“Philanthropic touches?” Mitchell repeated. “In what way?”
“Well, what I mean is, there’s a sort of consideration shown for other people. Everyone’s been thought of in a way not at all necessary from the strictly business point of view. Mr. Winterton’s servants are provided for; arrangements are made for the Suffby Cove villagers, the farmers near are to be encouraged to provide the fruit and vegetables and meat we shall want, and so on – everything thought of, so as to work out for the best for everyone. It’s colossal. Upon my soul, it’s wonderful to think of a man able to plan big like this, and at the same time grasp and think of every minute detail – it’s like planning a world-wide campaign, and at the same time every single detail for to-morrow’s meals, from the mustard at breakfast to the nightcap before you go to bed.”
Again Mitchell and Bobby exchanged swift glances. At this last sentence the same idea had flashed upon them both, and the quick look they exchanged told them each that this was so, and confirmed them in it. Mitchell said:
“Very interesting. It all sounds a little like what we are looking for – clever’s no word for him either. But you said you were thinking of coming round to see us?”
“Yes,” Shorton answered. “You see, what the scheme really is – well, the idea is to make an English Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo began as a sea-bathing establishment, you know – they still call themselves ‘Sea Baths, Limited,’ or something like that. Well, we’ll go in for all kinds of sea sports – bathing, boating, fishing, and so on – but the real attraction will be roulette and baccara.”
“What about the gambling laws?” asked Mitchell mildly.
“That’s where the cleverness of the thing comes in,” Mr. Shorten explained enthusiastically. “Genius, almost. Look at the map there, and you’ll see Suffby Cove is a splendid natural harbour in shape, protected on every side, but it’s shallow water. The idea is to have two or three flat-bottomed vessels, rather like the houseboats you see up the Thames, only larger and more strongly built, and, of course, fitted up in style. We shall have small powerful motor-boats to act as tugs, and every evening the house-boats will be tugged out to sea beyond the three-mile limit. Then play will begin. Most likely we shall have music and dancing on the top deck; and meals will be served, and drinks of course – rather jolly to have a dinner and a dance well out at sea on a calm summer night. But the real thing will be the play inside – available for those who like. Others can enjoy themselves on deck, but there’ll be baccara and roulette going on inside. Some time about midnight, or later, the motor-boats will tow the house-boats back, and play will stop the moment the three-mile limit is reached. Anything illegal in that?”
“Hardly for me to say,” Mitchell answered cautiously. “Question for the law officers of the Crown to decide, I suppose. No doubt they’ll consider it. Was that what you were coming round to the Yard about?”
“That’s right,” Shorten said.
“What about bad weather?” Mitchell asked. “I can’t imagine a sea-sick gambler myself.”
“Oh, that’s been thought of,” Shorten answered. “Everything’s been thought of. The house-boats will only go out in calm weather. If it’s at all rough, they’ll stay in, and there’ll be bridge – poker, perhaps, for club members. Of course, it’ll have to be run on club lines, but there’s no difficulty about that.”
“There never is,” agreed Mitchell. “Call yourself a club, and there’s not much you can’t do. I suppose the house-boats will be anchored in the Cove – will they?”
“Yes, we’ll build a wharf there for them to tie up to, but we shall generally use Fairview when the weather’s bad. Fairview will be the club-house.”
“Oh, Fairview comes into it, does it?”
“Everything comes into it,” Shorton answered enthusiastically. “Our idea at first was a kind of middle-class Gleneagles, run on slightly less expensive lines. We shall provide all sea sports. We shall have our own golf-links – the lay-out for golf-links is ideal. There’ll be a little rough shooting, too, as well as all the other usual attractions. Our own cinema, perhaps. All that will be for the hotel we shall put up on the Suffby promontory itself, on the east side of the Cove – a wonderful position, close to the ruins of the old lighthouse that was done away with years ago. But in addition there’ll be the Fairview club across the Cove, with bridge and poker on land, and roulette and baccara when the weather’s good enough for the house-boats to be tugged out. Of course, those will be the profitable evenings. We shan’t make so much out of the contract and poker evenings. Except,” he added with a gentle smile, “for selling champagne and sandwiches at an – er – adequate price.”
