‘Was he likely to have money tucked away elsewhere?’
‘I couldn’t say, but it’s unlikely. When you entered, I was just about to open his private safe…’
He indicated the modern little safe installed in one corner of the room, and took up a bunch of keys lying on the desk in front of him.
‘He alone had the key for that. His body is in the Brighton mortuary at the moment, but the police have sent his keys at our request. He had them in his pocket.’
The safe contained private codes, secret instructions, copies of staff reports and a small strong-box for personal papers. There was nothing unusual there. Powicke went carefully through the loose papers and shook his head.
‘This strong-box probably contains his private effects and I really ought to open it in front of his lawyer. Perhaps we might take a look to see if that is so, and then close it without disturbing the contents…’
He selected a small key and gingerly opened the box.
One side of it held what they had expected; a will, life policies, items of jewellery… The other was occupied by a number of passbooks, which disclosed that Mr. Roper had kept an account with a rival bank in the city of London, and also had deposits with three building societies. The total of such funds amounted roughly to over five thousand pounds.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! I wonder what all this means?’
‘We’d perhaps better lock it all up without further investigation, sir, until you can have Mr. Roper’s lawyer present. I see from the envelope containing the will that Mr. Boycott drew it up.’
‘Yes. I’ll get him right away and we’ll go into things in more detail then.’
‘When you have a chance to examine the various pass-books in the box, Mr. Powicke, would it be possible to trace when he accumulated all that money?’
‘I can’t say. But we’ll try. He must have had some other source of income. He certainly didn’t accumulate so much money from savings out of his bank salary. I’ll keep in touch with you. Meanwhile, I’ll have to get on with my report. I’ve to post it off to Head Office tonight…’
The telephone on the desk rang. Powicke answered it.
‘It’s for you, Superintendent.’
It was Newell, of the Fraud Squad, sounding very satisfied with himself.
‘Nice warm day, sir, in spite of the rain, isn’t it? I’ve been making enquiries about Deliverance Investment and Development Trust. It is virtually owned by yet another trust. The farther one goes in these matters, the more unlikely the cat is to jump out of the bag. But we’ve followed the trail. The trust which owns Deliverance is Pook’s Retreat Development Company…’
‘Good Lord! What in the world’s Pook’s Retreat? Who owns it? Pook?’
‘Not so fast, Superintendent. We’ve reached bottom. The chain ends with Pook. Pook’s Retreat is in Surrey, not far from Dorking. It seems that Mr. Pook was a banker in search of peace. He built himself a nice house on a quiet estate, died a hundred years ago, and left it to his children. Eventually house and grounds passed into the hands of a property developer who seems to have objected to retreats and who formed a company to build houses on it. All of them were sold and the Pook’s Retreat company was no longer required for the job. So, it was put to other purposes. With the help of subsidiaries, it began to buy land on spots likely to develop and appreciate.’
‘Who owned it?’
‘It was formed by a chap of the name of Sandman, Morris Sandman. Are you still listening, Superintendent?’
‘I certainly am!’
‘He died about six years ago and the company was reorganised. By the way, there were only two directors when the company was founded; now there are five.’
‘Who was the original co-director?’
‘I’m coming to it. Have you got a piece of paper handy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ll give you a complete list. First, founded by Morris Sandman. Co-director, Beatrice Sandman. Secretary, Bella Pochin Sandman…’
‘Keeping it in the family, I see. Go on, please.’
‘I hope you’re duly grateful for all this, Superintendent. It’s a jigsaw puzzle assembled with the assistance of half the banks in London. Nothing really confidential, but just a matter of finding the right place in which to ask. Morris Sandman died in 1957. For a little time the Pook’s company lay resting. Then it started again with a new board. Chairman, Beatrice Sandman. Directors, Bella Pochin Hoop, John William Dodd, George Frederick Handel Roper and Hartley Roderick Ash. Secretary, Oswald Bugler. Got it?’
‘Yes, thank you very much. This will be a great help, though I must confess I don’t know which end to start at. I’ll let you know how we get along… Goodbye…’
Bella Pochin Hoop! That was a good one!
Mr. Powicke could hardly stop his ears and had been listening to the one-sided conversation with great interest.
‘Got onto something, Superintendent?’
‘I think so, sir.’
He paused and looked at the list on the old envelope he’d been using. What a motley crew! And what a bag of mystery!
He turned to the expectant bank inspector.
‘I think I can guess where some of Roper’s monies have come from, at least. He’s been in a syndicate speculating in land… and very successfully, too.’
Mr. Powicke threw up his hands.
‘Great heavens!’
‘As you say, sir, great heavens. I suppose that such an enterprise, coming on top of his routine misdemeanours, would have meant the sack for Mr. Roper if Head Office had found out…’
‘It certainly would. It’s against the regulations to speculate and Roper, as an official, had signed an undertaking to abjure such conduct.’
‘From experience of the affairs of this… this consortium, would you call it?… I don’t think you’ll find much trace of his connection with it in Mr. Roper’s account with your bank. They were accustomed to dealing in cash.’
