It's 6.30 and time to return to the good old days of radio drama as we present the secrets of Scotland Yard. How do you do? This is Ty Brook. I want to tell you today about a certain Henry Pontelroy. No, no, don't mistake me. I know what you're thinking. You're conjuring up a picture of a child in brown velveteen knee-bitches and jacket with a big white lace collar and golden curls hanging over his shoulders. That innocent and rather obnoxious infant hero of 19th century fiction, little Lord Pontelroy, in fact. Henry Pontelroy was a very different kettle of fish. It's true he was born a gentleman. Descended, so tradition says, from a natural son of the captive King John of France, whence came the name, an Anglicized version of Lafond Leroy. It's true, true, that in childhood and adolescence he led a sheltered and genteel life and was something of a mother's boy. But there the resemblance ends. Little Lord Pontelroy would never, I'm sure, have descended to forgery, even if he had an aptitude for it. Henry Pontelroy did and expiated his crime on the scaffold, for until 120 years ago we must remember embezzlement and forgery were hanging matters in England. In 1792 an institution which became known as the Bernard Street Bank was established in the London periphery of that name. It was running partnership by Sir James Sybill and Mrs. Josiah Stacey and William Marsh. But since none of these gentlemen had any head for penance, they entrusted the active control to one William Pontelroy. Under Pontelroy's guidance the bank weathered several financial storms in its first 15 years. Indeed so able was he that the others had little to do save collect their regular dividends and no doubt utter a silent prayer of thanks for the ability and business acumen of their hard-working partner. But even the best of good things were said and on March 32, 1807, William Pontelroy very inconsiderately died. Thrown into a panic by this untoward event, the three bankers met in conference. As I see it gentlemen, the question is this, should we take into the business some other man to replace Pontelroy or should we make an effort to run the bank ourselves? Don't be absurd, Sybill, we wouldn't last six months. Oh, I don't know. Marsh is right. We'd get banked up before we knew it. What do you know of high finance? What do any of us know? Not a thing. We could learn, couldn't we? My dear fellow, one's either born with a flair for that sort of thing or one's not. Do let us recognize our own limitation. Besides, think of the work it would mean. We'd never even have a spare moment. If you're the fancy to chain yourself to an office desk, do so by all means, but it's not my idea of a pleasant life. Perhaps you're right. Oh, better well then we replace Pontelroy, but with whom? There must be some competent man in the city we can woo with a sufficiently tempting offer. Where's that fellow Johnson at the Bank of England? No, no, no, to a Hutchins, Prince. He wasn't trust of an inch. Now see the point. Well now, let's think. I don't see why we have to go outside our own house. What do you mean? My dear fellow, I am not referring to a thought, I am referring to a who. In other words, our late partner's son. Young Henry? Precisely. Hang it, old man. Well? Well, I mean to say Henry's a fine young lad and all that, but... But, but... He's only a boy. Nonsense, he's 23. 23? Harder, a swaddling clove. My dear Sibble, we've known for a long time that Henry Pontelroy has inherited his father's genius for figures. It is not the slightest question, he is by far the best clerk we've ever had here. That's all true enough, but do you deny his seriousness? No. His industry? No. His scrupulous honesty? Good heavens no. We admit he's a model young man. In every way then what on earth has age to do with it? It seems to me he's the ideal choice. He's been with us ever since he was 16. He knows the business from end to end. And I am sure our client would have the same confidence in him that the Lord had in his father. It would be throwing a heavy responsibility on such a young man. I've no doubt his shoulders are broad enough to bear it. Let's call him in and talk it over, shall we? And so at 23, Henry Pontelroy found himself in what amounted to complete charge of Burner Street, man. As time passed, the partner saw no reason to regret that choice. He was first at work every morning, last to leave at night. In addition to directing the bank's affairs, he did the work of three times. It wasn't until 1810, three years after his appointment, that Henry Pontelroy gave his partners any real cause for worry. And when it could