The Ethiopian and General Development Company
“Good God; it’s a bullet—a rubber bullet!”
“Weighted with lead!”
“Phwat’ll the shtring be for?”
“What gun’ll fire a thing like that—look at the size of it—it’s bigger
than a twelve-bore!”
“How could that kill a man?”
“Bust his artery, they said.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s a fact.”
“A bloody shame it is.”
“Bloody clever I call it.”
The burst of excited comments, by no means separate and consecutive,
that followed the scavenger’s revelation was checked by Poole.
“That’ll do,” he said. “We don’t want all London here. I’ll do the
talking about this—and the thinking.”
Poole sent the police-car, with Detective-Constables Kelley and Rawton
in it, back to Scotland Yard, keeping Sergeant Gower with him. He
questioned the scavenger, whose name was Glant, closely on the subject
of his discovery. The man was positive that he had found the bullet in
the sump below the grating close to where they stood,—under the curb
exactly between the island and the spot where Sir Garth fell. The
grating had an unusually open mesh and the bullet—Poole tested the
point—could just drop through. Glant fixed the date clearly enough by
the excitement of having a death practically on his beat; he had not
connected the two in the sense of cause and effect but merely as the
one fixing the date of the other.
Poole turned the matter over quickly in his mind. He felt pretty sure
that this was the explanation of how the murder had been committed.
Somebody who knew about the aneurism and realized the nature of the
blow that could cause it to burst without penetrating, or even
abrazing the skin, had devised this missile for the purpose. What
weapon could throw such a missile? A shot-gun was out of the
question—the explosion must have been heard; an air-rifle was probably
precluded by the size of the bore; a catapult? Probably something of
that kind; for a moment its exact nature was not of vital importance.
What did the tag of cord imply? Probably that the bullet—a significant
object if found near the spot—had been attached to a cord which could
be used for pulling it back into the car after the shot was fired. The
bullet had evidently fallen on to the grating and dropped through the
bars, the cord breaking when the strain came. In that case, surely the
murderer would have come back to look for and, if possible, remove
such a dangerous clue. Poole turned to the scavenger.
“You didn’t see anyone search around here, I suppose,” he asked.
“Can’t say I did, sir.”
The police-constable—Lolling’s relief—who had been standing silently
by all this time, except when he moved on two passers-by whose
curiosity had been aroused by the unusual group, now cleared his
throat and made his first contribution to the discussion.
“I wouldn’t say but what I’d seen the chap myself, sir,” he said, with
ponderous gravity.
Poole looked at him questioningly. The constable continued at his own
pace.
“I was on duty here on the night in question, sir. I relieved
Police-Constable Lolling at about 8 p. m. and he informed me of the
incident” (he accented the second syllable). “I took no great note of
what appeared to be a death from natural causes. Soon after I came on
duty I noticed a bloke—a person, sir—a male person, dressed like a
tramp he was—shuffling along down the gutter and looking about
him—scavenging cigarette-ends, I took it to be. I was standing not far
from here and he didn’t hang about. About an hour later I was not far
away—under those trees to be exact—there was a slight drizzle—when I
saw the same party come back. He hung about here a bit this time and
as I don’t like that sort of party hanging about on my beat, I passed
him on.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t really say, sir. Just a tramp.”
“Had he a moustache—a beard?”
“There again I couldn’t say, sir, at this distance of time. He was a
dirty sort of bloke—that’s all I could swear to.”
Poole could get nothing more definite; he did not try very hard—it was
obvious that the man would be effectively disguised. Thanking the
constable and Glant for their help and taking a note of the latter’s
address, Poole walked across the Park in the direction of Queen Anne’s
Gate. He was not feeling in the least tired now and was eager to press
closely along the growing scent; for a time he thought of looking up
Mangane, to see what the latter had discovered about the Victory
Finance Company, but second thoughts told him that if he were to throw
himself into a complicated financial maze his brain must first have a
night’s rest. With some regret therefore, he took a bus home from
Victoria Street.
