"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-pupils, 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.