CHAPTER XX.The Rotunda MineReturning 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 8a. 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 thetête-à-têtetea 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 simplyhaveto 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.”
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 8a. 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 thetête-à-têtetea 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 simplyhaveto 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.”