I crossed the road and cut down Duke of York Street to Pall Mall. In the sanctuary of my club I made my way to the secretary’s office. I handed him the envelope and asked him to put it in his safe. ‘I’ll drop you a line or wire you every few days,’ I said. ‘If you don’t hear from me for a whole week, get Inspector Crisham of the Yard to come round and give him the envelope. He’s to read it in your office.’ Except for a slight lift of the eyebrows, the secretary betrayed no surprise, and I left him to ponder over the peculiarities of members.
I then went to one of the phone-boxes and rang Crisham. I was kept waiting some time, but in the end I got through to him. I told him of the arrangement I had made, but cut short his questions. ‘One other thing,’ I said. ‘You still want Schmidt, I suppose? Well, you can pick up the scent at 209 Greek Street. It’s a little stale, perhaps, but he was living there as Frank Smith until about the middle of last week. The owner of the place, one Isaac Leinster, might repay attention.’ Again I had to curb his curiosity. ‘And don’t try to get in touch with me unless you’ve found Schmidt,’ I warned him, and put down the receiver.
Next, I rang up my bank manager. The statement had reached him and had already been placed in the strong-room. My next call was to a big issuing house in the City. Bernard Mallard was an old friend of mine. ‘Do you know anything about Calboyds?’ I asked.
‘A certain amount — why?’ was the cautious reply.
‘I want to know who controls the company,’ I said.
‘No one in particular, as far as I know,’ he replied.
‘My information is to the contrary,’ I replied.
‘Well, I think your information is inaccurate. As a matter of fact, we went into the company’s position very closely about three years ago. We were hoping to be able to handle that big issue of theirs. There are a number of nominee holdings, but they’re not large. All the big holdings are in the shareholders’ own names, and none of them are big enough, singly, to constitute a controlling interest.’
‘Can you tell me their names?’
‘There you’ve got me, old boy. Calboyd was one, of course. But I can’t remember the others and I don’t think we kept the details. Better go along to Bush House, if you’re really interested.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘Who handled the issue in the end?’
‘Ronald Dorman — and damned badly, too. He put the price too high and got stuck with about seventy per cent of the Ordinary and practically the whole of the Preference.’
‘He underwrote the issue himself, did he?’
‘Yes. There may have been some sub-underwriting, but I fancy the firm were left with the bulk of the issue.’
‘Where did Dorman get the capital?’
‘There you’ve got me. He was pretty successful in 1935 and ’36, don’t forget, and he probably had a tidy packet put by. Dorman is supposed to be pretty wealthy.’ He gave a soft chuckle. ‘Those who have money can usually find money.’
‘You mean he may have had backing?’
‘Well, anyway, he covered what he’d underwritten somehow. He must have needed the better part of four millions, so I don’t imagine he would have been able to find it all himself.’
‘Where would he be likely to get it?’
‘Now look, Andrew, there’s a limit to the questions I can answer. What’s the matter with the fellow? If you’re suspecting him of being a racketeer, I warn you, the whole issuing business is a racket. And the whole City for that matter,’ he added frankly. ‘Or has he got mixed up in a murder case?’
‘He can probably answer that better than I can,’ I said. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all.’
‘Well, old boy, if you take my advice, you’ll pick Home Rails. Try “Berwick” Second Prefs. And have a game of golf with me some time.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘But just now I’m busy. Many thanks for what you’ve told me.’ And I rang off, wondering whether or not Bernard Mallard knew who Dorman’s backer was.
As I left the club, I saw my friend searching for cigarette ends in the gutter by the R.A.C. I walked leisurely along Pall Mall and jumped a bus as it slowed down to take the corner from the Haymarket. And so to Bush House, where I looked up the shareholders’ list of the Calboyd Diesel Company. Of a total issued share capital of £6,500,000, no less than £4,000,000 odd was being held by three private persons and Ronald Dorman and Company. I put down their names and their holdings. Ronald Dorman and Company had the biggest holding. Then came a Mr John Burston of Woodlands, the Butts, Alfriston. Next, Mr Alfred Cappock, Wendover Hotel, Piccadilly, London, W. And last, Sir James Calboyd, Calboyd House, Stockport, Lancs. Sir James Calboyd was the only big holder who was also a member of the board. Possibly Dorman had nominated a director. That remained to be seen.
I put the paper in my pocket and took a taxi back to David’s studio. ‘Now what the devil have you been up to?’ he demanded, as I entered the room. ‘I was just on the point of sending out a search party.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and told him what I had been doing.
‘You’re certain you were followed?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
‘Good! Now we know quite definitely where we are. But what’s the point of taking the original typescript of your statement down to your club whilst, at the same time, you send the carbon to your bank?’
‘They followed me to the club,’ I explained. ‘I think they’ll guess that the first thing I should do would be either to get in touch with the police or to leave a statement for them in case of accidents. My belief is that they’ll burgle the club and, when they find they’ve got hold of the typescript, they’ll not worry so much about the possibility of a duplicate.’
He nodded. ‘My respect for my elderly relative grows hourly,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I haven’t been idle. Whilst waiting for friend Harrison to return from the bank, I made free of his phone and tried to find out something about the cones of Runnel. I tried the A.A. first, but drew a blank. Then I tried the Ordnance Survey Office. They refused to make an attempt to trace it. So then I went the round of the map-makers. I was convinced that Runnel was either the name of a place or a man.’
‘Well, did you find out anything or didn’t you?’ I demanded.
‘Not from them,’ he replied. ‘But as a last resort, I rang up the Trinity House people. I thought it might be on the coast. Well, it appears there’s a Runnel Stone lying about a mile off a point called Polostoc Zawn, near Land’s End. It’s a submerged rock and Trinity House keep a buoy on it which gives out a mooing sound.’
‘It’s cones of Runnel,’ I said, ‘not cow of Runnel.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, and there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘Apparently there’s a Board of Trade hut on the point and near this hut are two conical-shaped signs. When they are in line, they give the direction of the Runnel Stone.’
I jumped to my feet in my excitement. Cones of Runnel! It sounded right. Or had Schmidt just chosen those two words at random? I couldn’t believe that. He was bound to give some clues as to the whereabouts of his daughter and the diesel engine he had designed. ‘I think you’ve got it, David,’ I said. ‘Where exactly is this Runnel Stone?’