppose you’ve got private information.”
The Chief Constable evaded the point.
“I’m asking this question only for our own information; you won’t be asked to swear to it in court. What amount of hysocine do you think was in the body, altogether? I mean, judging from the results you obtained yourself.”
Markfield considered for a moment.
“I’m giving you a guess, but I think it’s fairly near the mark. I wouldn’t, of course, take my oath on it. But the very smallest quantity, judging from my results, would be somewhere in the neighbourhood of seven or eight milligrammes.”
The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 12