“Very interesting idea,” Mitchell admitted. “A kind of nightclub by the sea, and, once beyond the three-mile limit, you snap your fingers at the law.”
“That’s right,” agreed Shorton. “Only, of course, everything most respectable, because there’ll be money in it – big money – and that means being jolly careful everything’s just as it ought to be.”
“Mr. Shorton,” said Mitchell gravely, “you are tempting me to think you are something of a cynic.”
“What do you mean?” asked Shorton indignantly. “What’s there cynical about that? It’s just sense.”
“Often the same thing,” Mitchell observed. “But it certainly seems a very original idea.”
“Genius,” Shorton repeated. “Every detail thought out, down to the names of the fishermen to be offered permanent jobs to provide sport for visitors fond of fishing and boating – that’ll all be free, of course; at least, we shall call it free, but it’ll come into the bills all right – tremendous attraction if you provide something free; people don’t mind then how much they pay for it through the nose. Even Winterton’s old servants thought of: the steward and stewardess at Fairview are to be his old butler and wife – their name’s Cooper, I think. Their local knowledge should be useful. You know, that appeals to me in this scheme. Such care taken to see that no one is injured – everybody concerned has been thought of. Then there are plans for enlarging Fairview; a motor – coach service of our own, free, of course, for taking people to and from the railway. We shall be a bit dependent on the weather, but then that’s always the case in England, and, as the memorandum suggests, that may help us in a way by emphasising the gamble. ‘Try Your Luck at Suffby Cove: First the Weather, Then Roulette’ – an advert like that ought to go over big. But what’ll really fetch the well-to-do respectable class we’re aiming to get is the way well be dodging the law. It’s the flavour of illegality will do it. Respectable, suburban churchgoers, whose idea of reckless gambling is risking half a crown at contract, will troop along so as to be able to tell their friends they’ve been to the British Monte Carlo, and hint at the dreadful orgies taking place there – and a good lot of them will want to come along and see for themselves, and try their own luck. We shall run the hotel on very strict lines indeed, but, just across the Cove, there’ll be Fairview, standing for all that’s wicked and romantic and bold and reckless, and all our really respectable guests will be equally shocked and tempted – wickedness is so attractive to the highly respectable who’ve never dared before, and now they’ll see a chance.”
“Is that in the Memo.?” Mitchell asked.
“Word for word,” Shorton answered.
“Bit of a psychologist, your man.”
“Bit of a genius,” returned Shorton gravely. “Take it from me, this is going to be one of the biggest things of the century. A visit to Suffby Cove is going to be the great adventure in the lives of every really respectable family in the suburbs and provinces of the land – once we’ve got into working order. Patriotic, too. ‘Keep British Money at Home’ – that’ll be another of our slogans. Why, sir, in a year or two, I hope every British citizen will blush to admit he intends to go and lose his money at Monte Carlo when he can get rid of it just as easily at Suffby Cove – ‘British Baccara for British Gamblers.’”
“Jolly good,”
approved Mitchell. “Only I’m afraid you won’t be able to provide the sunshine of the south of France.”
“Certainly we shall. Most certainly,” declared Shorton, with some indignation. He turned to his papers again. “There’s an estimate here,” he said. “Yes. A score of high-power lamps – artificial sunshine twenty-four hours a day all the year round; more than Nature manages. ‘On Suffby Cove Beach, Perpetual Sunshine Day and Night’ – that’ll be another slogan. Take it from me,” he repeated, almost with awe, “everyone connected with this scheme will be a millionaire in ten years or less – and all that money now wasted in France all kept in the country. The Government won’t be able to touch us; and they ought to be willing to help, in the public interest. It’s disgusting to think of all the good British money that’s poured out on the Monte Carlo tables. But there won’t be any need for that, once we’ve got into working order. Look at the money greyhound-racing makes – that’s just animated roulette. We shall be sea-faring roulette, and we shall do better still. One side of Suffby Cove – respectable, law-abiding; the other side – wicked, law-breaking. The combination – irresistible. That’s the Memo, again.”
