‘It started in a small way. Sandman bought properties locally, before anything was said about the new town. He had a flair for speculation. Then, he must have got wind about the new town and wanted some fuller information, so that he could buy sites which would be most in demand. He got hold of Alderman Vintner…’
It was coming out now!
Bugler seized Littlejohn by the lapels of his coat.
‘You won’t say a word about this that will put me in danger. If it got out that I’d…’
‘I said we’d protect you. Go on.’
‘Vintner was on the small private committee of the Evingden Council which arranged about the new town. He knew all the plans and where the main buildings and developments would be sited. The very man for Sandman. He picked the spots to be bought and Sandman did the buying.’
‘With money obtained by Roper?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Vintner wasn’t a director, though.’
‘Don’t be silly! I beg your pardon. Excuse me. I didn’t mean that. But on no account had Vintner to appear connected with the land companies. He’d have gone to gaol for corrupt practices if that had come out. His control had to be exercised through a nominee on the boards. John Willie Dodd, his son-in-law. He wasn’t his son-in-law at that time, though. Vintner had come across him in connection with business at Excelsior and took a fancy to him. He was impressed by what he thought was his ability and prudence. He wasn’t much of a judge of character, was he? Dodd was just a big bag of bluff, but he deceived the alderman. By gad, he did! I don’t suppose at first he knew what he was getting into. He thought it was just an investment the alderman hadn’t time to take care of himself. But I’ll bet he soon guessed.’
‘And he married the alderman’s daughter.’
‘He had to. He’d put her in the family way. Vintner’s trusted henchman had a roving eye. Her brothers forced the issue and he had to marry her. I can imagine the alderman’s feelings when he heard of it. Dodd as his son-in-law! It couldn’t have turned out worse. But that wasn’t the end of the matter. Sandman died.’
‘Suddenly?’
‘No. He was ill a long time, gradually growing worse. Dying on his feet. If he’d died and left his Pook’s Retreat and the other shares for probate, the whole affair might have come out and incriminated Vintner and others. When he knew there was no hope for him, Sandman arranged for all his interests in land to be transferred to his wife and daughter. They sailed very close to the wind with that probate, but they got a good solicitor and the shares of the various trusts went through at next to nothing. The land was taken at the price paid for it, less the mortgages Roper had financed it with, which cancelled out the value. You see, the new town hadn’t started then and land prices hadn’t risen much.’
‘The lawyer?’
‘That’s what brought Mr. Ash in the picture.’
‘I thought so. And you knowing all this, they paid you a mere hundred a year to keep it confidential, Mr. Bugler?’
‘They made me a present now and again… I put that away for a rainy day.’
That was another story. Bugler might have proved another Uriah Heep, spinning his web, if he hadn’t had desperate men like Vintner to deal with. As it was, he might have been indulging in a pretty piece of blackmail. However…
‘And what was Dodd up to when he met his death?’
Bugler raised a hand as though to fend off evil luck.
‘Don’t ask me. All I did was act as secretary. The rest, what I’ve told you, I picked up here and there from minutes and such like.’
‘Dodd and his wife, Vintner’s daughter, quarrelled?’
‘They both quarrelled with Vintner first.’
‘That must have been embarrassing for Vintner.’
‘He had Dodd nailed by a general deed of trust, for what it was worth. The alderman must have found out the true Dodd as time went on. Then, when Dodd started after other women, his wife and he quarrelled. She didn’t go back to her father, however. I don’t know why. She’s just come back to him now, they tell me. I suppose with Dodd out of the way, it’s easier for them.’
‘Do you think Alderman Vintner murdered Dodd?’
‘That’s for you to find out. I know nothing about it. It might have been anybody. And why murder two other innocent parties? Fallows and Piper never did Vintner any harm.’
Bugler sat quietly at his desk, fingering papers and eyeing his calculating machine, as though somehow he derived comfort from the familiar things of his new job. The way in which he had so quickly settled down with Scriboma gave Littlejohn an idea.
‘You’ve been betting for a long time?’
‘Who told you…?’
And that explained many things.
Littlejohn lit his pipe and rose to go.
‘There’s only one other matter I think you ought to attend to, Mr. Bugler. Call a directors’ meeting of the Pook’s Retreat Development Company and other trusts right away…’
‘But I can’t do that off my own bat. I’ve never done such a thing before.’
‘Who, then, has called the directors together in the past?’
‘Mr. Hartley Ash…’
‘Alderman Vintner’s lawyer?’
‘Yes. Why are you doing this?’
‘I want to discuss several matters with them.’
‘You won’t need me there…’
‘As secretary, isn’t it part of your duties?’
‘It needn’t be. Once or twice when I’ve been ill or away, Mr. Ash has acted for me. If I’m called with the rest and you start questioning them the way you’ve done me, they’ll smell a rat right away and say I’ve been talking. I couldn’t face it.’
‘Very well. I’ll speak to Mr. Ash and if I think after that that you ought to be there, I’ll let you know.’
‘Do your best to keep me out of it. I’ve co-operated with you. In fact, I’ve talked far more than I should have done and it won’t do me any good.’