hardly be said that this was due to any personal illusions of grandeur, or indeed as he emphasized, to any thought of his, the simple fact was that he'd taken a normal business risk and it had gone astray. The provision is this, gentlemen. We have advanced Mrs. Brickwood and Company in all 60,000 pounds. The security that we accepted in good faith has proved worthless. The principles of the Company have decamped and the Company is bankrupt. Does that mean we're going to lose them all? I'm afraid so, Mr. Marsh. Oh, dash it, old man. Surely some of it's recoverable. I'll be surprised if we get back a thousand. Isn't there anything we can do? Can't we sue or something? For heaven's sake, Sybill. And Henry's already told us that the principles have decamped. You can have warrants issued if you like. That's not going to get us past our 60,000. Tell me, Henry, how does the bank stand over this? We're still solvent, I hope. Just about. I think we can squeeze through a bit of manipulating and juggling here and there. Of course, if the news got out and there were a rush, we'd be done for. Then it's up to all of us to see that it doesn't get out. You'll do the best you can for us, won't you, Henry? Naturally. This manipulating and juggling you talk about means nothing, well, I mean nothing but wood and pear investigation, I hope. Of course not. Just a matter of realizing on securities, calling in loans and so forth. Dash it, old Sybill. You don't suggest Henry descend to sharp practices, do you? No, no, no, certainly not. It's just that I don't understand these things very well. Well, we'll leave it to you, Fauntleroy, to straighten the whole thing up. Have no fear, gentlemen. Everything's going to be all right. Despite Fauntleroy's assurance, this was only the first of a series of setbacks in which the bank found itself involved in the next couple of years. But with the Napoleonic Wars raging on the continent, the general scarcity of money in England and week after week hitherto solid firms were crashing into insolvency. Only Fauntleroy's incomparable skill kept the business afloat. Yet all his genius was not equal to coping with a crisis in his private affairs as arose at this time. His ambition had always been to marry for money. It was therefore foolish of him to pay such a seduous court to one Susanna Young, who was charming and very lovely to look at, but quite penniless. Doubly foolish, in fact, since Susanna had a hot-headed brother, Robert, with whom the matter of family honor was something of an obsession. Inevitably, the time came when Robert Young paid Fauntleroy a par from friendly visit. Henry, I am a blunt man who speaks my mind. I've a plain question to put you on. I shall expect a plain answer. Why, certainly, my dear fellow. What is it? What are your intentions towards my sister? Oh, really, Robert, it's rather an extraordinary thing to ask, isn't it? I'm waiting for an answer. Oh, I'm afraid I'm not prepared to give you one. Surely this is a matter for Susanna and myself. I don't imagine she'd take it kindly if she knew you were interfering in her affairs. I'm here at Susanna's request. I find that hard to believe. Well, look here, Henry, let's stop evading the point. What is the point? The point is that for a year or more, your conduct towards Susanna has led not only herself, but her family and her friends to expect an ultimate proposal of marriage. That's not... Oh, no, it's not. You've toyed with the girl's affections. You've deliberately led her on. You've hopelessly compromised her in the eyes of the world, and now, my friend, you're going to marry her. No, we'll say so. I do. Oh, don't be a fool, Robert. Put that pistol away. Not until I've your solemn promise that you'll make Susanna your wife. Suppose I refuse? I shall give you ten seconds to make up your mind, Henry, and I'll shoot. Oh, this is too absurd. One, two, three. I mean it, you know. Yes, I...I'd rather believe you do. Four, five, six. Oh, no, look, can't we talk this over quietly without all these here? Really? Seven, eight, nine. It's your last chance, Henry. Do you promise? Well, I...I...I...I...I... I don't seem to have much option, do I? All right, I...I promise. The marriage didn't last, of course. A matter of a year or so, just long enough for Fonteroy to find himself not only a husband, but a father. Then the unhappy Mrs. Fonteroy retired with her child to her parents' home in Tumpery, Twelfth, consoled with an allowance of 400 pounds a year. And there, as far as this story is concerned, she remained. The incident seems to have had an unfortunate effect on Fonteroy. His devotion