General Meets General
On his return to the offices of the Victory Finance Company on Monday
afternoon, Major-Gen. Sir Hunter Lorne found awaiting him a note
brought by a young man in a neat dark suit. Sir Hunter tore it open
and read it, a frown, first of surprise and then of annoyance,
deepening on his face as he did so.
“What the devil? Of all the infernal impertinence!” he exclaimed, then
struck the hand-bell sharply. A junior clerk appeared at the door.
“That chap who brought this note still here?” he asked aggressively.
“Yes, Sir Hunter.”
“Send him in here, then. I’ll . . .” Sir Hunter did not disclose his
intentions, but stood gnawing one end of his handsome grey moustache
and glaring at the door.
“Who are you?” he asked, when the messenger appeared and the clerk had
departed. “Are you a policeman?”
“Yes, sir. I’m secretary to the Assistant-Commissioner in charge of
the Criminal Investigation Department.”
“This chap Marradine?”
“Yes, sir; Sir Leward Marradine.”
“What did he want to send you for? Is the unfortunate taxpayer to fork
out £5 a week for men who are employed as messengers?”
“I believe Sir Leward thought that you might dislike having a
uniformed officer sent here, sir.”
“So I should, by Gad! Damned thoughtful of him; damned thoughtful! Why
didn’t he come himself? What the devil does he want to know? Why
should I be sent for to Scotland Yard like a . . . like a . . .”
The General, finding no adequate simile, blew out his cheeks and
snorted. The secretary apparently thought that these questions were
rhetorical and required no answer; at any rate he gave none. After a
moment’s thought, Sir Hunter stumped out of the Board Room and into
the small office shared by the Manager and Secretary.
“Captain Wraile coming in this afternoon?” he enquired.
Miss Saverel looked up quickly but it was Mr. Blagge who answered.
“No sir, he never comes on Mondays; he has a Board-meeting in the
afternoon.”
Sir Hunter stood irresolute.
“Anything I can do, sir?” asked Mr. Blagge.
“No, no; nothing, nothing,” exclaimed the Chairman testily. “I’ll
attend to it myself. Damned _embusqué_!” he added irrelevantly as he
returned to the Board Room. Taking his hat, coat, and umbrella, he
stalked out of the room without a word to Sir Leward’s messenger, but
having slammed the door almost in the latter’s face, presently opened
it again.
“Give you a lift back,” he said gruffly.
Within a quarter of an hour the irate general was being
ushered into Sir Leward Marradine’s room at Scotland Yard. The
Assistant-Commissioner rose to greet him.
“Very good of you to come, Sir Hunter,” he said suavely. “We haven’t
met since . . .”
“What does all this mean, eh?” broke in Sir Hunter, ignoring the
other’s extended hand. “Pretty thing when a man in my position—or any
respectable citizen for that matter—can be hauled out of his office to
a police station without rhyme or reason. What’s it mean, eh?”
“It was hardly that, Sir Hunter,” replied Marradine, keeping his
temper with some difficulty. “Won’t you take that chair? As I told you
in my note, we are in need of some information that you can give
us—information respecting a serious crime. I thought that it would be
much less disagreeable for you to come here than to have an
interrogation carried out in your own office.”
Sir Hunter reluctantly took the proffered seat.
“Serious crime, eh? What am I supposed to know about it? Am I supposed
to have committed it? Have you got someone waiting behind a screen to
take down what I say, or a dictaphone, or some such infernal
contraption? What?”
Sir Hunter knew perfectly well that none of this was the case and that
he was behaving rather childishly, but he was irritated by an entirely
extraneous consideration. He was, in sober truth, jealous of the
position of power occupied by Marradine, a man considerably junior to
him in the Army, a man, furthermore, who had only served for about
five minutes in France and that only in a soft “Q” job. Lorne had
never actually met him but he had heard of him, and he had heard
nothing to his advantage—a precocious young pup (in his “young
officer” days), a pusher, a bloody red-tab, and finally, a damned
_embusqué_. Sir Hunter would not in the least have objected to being
interrogated by a proper detective—he merely objected to Marradine.
