CHAPTER XIX

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!”