Neele pushed the telephone away and looked sharply at Miss Griffith.
“So they’ve been worried about him lately,” he said. “Wanted him to see a doctor. You didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t think of it,” said Miss Griffith, and added: “He never seemed to me really ill—”
“Not ill—but what?”
“Well, just off. Unlike himself. Peculiar in his manner.”
“Worried about something?”
“Oh no, not worried. It’s we who were worried—”
Inspector Neele waited patiently.
“It’s difficult to say, really,” said Miss Griffith. “He had moods, you know. Sometimes he was quite boisterous. Once or twice, frankly, I thought he had been drinking . . . He boasted and told the most extraordinary stories which I’m sure couldn’t possibly have been true. For most of the time I’ve been here he was always very close about his affairs—not giving anything away, you know. But lately he’s been quite different, expansive, and positively—well—flinging money about. Most unlike his usual manner. Why, when the office boy had to go to his grandmother’s funeral, Mr. Fortescue called him in and gave him a five pound note and told him to put it on the second favourite and then roared with laughter. He wasn’t—well, he just wasn’t like himself. That’s all I can say.”
“As though, perhaps, he had something on his mind?”
“Not in the usual meaning of the term. It was as though he were looking forward to something pleasurable—exciting—”
“Possibly a big deal that he was going to pull off?”
Miss Griffith agreed with more conviction.
“Yes—yes, that’s much more what I mean. As though everyday things didn’t matter anymore. He was excited. And some very odd-looking people came to see him on business. People who’d never been here before. It worried Mr. Percival dreadfully.”
“Oh, it worried him, did it?”
“Yes. Mr. Percival’s always been very much in his father’s confidence, you see. His father relied on him. But lately—”
“Lately they weren’t getting along so well.”
“Well, Mr. Fortescue was doing a lot of things that Mr. Percival thought unwise. Mr. Percival is always very careful and prudent. But suddenly his father didn’t listen to him anymore and Mr. Percival was very upset.”
“And they had a real row about it all?”
Inspector Neele was still probing.
“I don’t know about a row . . . Of course, I realize now Mr. Fortescue can’t have been himself—shouting like that.”
“Shouted, did he? What did he say?”
“He came right out in the typists’ room—”
“So that you all heard?”
“Well—yes.”
“And he called Percival names—abused him—swore at him.”
“What did he say Percival had done?”
“It was more that he hadn’t done anything . . . he called him a miserable pettifogging little clerk. He said he had no large outlook, no conception of doing business in a big way. He said: ‘I shall get Lance home again. He’s worth ten of you—and he’s married well. Lance has got guts even if he did risk a criminal prosecution once—’ Oh dear, I oughtn’t to have said that!” Miss Griffith, carried away as others before her had been under Inspector Neele’s expert handling, was suddenly overcome with confusion.
“Don’t worry,” said Inspector Neele comfortingly. “What’s past is past.”
“Oh yes, it was a long time ago. Mr. Lance was just young and high-spirited and didn’t really realize what he was doing.”
Inspector Neele had heard that view before and didn’t agree with it. But he passed on to fresh questions.
“Tell me a little more about the staff here.”
Miss Griffith, hurrying to get away from her indiscretion, poured out information about the various personalities in the firm. Inspector Neele thanked her and then said he would like to see Miss Grosvenor again.
Detective Constable Waite sharpened his pencil. He remarked wistfully that this was a Ritzy joint. His glance wandered appreciatively over the huge chairs, the big desk and the indirect lighting.
“All these people have got Ritzy names, too,” he said. “Grosvenor—that’s something to do with a Duke. And Fortescue—that’s a classy name, too.”
Inspector Neele smiled.
“His father’s name wasn’t Fortescue. Fontescu—and he came from somewhere in Central Europe. I suppose this man thought Fortescue sounded better.”
Detective Constable Waite looked at his superior officer with awe.
“So you know all about him?”
“I just looked up a few things before coming along on the call.”
“Not got a record, had he?”
“Oh no. Mr. Fortescue was much too clever for that. He’s had certain connections with the black market and put through one or two deals that are questionable to say the least of it, but they’ve always been just within the law.”
“I see,” said Waite. “Not a nice man.”
“A twister,” said Neele. “But we’ve got nothing on him. The Inland Revenue have been after him for a long time but he’s been too clever for them. Quite a financial genius, the late Mr. Fortescue.”
“The sort of man,” said Constable Waite, “who might have enemies?”
He spoke hopefully.
“Oh yes—certainly enemies. But he was poisoned at home, remember. Or so it would seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The bad boy, Lance—attractive to women. The wife who’s younger than her husband and who’s vague about which course she’s going to play golf on. It’s all very familiar. But there’s one thing that sticks out in a most incongruous way.”
Constable Waite asked “What’s that?” just as the door opened and Miss Grosvenor, her poise restored, and once more her glamorous self, inquired haughtily:
“You wished to see me?”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about your employer—your late employer, perhaps I should say.”
“Poor soul,” said Miss Grosvenor unconvincingly.
“I want to know if you had noticed any difference in him lately.”
“Well, yes. I did, as a matter of fact.”
“In what way?”
“I couldn’t really say . . . He seemed to talk a lot of nonsense. I couldn’t really believe half of what he said. And then he lost his temper very easily—especially with Mr. Percival. Not with me, because of course I never argue. I just say, ‘Yes, Mr. Fortescue,’ whatever peculiar thing he says—said, I mean.”
“Did he—ever—well—make any passes at you?”
Miss Grosvenor replied rather regretfully:
“Well, no, I couldn’t exactly say that.”
“There’s just one other thing, Miss Grosvenor. Was Mr. Fortescue in the habit of carrying grain about in his pocket?”
Miss Grosvenor displayed a lively surprise.
“Grain? In his pocket? Do you mean to feed pigeons or something?”
“It could have been for that purpose.”
“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t. Mr. Fortescue? Feed pigeons? Oh no.”
“Could he have had barley—or rye—in his pocket today for any special reason? A sample, perhaps? Some deal in grain?”
“Oh no. He was expecting the Asiatic Oil people this afternoon. And the President of the Atticus Building Society . . . No one else.”
“Oh well—” Neele dismissed the subject and Miss Grosvenor with a wave of the hand.
“Lovely legs she’s got,” said Constable Waite with a sigh. “And super nylons—”
“Legs are no help to me,” said Inspector Neele. “I’m left with what I had before. A pocketful of rye—and no explanation of it.”
[A Pocket Full of Rye -Agatha Christie] Chapter Three