The Rotunda Mine
Returning to Scotland Yard, Poole reported this new and significant
development to Barrod. The latter decided that the time was ripe for a
reference to Sir Leward Marradine and together the three men discussed
the situation and decided on the lines which future investigations
should follow. It was now well past mid-day on Saturday and nothing
much could be done in the way of further enquiries in the City until
the week-end was past. It was clear that both Wraile and
Lessingham—and probably Miss Saverel as well—must now be directly
interrogated, but, apart from the unlikelihood of finding any of them
now, neither Barrod nor Poole was in favour of approaching them in a
half-hearted manner. It would be much better to complete the enquiries
about the Ethiopian and General Development Company first and so have
something really definite with which to confront them. Finally it was
decided that Poole should take his week-end off in the ordinary way,
in order that he might return to the attack on Monday with the full
vigour of both mind and body.
Poole was by no means sorry for this decision. Since the previous
Friday he had worked unceasingly at this case, with only the week-end
break. He had worked very long hours and his mind had been at work
even when his body was not. Though far from tired out, he was
conscious of the effort that was required to keep going at full steam;
he would unquestionably be the better for a rest and he determined to
switch his mind completely off the case until after he had had his
breakfast on Monday morning. It would not be easy, but it would be
worth doing.
Ever since he had joined the C.I.D., Poole had given up all forms of
outdoor games and sport except golf and shooting. He had an aunt—his
father’s very-much-younger sister—who lived in the New Forest, and
with her he often stayed a week-end and played two or three rounds of
golf at Brockenhurst. Miss Joan Poole was the only one of the
detective’s family who thoroughly approved of his choice of a
profession. His father, still practising in Gloucestershire but
leaving an increasing amount of the work to his young partner, was
always glad to see John, but he was not prepared to put himself out
for him—to depart from his own hobbies or amusements—in order to
provide the pig-headed young fool with suitable recreation. Joan
Poole, on the other hand, was thrilled at the possession of a nephew
who, she was sure, was going to become a really big man in a really
interesting profession. She loved having him to stay with her and
stretched her none too ample means to the uttermost in order to keep a
few acres of rough shooting for him.
On Saturday afternoon, therefore, Poole spent the hour and a half
before it got dark in mopping up seven rabbits, a cock-pheasant and a
wholly unexpected woodcock, with the help—and some hindrance—of his
aunt’s enthusiastic but quite untrained cocker spaniel. After tea he
settled himself into a large arm-chair in front of the fire and gave
himself up to the joy of uninterrupted and uneducational reading—an
hour of Mary Webb and one of Henry James. A retired Admiral and his
wife came to dinner, cursed the Government (the sailor, not his lady)
drank three glasses of indifferent port (again, he) and played two
rubbers of still more indifferent bridge—indifferent in the sense of
being unscientific, but eminently amusing—good, talking, light-hearted
games with a veto on post-mortem discussion.
Sunday involved a visit to the local church—Joan Poole was
sufficiently an aunt to think it behooved her to keep an eye on her
nephew’s spiritual welfare, and after an early lunch, twenty-seven
holes of rather high-class golf. Joan, though over forty, was a really
useful performer and it took John, out of practice as he necessarily
was, all his time to give her half a stroke and a beating. After tea,
more Mary Webb and, as a contrast to the Victorian James, two of Max
Beerbohm’s incomparable “Seven Men.” After supper—everything cold and
deliciously appetizing on the table—John yielded himself up to the
favourite recreation of his hostess,—a good long gossip—about
relations, politics, books, neighbours, and the prospects of early
promotion. The latter was approaching forbidden ground but Poole
warded off his aunt’s most disingenuous leads and, much to her
disappointment, said not one word about the Fratten case. As he sped
to London by the 8 a. m. train on Monday morning, Poole felt that he
had recreated every tissue in both body and brain and was ready to
exert to the utmost the full powers of both in an attempt to bring his
case to a successful conclusion.
On arriving at Scotland Yard, the detective found a message from
Mangane to say that he was starting early for the City and would ring
him up at lunch time if he had anything to report. That meant that
Poole would have a clear morning in which to tidy up a variety of
small points that needed attention.
In the first place he went round to the House of Commons and once more
extracted Mr. Coningsby Smythe from his holy places; Mr. Smythe was
inclined to mount his high horse, but Poole quickly brought him to his
senses by telling him that he would shortly be required to give
evidence in a trial for murder, and warning him that if he put any
difficulties in the way of the Crown (more effective than the “police”
with this type of witness) obtaining the evidence it required, he
would find himself in severe trouble. Having thus prepared the way he
asked Mr. Smythe if he had noticed anything about the appearance and
behaviour of the car that had obstructed his view of Sir Garth just
before the latter fell. Mr. Smythe stared at Poole in some surprise,
but seeing that he was in earnest bent his brows in an effort of
recollection.
“I did not really notice the car, Inspector,” he said at last. “I was
watching the men. I should say that it was certainly a closed car and
not a large one; I think it was dark in colour.”