‘And his suicide?’
‘Poor Roper was at his wits’ end. The explosion and deaths at the Excelsior must have put the fear of God in him. Perhaps he wondered if he’d be the next.’
‘They surely weren’t going to blow up the bank as well?’
Mr. Powicke paled at the thought.
‘Hardly. He wondered what a more or less public enquiry into the catastrophe and the deaths of Dodd and his colleagues would reveal. He was afraid his connection with the syndicate would come out. Then, I asked a perfectly simple question of one of his old customers and she contacted Roper and told him what it was about. You see, he was her banker and she liked to have his advice on money matters. That was the end for Roper. He was sure we were investigating tracks which would lead us to the syndicate and himself. He was faced with ruin. He couldn’t bear the disgrace the discovery would bring upon him.’
‘Poor Roper. I’ll tell you in confidence, too, that on top of his other troubles, the accountant here reports to me, Vintner, one of his most influential customers, recently had a fearful row with Roper and was heard to shout that he would not only remove his own accounts to a rival bank, but use his influence to obtain a transfer of the Evingden Corporation accounts, which are kept at this office, to another bank, as well. Head Office would have regarded such losses with extreme displeasure and wanted full reasons for them.’
‘When was that, sir?’
Powicke consulted his notes.
‘November 8th, about noon.’
Littlejohn then gave the chief inspector a list of the land companies starting from Pook’s Retreat and ending with Polydore.
‘If you come across transactions bearing these names, will you please let me know?’
‘Certainly. By the way, Roper wasn’t involved in the death of the three men in the explosion, was he?’
‘I hardly think so. I’m sure h
e wasn’t a killer. He had, of course, motive, but he would never have murdered for it.’
‘Motive? What motive?’
‘The loan to Excelsior. Head Office of the bank had refused to grant it; yet, in spite of that, Roper allowed it.’
‘That is true.’
‘Had it ended as a bad debt, Roper’s career might have been in great jeopardy. And he’d only a few years more to serve. He’d have lost his pension and his job.’
‘I hardly think the bank would have treated him so roughly. He’d probably have been retired on a smaller pension to get him out of the way.’
‘In any case, in his mental state, he doubtless imagined the worst. The security for the loan was definitely bad. Guarantees of directors which weren’t worth the paper they were written on and a tumbledown business with nothing behind it except a lot of old machinery worth scrap-iron price. There was only one way that would save Roper. Dodd had deposited in cover for his guarantee for the full amount of the loan, a life policy, worth next to nothing whilst he was alive, but sufficient to repay the loan if he died…’
Mr. Powicke almost stopped breathing.
‘And…?’
‘Well? The loan will be repaid in full because Dodd has died.’
Mr. Powicke, in the course of his duties, had unearthed some queer things in the banking world, but never anything like this.
‘Good heavens!’ he shouted so loudly, that one of his passing assistants rushed into the room, thinking Littlejohn had attacked him.
Eleven
Bugler Scared
Mr. Bert Scriboma looked very surprised when Littlejohn paused at the door of his licensed betting establishment in a flashy first floor office just off the main street.
‘I am honoured, Superintendent, by your custom. I saw your picture in yesterday’s paper and was glad they’d called you in to clear up the mess at the Excelsior. You’re not goin’ inside, are you? Because, if you are, I’d better show you the back door. If you entered by the front, the clients might think somethin’ was up.’
Bert, small, swarthy and pushing, was dressed in a light suit, pointed shoes, natty Tyrolean hat and his thumbs were thrust through the armholes of his waistcoat. He was smoking a cigar.
‘Is your brother-in-law, Mr. Bugler, working for you now?’
Mr. Scriboma’s whippet face creased into oily smiles.
‘Yes, he is. Ossie’s a wizard at figures and was wastin’ his time at that dump. He’s in the back room. I’ll show you.’
It was time, too. A number of customers hurrying to place bets with Bert, turned and scuttered away when they saw Littlejohn standing at the door.
Mr. Scriboma led Littlejohn to the entrance of a small dark corridor, down which he peered first to make sure that nothing fishy was going on.
‘First to the right. You’ll find Ossie there.’
He was. Sitting in his shirt sleeves grinding out the odds on a second-hand calculating machine which resembled a revolving steel hedgehog. Mr. Bugler looked alarmed.
‘Anything wrong?’
It probably expressed his inmost thoughts.
‘I want some more help from you, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’
He turned to a girl with a fancy hair-do who was sorting slips in a corner.
‘Miss Powell. Just take a walk for five minutes and get me a packet of cigarettes.’
Miss Powell gave Ossie a sly look as though sure that something seedy was afoot and left the place without even asking for his money. Bugler then quietly closed the door between the main office and the room he occupied. This cut off the sounds of shuffling, tramping feet and the clink of money, which sounded like an employment exchange on pay day.
‘Sit down, sir.’
Bugler took out a battered packet of cigarettes and helped himself to one.
‘Do you indulge? I’ve started smoking again.’
He’d broken out again under the recent strain!