The following morning he reported the progress of the case fully to
Chief Inspector Barrod. The latter was unexpectedly reasonable about
Poole’s failure to track either Ryland Fratten or Daphne and her
companion—possibly because he could see from Poole’s manner that the
latter had something besides failure to report. He listened with close
attention to the combination of evidence and experiment which had led
up to the solving of the “method” of the murder—the waiting car, the
woman driver, and the firing of the heavy rubber bullet from the
passing car.
“It all points one way, Poole,” he said at last. “Or rather, it points
definitely in one direction and suggestively—and supernumerarily—in a
second.”
Poole looked at him questioningly.
“Queen Anne’s Gate is the one way—the two Frattens. And Hessel may or
may not have been in it.”
“And this woman ‘Daphne,’ sir?”
“Doesn’t exist. She’s been forced on to you by the Frattens—exactly as
a conjurer forces a card. Miss Fratten’s an attractive woman,
Poole—I’ve made a point of having a look at her since the
Inquest—she’s been playing with you. I’m not going to rub it in,
because I think you’ve learnt your lesson. As for the girl you
followed, she was Miss Saverel of course, going out with a
friend—possibly one of her employers. There’s nothing significant
about her—the significant part was all put up by the Frattens.”
Poole realized that this reading was for the moment unanswerable; he
did not, at any rate, intend to argue about it—but he did not believe
it. He arranged for Sergeant Gower to interview Mr. Tapping, whilst he
himself went across to Queen Anne’s Gate to see Mangane. It was an
infernal nuisance that a Saturday—followed by Sunday—should intervene
just when he was getting on to a hot scent.
Before seeing the secretary, however, Poole knew that he must get
through a very unpleasant duty. He asked for Miss Fratten and was
shown into her sitting-room. Inez received him with an eager smile and
an extended hand. Poole felt a treacherous brute as he took it.
“Have you see your brother, Miss Fratten?” he asked.
“Yes, he had breakfast here. I asked him what he was doing at that
place last night; he got very stuffy—told me to mind my own
business—or words to that effect—so I did.”
Poole nodded; he saw no point in discussing Ryland’s conduct with Miss
Fratten—that must be done with Ryland himself.
“My man told me he’d come back to his lodgings last night—I haven’t
had a report about this morning. Apparently he apologized to Fallows
for slipping him and said he might have to do it again. I hope he
won’t—I shall have to double the watch.”
“Anyhow it proves that he’s not going to bolt,” said Inez. “If he was,
he could have done it yesterday.”
Poole laughed.
“Perhaps”; he said, “but it might have been a trial run. What I really
wanted to see you about was a piece of routine work that I ought to
have done before—as a matter of fact I’ve been ragged by my chief for
not doing it. In a case of this kind we always ask everybody closely
connected with it for an account of their movements at the time
that—that is in question. May I have yours?”
Inez looked at him steadily for some seconds before speaking.
“I see,” she said, speaking slowly. “Yes, I think I understand. I had
been to tea with an old governess down at Putney. I’ll give you her
address so that you can confirm it; I got there a little before five
and left some time after six.” She sat down at her writing table and
scribbled on a piece of paper.
“Did you go in your car?”
Inez looked up in surprise.
“How did you know I’d got a car?”
“You’d be very exceptional if you hadn’t. Is it a two-seater?”
“It is—why?”
“Coupé?”
“No, an ordinary touring hood—it’s a 12 Vesper. I don’t know what
you’re getting at, Mr. Poole, but if you want to see it, it’s in the
garage at the back.”
There was a troubled look on Inez’s face that made Poole curse himself
as he said good-bye to her. He had to pull himself up short when he
realized where his feelings for this girl were leading him.
Mangane greeted him almost eagerly.
“I’ve got something that’ll interest you, old man—er, Inspector,” he
said. “I won’t bother you—unless you want them—with details of the
investigations I made yesterday—I’ll just give you the gist of them.
Cigarette?”
Poole pulled out his pipe and lit it, before settling himself down in
a chair at the side of Mangane’s desk with his note-book before him.
