Before French could reply a sergeant approached.
“Beg pardon, sir, but the Assistant Commissioner wishes to see you in his room as soon as possible.”
“Lord!” said French. “What’s all the shindy about? Right, sergeant. I’m going now.”
Sir Mortimer Ellison, the Assistant Commissioner, was seated at his desk in his well but plainly furnished office when French entered. With him were two other men, evidently from their dress and bearing persons of importance. One was small, white-haired and precise looking, the other, a younger man, was evidently his subordinate. All three were smoking the opulent Turkish cigarettes which Sir Mortimer affected. The elder of the visitors was speaking, the others listening with every appearance of interest.
“Come along, French,” said Sir Mortimer, interrupting the other’s flow of conversation. “You’ve turned up in the nick of time. This is the inspector who has been handling the case, gentlemen. French, these are Mr. Cullimore and Mr. Dove from the Mint. They’ve called about that silver bombshell you sent down.”
“What, sir?” French exclaimed. “Then the coins were counterfeit all right?”
“All right?” Sir Mortimer waved his hand towards French and looked quizzically at the others. “Hear Scotland Yard speak! French, you’ve got a distorted mind. Revelling in iniquity. Why should you be pleased because the revered institution which our friends represent has been the victim of a fraud?”
French knew his superior.
“Pleased to tell them, sir, that thanks to Scotland Yard the fraud is at an end,” he said without a smile.
“There’s Scotland Yard again. When you have no answer, beg the question. I do it myself, so I know. Now, French, sit down in that chair and tell us all about it.”
But French remained standing with a puzzled expression on his face.
“But what about—” he began, then stopped.
“What is it, French?”
“Sorry, sir. But this can only refer to the second lot of coins. The first lot were good.”
“That is so,” broke in Mr. Cullimore in thin, precise tones. “The first batch was good. It is this second batch alone that is in question.”
“A bit puzzling that, sir,” French went on to the Assistant Commissioner. “I should have expected it the other way round. The first batch was given to the girl Moran to pass out to the public, the second was in Style’s safe. Why should they pass out good coins?”
“You’ve got them the wrong way round. That lot you got from the girl must have been received from the public, not from the gang.”
French shook his head.
“No, sir, I’m quite sure of my ground there. Miss Moran put the coins she got from the public in the car. What she gave me were taken from the car for distribution.”
There was silence for a moment, then Sir Mortimer spoke.
“Well, if I can’t prove you in the wrong I must try something else. How would this do? Those people are smarter than you’ve been giving them credit for. They twigged you were on to them and went canny. Is there any way they could have known what you were up to?”
“Through the girls, sir,” French admitted. “I saw the risk, but I had to take it.”
“There you are then. The girls reported your activities, and Welland, Style & Co. thought it healthier to trade good money. Well, French, when these gentlemen rang me up to make an appointment I expected Chief Inspector Mitchell would be here to post me in the affair until you got back. But Mitchell has been detained at Croydon so that I have been unable to tell them more than the main outlines. Now you start in from the beginning and let us have all the details.”
“About the cinema girls, sir?”
“About the silver. I’ve explained the method of distribution through the cinema girls and that is all these gentlemen require to know on that point. You tell about everything connected directly with the silver.”
“I’m afraid, sir, there’s not so much to be told. All I’ve found is—” and French began explaining his investigations in detail. He told of the distribution and transport of the coins, the vanity bags, the secret panel beneath the seat of Welland’s car and the pipe connecting the two garages. Then he read out his notes of what he had found in the office, particularly the weights of silver and copper purchased compared to the weight of silver ornaments sold. The three men listened with keen attention, Mr. Cullimore congratulating him warmly when he had finished.
“It’s the cleverest fraud I’ve come across for many a day,” he declared. “Indeed I don’t mind admitting that if it hadn’t been for our friend here it might have gone on almost indefinitely. It would never have been discovered from mere inspection of the coins. They look perfect. Only careful tests in our laboratories proved that they were counterfeit.”
“Made by an expert?” Sir Mortimer prompted.
“Unquestionably. Perfectly marvellous the way they were turned out! I have shown them to several of our people and they all said they were good; men with wide experience too. I don’t wonder that Miss Moran’s bank clerk friend was deceived. You see”—Mr. Cullimore monopolized the conversation with evident pleasure—“there are four principal tests of a silver coin: its appearance, by which I include feel and texture as well as design; its weight, its composition, and its ring. All these tests were met or discounted, except perhaps that of composition and that was practically met.”
“I don’t know that I quite follow you,” said Sir Mortimer, and French nodded his agreement.
“Well, take composition. The composition of these coins was the actual composition of the coins we turn out from the Mint.