‘No, thanks.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Have you ever heard of the business of Pook’s Retreat…?’
Bugler didn’t wait to hear the rest.
‘Pook’s Retreat? Who’s he?’
But Bugler knew very well. He was a changed man. His sandy hair seemed to rise on end and he looked at the outer door as though ready to make a run for it.
Littlejohn continued like a player flinging out a winning hand at nap.
‘Or Deliverance Trust…? Or Polydore Trust…?’
‘Stop! I haven’t done anything wrong. I was tricked into it.’
‘Nobody’s saying you have done wrong, Mr. Bugler. I want some information about the companies I’ve just mentioned.’
‘Why pick on me, sir?’
‘Because you are the secretary of, at least, one of them. I want to ask you some questions about them.’
‘I think I’d better get my lawyer in… This is trust business, confidential…’
‘I suppose Mr. Hartley Ash is your lawyer, is he? No need for him. I’m not going to arrest you, Mr. Bugler.’
Mr. Bugler stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and feverishly lit another.
‘If I do help you, you’ll see I’m done right by?’
Before Littlejohn could answer Mr. Scriboma strutted in, puffing opulently at his cigar.
‘Everythin’ O.K.? Eh?’
‘Yes, Bert,’ lied Mr. Bugler. ‘Mind if I talk with this gentleman for a few minutes?’
Mr. Scriboma patted Bugler’s narrow shoulders amiably.
‘Of course. Take all the time you want, Ossie. Mind if I leave you? Business is brisk…’
They were glad to see him go. Bugler swallowed hard.
‘Well?’
‘How did you get mixed up in the Pook’s Retreat syndicate, Mr. Bugler?’
‘It was through John Willie Dodd. He was a member of it. They asked him to be secretary, but he said nothing short of a director would do for him and he wasn’t doing any of the book-keeping either. He asked me if I’d like to earn a hundred a year for doing nothing. I saw no harm in it. I did no harm either. I wasn’t one of the board. I was just a paid official.’
‘How did Dodd get his foot in it?’
Bugler looked ready to weep. His hands trembled and his eyes shifted all over the place.
‘I don’t know.’
Littlejohn slowly filled his pipe.
‘I think we’d better go across to the police station and finish our business there. This place seems disturbing to you…’
‘No! For God’s sake, not there. If I was to be seen going through the town with you…’
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘You ask me that? One director blown to hell in his office. And now another’s thrown himself off Brighton pier. I’ll be the next if I don’t look out.’
‘Who are you afraid of?’
‘I don’t know. If I knew I’d tell you and then you could arrest him. He’s the murderer you’re after.’
‘Calm down. Tell me how Dodd got in the syndicate.’
‘Nobody ever told me. I only guessed.’
‘It was more than that, wasn’t it, Mr. Bugler? As secretary of the companies, didn’t you have access to the minute book? Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?’
‘Miss Powell will be back any minute…’
‘Send her for another packet of cigarettes, then. Well?’
Bugler licked his lips and mopped his forehead with a soiled handkerchief.
‘Where do I begin?’
‘Pook’s Retreat.’
‘It was an old company formed by Morris Sandman for building development. Then he used it for land purchases in this district.’
‘But not directly.’
‘I see what y
ou mean. No. The name was known locally through Sandman, you see, so they took over other companies which weren’t so well known or wouldn’t attract attention or suspicion. Is that all?’
‘You know it isn’t. As soon as there was a whisper about Evingden becoming a large overspill town, land prices rose phenomenally, but before the whisper got around, the directors of the syndicate had already bought heavily.’
‘That’s right.’
‘The first board of Pook’s Retreat consisted of just Sandman, his wife and his daughter. Then more members were added. Dodd and Hartley Ash.’
‘Hartley Ash was just the lawyer…’
‘Also Mr. Roper from the bank joined you.’
‘Financial adviser. He was brought in to arrange and advise about loans to purchase properties…’
‘Not through his own bank, though.’
‘Of course not. They wouldn’t have played. Besides, this was hush-hush. If it had got out about the new town, land would have gone up sky-high.’
‘Where did the finance come from, then?’
‘Mr. Roper had friends in London. Private banks and mortgage companies. He arranged things that way.’
‘Why was Dodd in it? He wasn’t expert in anything, was he?’
‘I suppose they thought he knew about building construction and the like, being the main man at Excelsior…’
‘Come, come, Mr. Bugler. That won’t do. They didn’t propose to develop land. They bought it to sell again at huge profits to those who wanted it for development.’
Bugler scuttered to one corner and back, like a rat in a trap. Then he faced Littlejohn and thrust out his hands in despair.
‘I told you. It’s as much as my life’s worth to talk. Look at what’s happened to Dodd and Roper. Don’t push me, or I might end up like Roper. I can’t stand it.’
‘The police are in this now, Mr. Bugler. We’ll see that no harm comes to you.’
Bugler seemed to make up his mind and told his tale to Littlejohn in a low voice, like a chant, a miserere, punctuated by apologies and excuses.
Surfeit of Suspects Page 14