‘Did Alderman Vintner attend any of the meetings?’
‘Of course not. Haven’t I told you that he never came within a mile of the meetings. His part of the whole business was latterly done through Mr. Roper.’
‘Where is Ash’s office?’
‘Next door to the town hall. You can’t miss it. There’s a new block of offices.’
‘Right. See you later.’
‘Not at the meeting. Don’t forget.’
Littlejohn went out the way he’d come in; by the dark corridor and down the stairs. There was a strong smell of Mr. Scriboma’s cigar in the vicinity, but he himself was nowhere about.
Mr. Ash was in his office, the windows of which overlooked the rates department of the town hall in which people were scuttering around like ants.
The office itself was a bit flashy, like its owner. The carpet was too red and too deep for a place of business and the desk and chairs, copies of antiques, gave the place a phoney opulence. Mr. Ash was apparently a fond parent, too. Here and there were photographs of groups of children, obviously his many offspring, for without exception, all five of them strongly resembled him.
The lawyer was smoking a cigar. It smelled inferior to that of Mr. Scriboma, but Mr. Ash seemed to be greatly enjoying it.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure, Superintendent?’
‘May I sit down?’
‘Of course, if you’re going to be here for long. Cigar? Drink then? No? I suppose you’re on duty.’
Mr. Ash was altogether too smooth. The kind of lawyer who might mix himself up in income tax or death duties evasion, or finally bolt with his clients’ funds.
‘I understand you’re on the board of the Pook’s Retreat Development Company, sir.’
Mr. Ash’s cigar slid from his lips to the floor. He rescued it before it could set fire to the ca
rpet, wiped it on his handkerchief, and thrust it between his teeth again. Then he puffed strenuously to revive it, like someone administering the kiss of life to an almost expired victim. He ended up successfully in a fog of smoke.
‘Pook’s Retreat. Surely the police aren’t interested in that. It’s a private development company of which I’m the solicitor.’
He had recovered his aplomb.
‘An investment trust remotely engaged in buying up local building sites and selling them at substantial profits.’
‘Well? Nothing wrong with that, is there? Nothing to do with the police.’
‘The murdered man, Dodd, was a director.’
‘Sorry to lose him. But where do we go from there?’
‘He was the son-in-law of Alderman Vintner, who knows before it’s made public which plots in the town are likely to interest the corporation or other eager buyers.’
Mr. Ash, for something better to do, tapped the ash from his cigar into an overflowing ash-tray and rose and closed the window, as though about to suffocate Littlejohn in a fug of smoke.
‘Be careful, Superintendent. You may be called upon to substantiate that statement. It’s almost an accusation of shady dealing…’
His back was to Littlejohn as he said it.
‘I don’t think that would be very difficult, Mr. Ash.’
The lawyer spun round, as though about to attack Littlejohn, changed his mind, and sat again at his desk. He looked ready to settle the problem by asking ‘How much?’
‘But I didn’t call for that, Mr. Ash. I’ve been asking Bugler, secretary of the Pook’s Retreat group, to call a directors’ meeting. He tells me, however, that you are the convenor.’
‘Why a directors’ meeting? You’re investigating the explosion at Excelsior works, aren’t you? What has that to do with Pook’s Retreat? And in any case, if I did call the directors to a meeting, you couldn’t attend. You’ve no standing.’
‘Yes, I could attend. This time. If it isn’t done my way, it will be done much more unpleasantly and with a maximum of publicity through other channels.’
‘Such as…?’
‘You mentioned shady dealing just now, sir. More politely that is called corrupt practices. There are ways which you, as a lawyer, will know very well, of dealing with those kind of transactions in public affairs.’
‘What are you driving at, Littlejohn? What good would a directors’ meeting do in this case?’
‘It’s simply a matter of your co-operation, Mr. Ash. If you call them together here, in your office, it will save our having to invite them to the police station, which might lead to some unhappy publicity. You can explain, if you like, that the death of Mr. Roper has raised certain problems which must be dealt with at once. Get them here, sir. Also, arrange for Alderman Vintner to be here, as well.’
‘But that will be impossible! Vintner isn’t a director. He’d…’
‘He’d smell a rat?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘The success of the trusts depends upon the information which the alderman has given in the past. If he doesn’t hold shares, I’m sure he has loan monies, which yield very substantial sums in interest in the companies.’
Ash was ready to come down on the side of the law. No more evasion. He knew what was best for him.
‘As a solicitor, I’m bound to support the law, but the alderman won’t attend here if he knows there’s a directors’ meeting of the Pook’s Retreat group going on at the time I ask him to call. He daren’t…’
‘Try him.’
‘But the directors are all friends of his. One or the other of them will tell him about the meeting as soon as they receive notice.’
‘I’ll risk that.’
‘Well, don’t blame me. I’ll do as you ask. Do I invite Bugler as well?’
‘Yes.’
Ash fidgeted about a bit and ended by lighting another cigar, this time without much enthusiasm.