“You did not notice whether it was driven by a man or a woman—or a
chauffeur?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Did anything strike you about the way it was driven—was it slower
than was natural on such a road? Did it go very near the two
gentlemen?”
Mr. Smythe shook his head.
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything special—it certainly wasn’t going
very fast.”
“Would you say it was a saloon, or a coupé, or just an open car with
the hood up?”
“I should say certainly not the latter; probably it was a small
saloon—but it might have been a coupé. I couldn’t really be sure.”
“Could you swear it was not an open car with the hood up?”
“Not swear, no—I didn’t notice particularly enough; but I have a very
strong impression that it was not.”
With that strong impression Poole had to be satisfied; confirming, as
it did, the testimony of the Park-keeper, Blossom, it seemed to
eliminate Inez Fratten’s open Vesper. While the question was before
him Poole thought he should have a look at the car, so he went round
to Queen Anne’s Gate and, with Inez’s permission, had it run out of
the garage. One glance was enough; it was a low, distinctly “sporting”
model, with a hood which, when lifted, fitted closely over the head of
the driver. Poole felt sure that Mr. Smythe could not possibly have
gained the impression of a small saloon or coupé from this little
whippet. He heaved a sigh of relief, thanked the chauffeur and walked
away.
His next visit was to a gunsmith, a man from whom he bought his own
cartridges and whom he knew to be an expert in his own line. Poole
showed him the rubber bullet and asked him to suggest a weapon that
might have fired it.
“We had an idea it might be a powerful catapult,” he said.
The gunsmith examined it closely, using a magnifying eye-glass. After
nearly three minutes of scrutiny he removed the glass from his eye and
handed it and the bullet to the detective.
“It’s not been fired from a rifled barrel; there’s no characteristic
corkscrew grooving. On the other hand, there is a very faint
longitudinal groove—look at it yourself—all along each side of the
bullet. That suggests some running pressure along each side. I don’t
see how a catapult would do that, but what about a cross-bow? The
half-open barrel of a cross-bow would allow very slight expansion of
the rubber in the upper half of the bullet; as the bullet lies in the
open barrel, half of it appears above the wood or metal, whilst the
lower half fits into the half barrel and may be ever so slightly
compressed by it. When the bullet is forced along the barrel this
pressure or friction in the bottom half and lack of it in the top half
would be liable to cause a slight groove to appear all the way down on
each side—like what you see on that bullet. That’s the solution that
occurs to me, Mr. Poole; I should be interested to know sometime if it
fits in with the facts.”
On his way back to Scotland Yard, Poole called in at Dr. Vyle’s house
and, showing him the bullet, asked whether, if fired from something
like a cross-bow, it was capable of inflicting the injury which had
caused Sir Garth’s death and of making just so much mark on the flesh
as subsequent examination had revealed. The police-surgeon was
intensely interested by Poole’s “exhibit”; he weighed it in his hand,
pinched it, struck it against his own forehead and examined it
minutely through his magnifying glass.
“It’s the very thing to do the trick,” he said. “It’s soft enough to
spread a bit on impact—that would both extend the surface of the blow
and act as a cushion to prevent abrasion; it’s heavy enough—thanks to
the lead heart—to burst, or at any rate puncture, the aneurism if the
propelling force was at all strong. A good catapult or cross-bow would
give that, especially at such close range; it would be pretty nearly
silent, except for a sort of slap, and I should think it throws pretty
straight. There’s no doubt you’ve got the weapon, inspector.”
“I’ve got the missile, anyhow, doctor, and it won’t be my fault if I
haven’t got the weapon before long. Thank you.”
As he entered Scotland Yard, Poole met Sergeant Gower.
“I couldn’t find that chap Tapping on Saturday, sir,” said the
Sergeant. “He’d gone off to an annual conference in Manchester the
night before—all the tuning-fork testers in the country meet there
every year and talk about how it’s done—excuse for a dinner and a
‘jolly,’ his wife told me it was really. Anyhow she didn’t expect him
back till late Saturday night—football match in the afternoon, Arsenal
playing the United up there. I went again this morning and found him
in—didn’t look to me as if he knew the meaning of the word ‘jolly,’
but you never know. Anyway, he confirmed what Blossom said all right:
Hessel had his arm through Fratten’s, he was sure—anyway he never hit
him—Tapping swears to that and to there being no one else near enough
to. He thinks somebody threw something at him.”
“He’s not far out,” said Poole. “Thank you.”
At one o’clock Poole was called to the telephone and found Mangane at
the other end. The secretary reported that he had made a definite
advance and now needed further instructions as to what move was
required. Poole asked him to come straight to Scotland Yard and attend
a conference with the Assistant-Commissioner; within a quarter of an
hour Mangane had arrived and the two repaired to Sir Leward’s room,
where Barrod was already in attendance.