Sir Leward wisely ignored his visitor’s petulance.
“It is in connection with the death of Sir Garth Fratten that I want
your help,” he said. Lorne pricked up his ears. “I understand that Sir
Garth was about to join your Board—that is the case, isn’t it?”
Sir Hunter was all attention now.
“That is so, certainly,” he replied. “I invited him to join us on—let
me see—the 8th of October. He came to see me and talk things over at
my office about three days later. He seemed satisfied by what I was
able to tell him but asked for some reports and schedules and said he
would let me have his decision in a week or two. I was expecting every
day to hear from him, when he suddenly died—a tragic business, what? A
great loss to the country and to us.” Sir Hunter shook his head
gloomily.
“Would you mind telling me why you wanted him to join your Board?”
“I should have thought that was obvious enough. Big man in the City,
carry great weight, give great confidence to investors, what?”
“Then why did your fellow-directors not welcome his appearance?”
Sir Hunter stared.
“How the devil . . . ? What makes you think they didn’t?”
“It is the case that they did not, then?”
The Chairman shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Now you mention it,” he said at last, “one of the Board wasn’t
particularly keen on it—thought Sir Garth might want to run the
show—jealousy really, I put it at.”
“And that was?”
“Lessingham. Able man but liked to have his own way. I don’t doubt
that he’d have come round. I broke it to him rather suddenly. My
fault, perhaps.”
“And Captain Wraile?”
“You seem to know all about us, eh? Wraile was willing enough.”
“But Lessingham strongly opposed it?”
“Well, yes. I suppose he did. I thought he was most unreasonable—most
ungrateful to me, too—it isn’t everyone who could get Fratten on to
their Board.”
“Did Lessingham threaten strong measures if you persisted?”
“He threatened to resign.”
“He didn’t talk of anything more serious—violence, for instance?”
“Violence? Good God, what are you driving at?”
“Is he the sort of man who might go to extreme lengths—even to
murder—to get what he wants?”
“Murder? You mean, . . . you mean—that Inquest—are you
suggesting?” . . .
Sir Leward nodded.
“There are pointers that way, I’m afraid, Sir Hunter. Would you think
him capable of that?”
“Lessingham! Murder! Good God! Good God!”
The General was plainly knocked off his usual balance. As Marradine
did not really need an answer, he did not press for it.
“Now I want to ask you some questions about your Company’s business,”
he said. “You do a certain amount in the way of loans, don’t you?” Sir
Hunter nodded. “Who advises you on that?”
“We have no advisers; we—the Board, that is—settle that for ourselves.
We all have a certain amount of experience—except, of course, Resston,
who never turns up—we put our heads together.” He paused for a moment,
frowning, as if in thought. “As a matter of fact, now I come to think
of it, Lessingham generally has more to say on the subject than Wraile
or I—looks on it as his pigeon, rather, I think.”
“Not long ago you advanced a large sum—£100,000—to the Ethiopian and
General Development Company?”
The Chairman nodded.
“On what security?”
“Their notes—the usual thing.”
“Were you yourself satisfied with that transaction—and that security?”
“Oh yes, certainly. The Ethiopian and General’s a sound concern—old
established business—quite reliable. As a matter of fact,
Wraile—you were speaking of him just now—a member of our Board—is
managing-director of the Ethiopian and General; left us to go to
them—they offered him very good terms, I believe.”
“And naturally he was in favour of the loan.”
“He was, certainly—and I suppose, naturally.”
“And the loan was suggested by him? Or by Lessingham?”
“By Lessingham, I fancy. Wraile supported it and I agreed.”
“Thank you, Sir Hunter; that’s very frank—very helpful.”
Marradine was clever enough to see that his visitor was now nervous
and that a little judicious flattery and sympathy would enlist his
willing help.
“Do you know much about the operations of the Ethiopian and General?”
“Can’t say I do; they go in, I believe, for the purchase and
development of properties in Africa and elsewhere, and also for loans
to the same sort of concern. Very profitable business, I believe, but
needs great experience and flair.”