to business and his conduct during the business hours remained as irreproachable as ever. But after nightfall, he shed his respectability and plunged into a riotous life of drinking, gambling, and women. The four-lounged coffeehouse gossip was linking his name with that of Mary Bertram, a woman of great beauty, few morals, and even less scruples. Mary Bertram's tastes were expensive, as Fonteroy soon found. Oh, it's you, Henry, darling. Hello. Good evening, my sweet. Mmm, you do look dashing tonight. And you look ravishing, as always. Thank you, Henry. You're early, aren't you? No, my dear, you're late. We're due at the Corinthic in ten minutes. Might help myself to a drink while you finish dressing. Oh, no hurry. Do you like my new bracelet? Mmm, quite a charming little ball. I can't thank you enough, Henry. It's awfully sweet of you to buy it for me. Oh, I wasn't aware that I had. Oh, yes, darling. I got it today at Cartier's. They simply put it on your account. You don't mind, do you? Well, how much did it cost? Oh, a mere trifle, really. Two hundred guineas. Two... two hundred guineas? But... But why, Henry? Why, I bought you a set of pearl earrings only last month. Yes, I know, dear, but I simply had to have a bracelet to go with them. Oh, you don't begrudge me a little thing like that, do you? Oh, no, of course not. But you must remember, my dear, I'm not made of money. You're a banker, aren't you? Yes, but that doesn't signify. Oh, nonsense, Henry. All bankers are rich. Everyone knows that. Now, do stop being miserable over a few pence. Two hundred guineas is not a few pence, Mary. I try not to be a niggardly man. I pride myself. I'm always open-handed and generous. But after all, there are limits. Oh, dear, if we're going to have a lecture about money, I shan't go to the Corinthic at all. I'd rather go to the theater with Reggie Kent instead. That young spounder. Reggie may have his faults, but quibbling over a few poltergeenies is not one of them. And he simply idolizes me. He said so a dozen times in the last month. He's really rather a dear. I do treat him shabbily. I must try and be kinder to him in future. Oh, all right, my dear. You win. You always do. Now, run along. Now, I'll finish your dressing. We don't want to be too late. Coping with the willful extravagances of Mary Bertram was in itself enough for Henry Fonteroy. But with the passing of time, affairs of the bank became more critical than ever. More plans defaulted, more investments went astray, until by 1814, even Fonteroy's genius was unequal to maintaining for the establishment an air of untroubled prosperity. At last, in desperation, Fonteroy was forced to do something he'd always wished to avoid. He sought help from the Bank of England. You ask us, Mr. Fonteroy, to advance you 50,000 pounds or nothing more tangible than your note of hand. Not my personal note, sir. Naturally, it will have the backing of the Burner Street Bank. And what security has the Burner Street Bank to a heartbreak? Hawaii's reputation in 22 years of trading, of course. Its goodwill. Reputation and goodwill, Mr. Fonteroy, are commodities that have been at a discount for some considerable time. Can you produce documental evidence to prove your ability to cover the sum you asked for? If I could do that, sir, I should have no need of a loan. And since you apparently can't, sir, there'll be no loan. You can't turn me down like this. It rather seems as though that's what I'm doing, doesn't it? You don't realize we've simply got to have this money to tide us over. Otherwise, we face the danger of insolvency. I'm sorry, Mr. Fonteroy, but it's not part of our function to bolster up the crumbling finances of Jerrybilt private banks. Good day, sir. You'd be a serious crash, wouldn't you? You'd like to see every private bank forced out of existence so you could hold a monopoly. Well, it is one pleasure that's going to be denied you. I wasn't born yesterday, sir. I've held my bank together through difficult times for seven years, and I shall continue to do so without the aid of charity from you. Good day, Mr. Fonteroy. Good day! Your boy's financial disaster, there was only one thing to do. While Fonteroy's carriage had returned him to Berners Street, his agile mind had worked out the details of what he planned. The Fonteroy's Bank On that fateful day in 1814, when not only the bank, whose affairs he controlled, but he personally faced financial ruin, the very Fonteroy embarked on the first of a series of forgeries which were to make history. As noted by Appelandi, it was simple. The Berners Street Bank held on behalf of