‘By the way, you understand that I’m simply on the board as their solicitor. I’m not there in an executive capacity; merely advisory.’
‘Advisory? In what way?’
‘I do the conveyancing of the properties in which the trusts invest.’
‘But you surely have had some idea of what has been going on. The women on the board were guinea-pig directors, weren’t they?’
‘Dodd and Roper saw the deals through. They were the ones who received information and reports on suitable properties for investment.’
‘From Vintner?’
‘I don’t know. As I said before, you’d better be careful before you accuse Vintner of corruption. Very careful.’
Ash was recovering his confidence somewhat.
‘I can assure you of that.’
‘You are aware, by the way, that with the deaths of Dodd and Roper, there are now only three directors of the trusts: myself and Mrs. Sandman and her daughter, Mrs. Hoop?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why call a meeting, then?’
‘I’d prefer it that way, if you please. And don’t forget to include the arrangement for Alderman Vintner to be in the other room. We might wish to call him into the meeting.’
Mr. Ash looked blankly at the window as though contemplating jumping through it.
‘I’d advise you not to antagonise the alderman, Superintendent. He’s a very formidable adversary, I can assure you.’
‘So I gather. You, I assume, will take the chair at the company meeting, sir. I’m sure you’ll be well able to handle him.’
Mr. Ash was on his knees on the carpet seeking again the cigar which had slipped from his open mouth.
Twelve
Surfeit of Suspects
Cromwell halted the police car at the large notice-board which reared up at the roadside.
ROSEALBA QUARRIES LIMITED WARNING
Blasting in Operation When the Red Flag is Shown
‘Pity someone didn’t show the red flag for poor old Dodd,’ he said to himself.
There was no flag flying, so he went on his way. Soon he came upon the quarries, a huge gash in the landscape between the main Brighton Road and Baron’s Sterndale.
There didn’t seem to be much going on there. The workings stood on high ground. A few sheds, an office, the quarries themselves and the cumbersome machinery of the trade, some in the open, some under cover of roughly constructed buildings. Over all, a dim November mist which seemed to seep into your bones.
Finally Cromwell found the workmen gathered in a group. About eight or nine of them, under cover, squatting or sitting on old boxes or anything else available. It was lunch time and they were warming themselves at a coke brazier. All around them were spread the quarried blocks of stone, some of them roughly dressed; others in the raw, with heaps of chippings scattered about.
The men around the fire took little interest in Cromwell at first. They mistook him for a busybody, passing by and briefly nosing into what was going on. He was treated as an intruder.
But Cromwell was not the type you could ignore for long. His ready smile and modest integrity seemed to appeal to one of the men at least. He rose and went to meet the Inspector.
‘Looking for somebody?’
‘The manager or the foreman.’
‘I’m the foreman.’
A medium built, middle-aged countryman, with an intelligent face and an appearance of immense physical strength. It was obvious he was puzzled about Cromwell, trying hard to size him up.
‘I’m from the police and I’d be glad if you could spare me a minute or two, if I’m not disturbing your lunch.’
‘I’ve finished…’
To prove it, he took out a short pipe and a metal tobacco box, from which he cut a piece of plug which he started to rub between the palms of his hands. He nodded in the direction of the shed
labelled Office.
‘Let’s go in there. It’s warmer.’
They scrambled their way across the blocks of stone followed by the now inquisitive looks of the rest of the workmen.
A plain wooden shanty with a few bare chairs about, a desk, a table covered with papers, an old safe, a very old clock on the wall stopped at 4.45 and a time-punching machine for the workmen with another clock embodied in it. This one registered 12.45, which reminded Cromwell that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The whole place was dusty.
‘Sit down.’
The man wiped two chairs with a duster which he produced from a drawer and threw his cap on the desk. Then he switched on an old electric fire, which took an unconscionable time to show any signs of life.
‘What can I do for you? It isn’t often we have a visit from the police. Is it poachers or another banknote snatch?’
He spoke with the pleasant intonation of the locality.
‘No. It’s about the explosion at the Excelsior office in Evingden.’
‘Oh, that. The bank raid and the little girl being stabbed have put Evingden out of the headlines, haven’t they? What has the explosion to do with Rosealba quarries?’
‘We’re trying to find out where the dynamite came from.’
‘We’ve plenty here and we had some pinched during the summer. But I don’t expect it was used in Evingden. We got the idea that either some teddy-boys had been at it out of sheer mischief, or else some of the London gangs had whipped it for one of their jobs.’
‘Do you use much blasting powder here?’
‘Not very much. This is a freestone quarry where the stuff is easy to work. We quarry it in large blocks for building and smaller ones for other sorts of jobs and it yields easily to machinery. Now and then, we have to blast when we start a fresh run…’
‘You keep a good supply of what is it…? Dynamite? Gelignite?’
‘Dynamite. We’re old-fashioned. Besides, years ago, one of our directors bought a large stock of it, cheaply, he thought, but far too much.’
‘Our experts tell us that the old sort of dynamite was used for the Excelsior job, so it’s quite on the cards the stuff stolen from you was employed.’
Surfeit of Suspects Page 15
