Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [7]
“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