“I should like to read it,” Mitchell admitted. “It sounds as racy and cynical as a Somerset Maugham play. But I agree there are first-class brains behind it; and it’s someone with first-class brains we are trying to get in touch with, too. You say you don’t know who this Memo, comes from?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” declared Shorton. “But I take off my hat to him, whoever he is.”
“I take it the thing didn’t drop on you out of the sky?”
“Oh, no. Dreg & Sons sent it me – they’re solicitors. Office in West Street – between the Mansion House and the Bank. In a small way, I’m told; but quite good reputation. They may know who they are acting for, I suppose; but, when I rang them up to ask, they said they didn’t.”
“Have you done business with them before?”
“Never heard of them till this came along.”
“You aren’t prepared to go on without knowing who it is you’re dealing with, are you?”
“I know it’s someone capable of drawing up a scheme like this, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t care who it is – he’s the man I want. First-class brains like his aren’t so common as all that. Besides, there’s an option they’ve got. Only a little while ago I had written the Suffby Cove idea off as a complete wash-out – dead as a bottle of whisky after a Scots ship’s engineer has had a go at it. Then I got an offer to take an option, on the right to come in as a fifty-fifty partner, providing pound for pound on the capital already spent. It seemed like found money. I had no idea then that Winterton was changing his attitude.”
“Was he?” Mitchell asked sharply. “Have you any proof of that?”
“There’s a note by him, that came with the Memo. It expresses willingness to negotiate, and names a figure – rather a high figure, but we should have been willing to pay if we had had to. Now, of course, that the poor fellow’s gone, we shall have to start negotiating again, but I don’t anticipate any difficulty – both Mrs. Archibald Winterton, the other brother’s widow, you know, and the bank, who are joint executors, are quite ready to be reasonable.
“May I see the note you speak of?” Mitchell asked.
Shorton found it, and Mitchell took it to the light, and studied it with care. It consisted only of a few typewritten lines, not addressed to any one person by name, but expressing a general willingness to consider any offer made. The signature was written, and over it Mitchell pored so long that Shorton grew impatient.
“It’s of no value now,” he pointed out. “Now the poor fellow’s gone.”
“Have you any objection to my keeping it for a time?”
“The letter? Why? What for?”
“For examination,” Mitchell answered placidly. “The signature looks stiff to me – almost as if it had been traced. I should like expert opinion on it.”
“You mean it’s forged?” Shorton cried. “But that’s absurd; quite absurd. What would be the good? It’s only an expression of willingness to consider offers, nothing binding about it. What would be the good of forging a thing like that?”
“First-class brains might see some good,” Mitchell retorted. “And I quite agree with you there are first-class brains in this affair somewhere – the question is, Where? How was the money for the option paid?”
“By solicitor’s cheque.”
“Has it occurred to you that Mr. George Winterton’s death has occurred somewhat opportunely for the success of this scheme of yours?”
“Why, no. Certainly not,” Shorton answered quickly; though for the first time looking a little disturbed. “There’s his letter, for one thing, and, besides, he couldn’t have reasonably held out against renewed offers. My difficulty before was raising capital, and I admit my scheme wasn’t a patch on this. With such a magnificent idea to work on, and a promise of fresh capital, I didn’t value Winterton’s opposition a row of beans. If he had really turned stupid – and that’s quite inconceivable – then we would have gone on without him, till he got tired of holding us up.”
“Yet I believe you had a somewhat violent interview with him on your last visit to Suffby Cove?”