Sir Leward greeted Mangane with some reserve. In the first place, he
was not at all keen on the introduction of amateurs into Scotland Yard
investigations—he proposed to say a word or two to Inspector Poole on
that head when the case was over; secondly, he still remembered the
look on the secretary’s face when he (Sir Leward) had interrupted the
_tête-à-tête_ tea at Queen Anne’s Gate on the occasion of his visit to
Miss Fratten. The development of friendly relations with Miss
Fratten—to which he had so much looked forward—had not materialized,
in view of the direction which the investigations instigated by
himself had followed—the suspecting and shadowing of Ryland
Fratten—not a happy introduction to his sister’s good graces. Mangane,
however, appeared quite unconscious of Sir Leward’s reserve; he was
clearly eager to disclose the fruit of his morning’s enquiries.
“As I told Inspector Poole on Saturday, sir,” he began, “although I
knew that the Rotunda Syndicate had sold their property to the
Ethiopian and General, I didn’t know anything about the terms of sale;
today I’ve been able to find out something about that. It hasn’t been
very easy, because the two parties to the transaction—Lessingham,
representing the Rotunda Syndicate, on the one side, and Wraile,
representing the Ethiopian and General, on the other—are both hostile
to any form of enquiry. I didn’t attempt to get anything from
Lessingham—that Syndicate obviously wouldn’t give anything away. I
managed it at last by bribing the same E. & G. clerk who sold me the
Company’s schedule—the one I gave you on Saturday. It cost me £50—the
fellow was taking a pretty big risk—but the normal means of finding
out would have taken days or weeks and I gather that you’re in a
hurry.
“The terms are tremendously favourable to Lessingham. I don’t know, of
course, how much of a dud this mine is—it may be a good thing but
there’s quite a possibility that it’s a group of surface veins and
nothing more—but for the amount of prospecting that’s been done, even
if every test had been favourable, the price is a fancy one. I’ve got
a copy of the report on the mine here; you’ll see that the Rotunda
don’t pretend to have sunk a tremendous lot in exploration—probably
they knew that if they claimed too much for initial expenditure
(that’s being repaid to them in cash by the E. & G. D.) there would
simply _have_ to be a proper report. All it amounts to is that they
have sunk a few bore holes at wide intervals (no doubt in the most
hopeful spots) and this optimistic report is based on the assumption,
first, that the whole area is as good as the bore holes show the
carefully chosen spots to be and, secondly, that the ore continues as
such to deeper levels.
“It’s a report that wouldn’t deceive a sound Development Company for a
minute—not to the extent of plunging in as the E. & G. are doing. On
the strength of it—and of course at the instigation of Wraile—they are
forming a Company with a capital of £500,000 divided into £300,000 in
7% preference shares and £200,000 in 1/– ordinary shares—that is to
say 4 million shares. The Rotunda—Lessingham—in addition to having all
their initial expenditure in prospecting etc., refunded to them in
cash, are to receive as purchase price half the ordinary shares—2
million—plus an option on a further million at 5/– per share if
exercised within six months or 10/– per share if exercised within a
year.
“The public is to subscribe the £300,000 in Preference Shares, and to
get one Ordinary Share (of 1/–) thrown in as a bonus for each £1
Preference Share subscribed. The object of the high premium on
Lessingham’s option, of course, is to create an artificial value for
the Ordinary shares—to make the public think that they are
valuable—and so enable Lessingham, with the propaganda at his disposal
through all three companies—Rotunda, E. & G. and Victory
Finance—especially the latter—to start a market in them at anything
from 5/– to 7/6 a share and so make a large fortune out of his
allotted two million. If he sells at even 5/– he makes £500,000 on
them, and if the market goes really well he has his option on another
million—in fact he’s in clover.
“The new company, when it’s floated, will have a different name, so
that it’s more than likely that Lessingham’s connection with it will
not be known to the public and the Victory Finance Company will be
able to push it without its Chairman, Lorne, realizing either—unless
he’s a much sharper man than I take him to be.
“What the Ethiopian and General Board was thinking of to agree to such
terms, I can’t think. Wraile must have got them pretty well under his
thumb. I believe that what weighed very strongly with them was that
Lessingham said that if they gave him favourable terms he would
arrange for the Victory Finance Company to make them a big loan for
the development of this mine and other properties on easy terms. The
V. F., being a reputable company, would also help to create a market
at a premium on the ordinary shares. Lessingham has only a 15% share
in the Victory Finance and is using its money for his own purposes.
He’s the real directing brain of the company; he does genuinely good
work for them—makes big profits for them by his advice—and makes use
of the kudos he so establishes to land them in an undertaking of this
kind. Eventually, of course, both the Ethiopian and General and the
Victory Finance will be liable to smash over it. By that time
Lessingham will have made his pile and cleared out—and Wraile too, of
course. He’s only got 10 per cent in Victory Finance and 10 per cent
in E. & G. D.—probably both he and Lessingham will have sold their
shares before the smash comes—but he can afford to lose them
altogether if he’s sharing with Lessingham in this Rotunda swindle.
They’re a pretty couple.”