Chapter 3 3

3. Neil pushed the phone away and glared at Miss Griffith. "Recently they were worried about him and told him to see a doctor. You didn't tell me," he said. Miss Griffiths said: "I don't think of it," adding: "I don't always think he's really ill—" "It's not sick—what is it?" "Oh, it's just weird. It's not the same as before. Odd behavior." "Worried about something?" "Oh no, it's not worry. It's us-" Inspector Neil waited patiently. Miss Griffiths said: "It's really hard to describe. He's had a tantrum, you know. He's been rowdy sometimes. Frankly, once or twice I thought he was drunk...he was bragging and saying very nasty things. Ordinarily, I don't believe it can be true. I've been here for many years, and he's been keeping his affairs a secret--not divulging, you know. But he's changed lately. He's big-hearted, and spends money. He's not at all like he used to be. Not the same. Why, the office boy was going to go to his grandmother's funeral, and Mr. Fortescue actually called him in, gave him a five-pound note, told him to bet on the second-best race, and laughed. He didn't— —Hey, he's just different than usual. That's all I can say."

"Maybe there is something on your mind?" "It's not like what's called a preoccupation. He seems to be looking forward to some kind of pleasure--something exciting." "Probably waiting to make a big deal?" Miss Griffith certainly agreed. "Yes—yes, that's what I mean. The routine doesn't seem to matter any more. He's excited. Some queer people come to him for business. People who haven't been here before. Mr. Silver is very worried." "Oh, he's worried about that?" "Yes, Mr. Percival was always my father's confidant, you know. His father trusted him. But lately—"

"They haven't been getting on well lately." "Well, Mr. Fortescue did a lot of things that Mr. Percival thought was unwise. Mr. Percival was always cautious. Mr. Percival was alarmed when his father suddenly stopped listening to him." "They had a big fight?" Inspector Neil is still spying. "I didn't know about the quarrel . . . Of course, I do now. Mr. Fortescue must be out of order—to yell so loudly." "Yell, really? What did he say?" "He stepped out the door into the typing room—" "Then you all heard?"

"Oh—yes." "He insulted Percival--baited him--cursed him . . . What did he say Percival did?" "It's because he doesn't do anything. . . that he's a pathetic little legal clerk; that he has no big vision, no idea of ​​big business. He said: 'I'm going to get Lance back.He's ten times better than you - and he's married. Although Lance was willing to risk being sued by the courts, he at least had the guts to--'Oh, my God, I shouldn't have said that! "Miss Griffith, like many others, was coaxed out of shape by Inspector Neil, and is now extremely embarrassed.

Inspector Neil comforted: "Don't worry. The past is the past." "Oh, yes, that was a long time ago. Mr. Lance was young and active and didn't know what he was doing." Inspector Neil had heard such arguments before, and was rather disapproving.But he didn't delve into it, and raised new questions. "Talk to me about the staff here." Miss Griffith was eager to get rid of the consequences of the leak, and hurriedly provided the information of everyone in the office.Inspector Neil thanked her and said he wanted to see Miss Grosvenor again. Inspector Waite came to sharpen his pencils and found the place to be of high class, looking appreciatively at the large chairs, large table, and indirect lighting.

He said: "These people also have high-ranking names. Grosforno - related to a duke. And Fortescu - also high-ranking names." Inspector Neil smiled. "His father's name isn't Fortescue. His real name is Fontescue—from somewhere in Central Europe. I guess this guy thinks Fortescue sounds better." Inspector Waite looked at the officer in awe. "So you know everything about him?" "Before I was called here, I checked a few pieces of information." "He has no criminal record?" "Oh, no. Mr. Fortescue is too shrewd to have a criminal record. He's got some involvement with the black market, at least one or two dubious deals, but just within the law."

Waite said, "I get it. Not a nice guy." Neal said, "A liar. But we couldn't convict him. The IRS had been after him for a long time, but he was too smart for them to do anything about. The late Mr. Fortescue was a financial wizard." Inspector Waite said: "Maybe such a person will have a grudge?" He spoke with hope. "Oh, yes--there must have been enemies. But you don't forget he was poisoned at home. So it seems. You know, Waite, I see a pattern--an old family pattern. All right. Son - Percival. Bad son - Lance, attractive to women. Wife is younger than husband, won't say which course she golfs on. Very, very familiar pattern. Special, very discordant."

Inspector Waite asked: "What is it?" At this moment the door opened, and Miss Grosvenor had regained her composure and was as beautiful as ever. She asked proudly: "You want to meet me?" "I'm going to ask a few questions about your employer—perhaps the late employer." "Poor thing," said Miss Grosvenor, unconvincingly. "I was wondering if you've noticed anything unusual about him lately." "Oh yes, I actually noticed." "which aspect?" "I don't know... He seems to say a lot of nonsense. I can't believe half of what he says. And he's very easy to lose his temper--especially to Mr. Percival. Not to me, because I Never talked back. Whatever he said, I said, 'Yes, Mr. Fortescue.'"

"Did he—did—pay attention to you?" Miss Grosvenor said with considerable regret: "Oh, no, I don't think so." "One more question, Miss Grosvenor. Does Mr. Fortescue have a habit of carrying grain in his pocket?" Miss Grosvenor looked very surprised. "Grain? In the pocket? You mean for the pigeons or something?" "Probably for that purpose." "Oh, I don't believe he has. Mr. Fortescue? Feed the pigeons? Oh, no." "Will he carry some barley—or rye—in his pocket today for a special reason? As a sample or something? To trade in grain?"

"Oh no, he's meeting with the Asian Petroleum this afternoon. And the president of the Atticus Building Society . . . and no one else." "Oh, never mind—" Neil waved his hand, put aside the subject, and sent Miss Grosvenor away. Inspector White sighed, "Her legs are lovely, and her nylon stockings are of the highest order—" Inspector Neil said: "Legs don't help me. I'm still getting the same information. A sack of rye--can't explain it."