“Smythe? He saw them walking in front of him, then a car came between them and when it cleared, Fratten was going down. He saw no blow—at least he said nothing about one.” “On which side of Fratten was Hessel walking?” “I don’t know, sir. Coming down the Steps, of course, he was on Fratten’s right.” “And probably was here. Find out about that, Poole, and also whether Hessel is right- or left-handed. Anyhow I don’t believe it. Hessel said, if I remember aright, that he had his arm through Fratten’s—Smythe can probably confirm that; he could hardly have taken it out and struck him a violent blow without someone seeing. We’ll assume the linked arms and the left-handedness for a moment; come on, we’ll try it.” The imagined scene was reconstructed. It required a noticeable effort on Poole’s part to strike the Chief Inspector in the back; it was hardly credible that such a thing could have been done, unnoticed—still, there was no absolute impossibility. “Check those points, Poole, and call for witnesses of the actual fall and death. Everybody’s concentrated on the accident on the Steps so far.” After giving the necessary orders for advertising for the required witnesses, Poole made his way to the House of Commons. Mr. Coningsby Smythe kept him waiting this time, just to indicate his own importance, but when he did come, was quite definite. He remembered quite well that the shorter man was on the right. Furthermore, he was sure that only one car had passed between them; he did not believe that the shorter man could have disengaged his arm and struck a blow during the fraction of time that the obscuring had lasted. The detective thanked him for his help, cautioned him not to reveal what he had been asked, and made his way back to the Yard. As he walked, he puzzled his brain as to the best way to find out about Mr. Hessel’s right- or left-handedness. It sounded so simple and yet, in fact, with the restrictions that the circumstances imposed, it was by no means simple. He could not ask either Hessel himself or his immediate circle of friends and acquaintances—the question so obviously implied a terrible suspicion. If Hessel had been a man who played games, either now or in the past, it would have been easier, but it was fairly certain that he was not. It would be quite easy to find out, by observation, whether he wrote with his right or left hand, but that would be no proof (in the event of his writing with his right) that he was not ambidextrous—many people use one hand for writing and the other for throwing a cricket ball. The brilliant detectives of fiction—Holmes, Poirot, Hanaud (not French, he was too true to life)—would have devised some ingenious but simple trick by which the unsuspecting Hessel would have been tested in both hands simultaneously. As it was Poole could think of nothing better than to put a plain-clothes man on to shadow the banker and watch his unconscious hand action. It was unimaginative, but it might produce a result.