“Have you ever heard of the Rotunda Syndicate?”
“Never, so far as I know.”
“Then you are not aware that your loan was required for the purchase
of a mine from the Rotunda Syndicate?”
“I think I remember something about mining property—I don’t know that
I heard the name—didn’t really affect me.”
“It would surprise you to hear that the Rotunda Syndicate is owned by
your fellow-director, Lessingham, and that your money—your loan—has
gone direct into his pocket—in cash and shares?”
Sir Hunter’s face turned slowly a deep shade of red; the flush spread
over his forehead, over his ears, and even down his neck. Marradine
saw a small twisted vein stand out on one side of his forehead and
pulse violently—a bubble or two appeared at the corners of his mouth.
With considerable tact the Assistant-Commissioner rose from his seat
and walked to a bookcase, from which he pulled a book of reference.
When he returned, Sir Hunter had largely regained his composure, but
his face was dark with anger.
“You’re suggesting something very dirty, Marradine,” he said. “Are you
sure of this?”
“Pretty sure, I’m afraid, Sir Hunter, though I haven’t seen it proved
yet. There’s fraud in it, I’m afraid—though of that I’ve certainly no
proof yet. The suggestion is that the mine’s a dud, that Lessingham
knows it, and that Wraile knows it.”
“Wraile! Good God, you don’t say he’s in it? He—I—I’d have trusted him
anywhere. I put him into our company—as manager; I got him allotted
shares—I—I— He was my Brigade Major in France—a damn good fellow—damn
fine soldier. I can’t believe it, Marradine—you must be mistaken.”
Sir Hunter rose from his chair and paced agitatedly up and down the
room. Marradine waited for him to calm down.
“I’ve got worse than that to tell you, I’m afraid,” he said. “We
suspect that Sir Garth Fratten was murdered to prevent his joining
your Board. So far we have no evidence pointing to either Wraile or
Lessingham; we’ve only just begun to look for it. But we have evidence
that your secretary, Miss Saverel, was employed to lure young Fratten
into such a position that suspicion would fall on him. What do you
know of her, Sir Hunter?”
Sir Hunter was past astonishment now, past indignation, even past
anger. He had sunk back into the comfortable chair beside Sir Leward’s
desk and was staring helplessly at his persecutor.
“I—I—nothing, really, nothing,” he stammered. “Wraile engaged her,
soon after he came to us as manager. Charming girl—quiet, respectful,
none of your modern sauce and legs. I—I don’t . . .” His voice trailed
off as he realized that he was feebly repeating himself.
“You don’t remember, of course, anything about her movements, or
Wraile’s, or even Lessingham’s, on the evening Sir Garth was
murdered—” Sir Leward referred to a paper before him. “Thursday 24th,
October, between 6 and 7.”
Lorne consulted his pocket-diary.
“Can’t say I do,” he replied gloomily. “I wasn’t at the office that
afternoon.”
“Any particular reason why you weren’t there?”
“Matter of fact I was at Newbury—took Fernandez down—that Argentine
millionaire, you know. He was over here floating a loan and we wanted
to get in on it. We thought a little entertaining might do the
trick—as a matter of fact it did—bread cast on the waters, what—bright
idea really . . .” Sir Hunter suddenly checked himself, then, after a
few moments’ thought, continued slowly: “It was Wraile’s idea.”
There was silence, both men evidently absorbed in their thoughts.
Marradine was the first to speak.
“Fratten was murdered in a very curious way, Sir Hunter,” he said.
“You probably read the story which came out at the Inquest about the
accident on the Duke of York’s Steps?” Sir Hunter nodded. “That was
evidently a plant of some kind—I don’t quite follow it. He was
actually murdered a few minutes later. He was shot by somebody out of
a car as he crossed the Mall—he was shot by a heavy rubber bullet
fired from something in the nature of a cross-bow.”
“Cross-bow?” Sir Hunter sat bolt upright. “Why, why that’s what Wraile
used to use in ’15—when he was my Brigade Major—for throwing grenades
and things at the Huns!”