“Oh, yes. I told him just what I thought of him. He had done the dirty, he and his brother; double-crossed me, Archibald did. But I saw no chance of raising fresh capital then – now, of course, it’s there.” He made a gesture with his hand towards the papers on the table. “Before that I did feel pretty sick. I thought I had lost my time and money, too, just because the Wintertons were playing the dog in the manger – didn’t want to exploit the possibilities of the place themselves, and didn’t want anyone else to.”
“But now they’re both dead...?” Mitchell mused.
“I don’t deny I’m not sorry Archibald is out of the way,” Shorten admitted. “He might have turned obstinate. For him to go and get himself drowned seems almost – well, providential,” said Shorten reverently. “But, as I’ve just told you, George Winterton, poor fellow, was coming round, as that letter of his shows. He was never so set against it as his brother was, and, anyhow, with the fresh capital promised, we could have gone ahead all right. He would have come in sooner or later – sooner rather than later, too.”
“Then you don’t admit that Mr. George Winterton’s death helps your plans in any way?”
“Certainly not. Complicates matters a bit, that’s all. But not in any way serious.”
“Except,” suggested Mitchell drily, “for Mr. Winterton himself.”
He went on to ask a series of further questions, some of them quite unimportant, but others leading up to the admission that, on the night of the murder, Shorton had been alone in the flat he and his wife occupied – his wife being away on a visit, and the daily maid they employed having left at five, as usual. He had spent the whole evening alone, busy with some work he had brought from the office, and had made his dinner off some sandwiches and some fruit he had brought in with him. The upshot was that no independent evidence existed to prove he had spent the night at the flat at all, though, also, there was nothing to show that he had not. He was beginning to grow perturbed – though not seriously so to all appearance – under so much questioning, but quite willingly signed the statement Bobby prepared. And, in answer to a casual question, he admitted that he was an excellent swimmer, referring with pride to his attempt on the Channel.
“Archibald Winterton was a good swimmer, too, I’m told,” Mitchell remarked. “It seems curious he should get drowned on such a fine morning.”
“Very curious,” Shorton admitted. “I could hardly believe it. I had been for a swim myself early that morning. I was staying at a little place just along the coast there at the time, trying to see if I could find another site to carry on with, as I had been double – crossed over the Suffby Cove plan. And I can’t say I was altogether knocked up with grief and sorrow when I heard what had happened. As f
or the other poor fellow, that was different altogether.”
“Quite so,” murmured Mitchell, but, when he and Bobby were outside, he said musingly: “But I wonder if it was so different, after all? Just at present it seems as if the Winterton brothers have a way of dying just a little too conveniently for Mr. Shorton’s business interests.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby dutifully. “And yet I think he is right in saying George Winterton would hardly have held out for long against a really good offer; and Shorton told us himself, at once, he had been in the vicinity when Archibald was drowned. He would hardly have said that if he had had anything to do with it.”
“He might have reckoned we were bound to find out,” Mitchell pointed out.
“It leaves so much unaccounted for – the motor-launch, and the attack on Jennings; the lost crossword; the telegram; the swilled summer-house floor,” Bobby urged.
“Oh, we haven’t got the whole story yet by any means,” Mitchell agreed. “One thing that is certain, though, is that Shorton is right when he says there are first-class brains in the business somewhere. And I think it’s just possible they belong to Mr. Shorton himself. But that’s only a guess as yet, but one we can’t neglect any more than we can your theories. Perhaps Messrs. Dreg & Sons will be able to tell us something more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Illegible Signature
But Messrs. Dreg & Sons had no information to give. They recognised, of course, that it was their duty, as themselves, in some sort, officers of the law, to give every assistance in their power, but none the less the fact remained that they had no knowledge of the identity of the person by whom they had been instructed in the matter of the proposed “Suffby Cove Sea Sports Development Co. Ltd.,” to give the project the full title provisionally bestowed upon it.
Crossword Mystery Page 18