“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!”
CHAPTER XX.
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.