"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 splash 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.