“There seems to be no doubt,” continued Mangane, “that the
Victory Finance is a sound and genuine company. It’s a private
company, the four directors holding all the shares between them;
Lorne—Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne—I don’t know whether you’ve heard
of him—is chairman and holds 60% of the shares; old Lord Resston holds
15%—he’s only a guinea-pig—never functions; a fellow called Lessingham
has 15%, and another ex-soldier, Wraile, 10%. Wraile was their
managing-director at one time; he gave that up but kept his seat on
the Board. The present manager’s a different type—head-clerk,
really—Blagge, his name is.
“The Company’s business is partly investment and partly loan. Their
investment list is very sound—I can’t pick a hole in it; their loans
are more interesting—and much more difficult to follow. I followed up
your suggestions—those loans that Sir Garth had not ticked. The first
one—South Wales Pulverization—is a simple case of over-capitalization;
the Victory Finance have burnt their fingers over that, I
fancy—they’ll be lucky if they recover their advances without
interest. Sir Garth spotted that quickly enough—that’s why he queried
it—it’s a bad loan, but there’s nothing shady about it that I can see.
“The second one is much more interesting—the Nem Nem Sohar Trust. It’s
a Hungarian company—the name means something like ‘Never, never, it is
unendurable,’ the Hungarian ‘revise the peace-treaty’ slogan;
nominally the Trust is for land development on a big-property
basis—the sort of thing that would appeal to a true-blue like Lorne;
it is that, but it also has a strongly political flavour—there is
actually a clause in the charter urging the elimination of Jews from
the national and local government posts. I don’t wonder Sir Garth put
a blue pencil through it—I don’t say it isn’t a good thing politically
or sound financially, but he’d never touch a thing that was so
directly tinged with politics. Whether you think it’s worth looking
closer into or not, I don’t know—that’s for you to say.
“The third company that he queried—Ethiopian and General Development—I
looked into more thoroughly, partly because there were no notes about
it. I’d rather like to know why there are no notes. I told you I knew
something about these investigations of his, and that I’d made some
appointments for him; one of them was with the managing-director of
the Ethiopian and General. Whether he saw him or not, of course I
don’t know—I only made the appointment. I tried to see him myself
today but he was busy and couldn’t see me—suggested my coming on
Tuesday—apparently they have a Board-meeting on Monday. But I saw one
of the clerks and I got the company’s last report and schedule of
operations from him; I had to buy them—there must be something rotten
about that show or I shouldn’t have been able to. I read ’em while I
had lunch—I lunched in the City—and talked them over with a pal I can
trust—didn’t let on what I wanted to know for, of course.
“That company, my pal told me, used to be absolutely sound—a genuine
development concern—lending money and buying up properties that looked
promising or that only needed money to make them pay. But the Board’s
getting a bit ancient and a bit lazy—inclined to leave things pretty
well to their managing-director. According to my friend, this
managing-director is playing a funny game; he hasn’t been there more
than a year or so but in that time the company’s lost a certain amount
of ‘caste’—nothing definitely wrong, nothing demonstrably shady—but
the City doesn’t trust it any longer.
“I gathered that there was one particular undertaking that was thought
to be a bit fishy; a mine in Western Rhodesia that they’d bought from
a thing called the Rotunda Syndicate. Nothing unusual in that, of
course, but apparently the Ethiopian and General hadn’t sent out their
usual mining engineer to report on it, but employed a local man out
there. The explanation was that it was a very long way inland and a
particularly unhealthy climate; extra expense, delay, the possibility
of the London man crocking up; so the local man—probably recommended
by the Rotunda—was employed, reported very favourably, and the
Ethiopian and General bought the property. An unusual way of doing
business, to say the least of it.
“I haven’t had time to go into the terms of the sale—I’ll try and get
at that on Monday—but there’s one point—two points rather—that will
strike you at once. The Rotunda Syndicate is Lessingham and the new
managing-director of the Ethiopian and General is Wraile—both
directors of the Victory Finance Company!”