various clients, innumerable bonds, consuls, long and short immuities, Navy loans, and other government securities. The practice was then, as it is today, for the bank to collect the dividends on these investments and to pay them direct into the accounts of the holders. In most cases, these bonds lie in our safe for years unseated. Take these 5,000 pounds worth of consuls we're holding for Miss Frances Young, for instance. I know Miss Young's signature very well. I can imitate it as easily as I sign my own. What's to stop me forging a power of attorney authorizing me to sell the bonds on her behalf? Hmm, sounds easy enough. But doesn't a power of attorney require the signature of witnesses? Of course, but I can forge these too, can't I? A couple of my clots here. How are they to ever know? And what about these dividends? Once the bonds are sold, they'll cease, won't they? Surely as soon as that happens, Miss Young will start asking awkward questions, won't she? Ah, that they won't stop, that's the point. And whenever dividends fall due, I shall have the money paid in and credited to her in the normal way. I tell you the scheme's quite in parallel. And that is how Pontoray operated. Whenever he needed money, some bonds were sold and the forge was out of there, and dividends were paid scrupously as they became due. It took some incredibly brilliant juggling of books and falsifications of entries, a single slip could have been detected, and it would have given the whole game away. But Pontoray made no slip. Of course, it can't go on forever, I realize that. But there's no danger that it will. Once we've passed the crisis and the bank's prospering again, I shall gradually rebuy and replace the bonds, and no one will be any wiser. In fact, it amounts to this. I'm not really stealing them at all, merely borrowing them for the time being. There has been terrible optimism of the bond gunner. Everything will be all right tomorrow, once the crisis is passed, once we've turned the corner. But for Pontoray, that corner never appeared. And so he was forced to go on and on, covering one embezzlement with another. There were narrow escapes, of course. Vince has one day had a call from a well-known broker. I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pontoray, but there's something going on I don't quite understand. Oh, indeed. What's that? Lady Nielsen's a client of yours, isn't she? Yes, a very old and valued one. Well, I had instructions from her this morning to sell five thousand pounds worth of four percents she reputed to be holding on her behalf. Well? Well, sir, I've made a fabric check and there are no four percents registered in her name. Not one. Naturally, my dear fellow, I've already sold them on her behalf. She asked me to do so only yesterday. Oh, she didn't tell me that. Well, then she must have forgotten. You know how vague women are about business. All the same. It's most irregular. I mean to say she always comes to me for these things. Why should she suddenly change her practice? I have a good mind to tell her, but... My dear man, you'd be much better advised to say nothing at all. Of all, what harm has been done? Here are the proceeds and here is your brokerage fee. You will find the amounts quite correct. Now, if you don't want to embarrass Lady Nielsen and so run the risk of losing her as a client, you will pretend you put the deal through in the normal way and let it go at that. Well, perhaps you're right. Dear fellow, I'm sure I am. I'll take your advice this time, but I still think it's all very peculiar. Sometimes clients died. Before their executors took over the estate, Fauntleroy would repurchase the stolen bonds and register them once more in the name of their life-for-holder. To finance this, he would have to commit another forgery, of course, but by now he was in so deep that it didn't seem to matter. As his forgery was increased, so did the recklessness of his personal expenditure. Even his partners began to notice it. You know, straight to you, we should have a serious talk to young Henry one of these days. Oh, why, sure you've noticed the way he's splashing his money about this last couple of years? Oh, so, some of the stories I hear about you... Oh, I shouldn't pay too much attention to them, have you? You know how gossip magnifies things. Even so, there must be a solid foundation of truth in a lot of them. This establishment of his at Hampton-on-Dames, for instance, around that house he's bought at Brighton. They say some of the weekend parties he gives are quite fabulous. Oh, well, he's a young man still, and I dare say he likes to plot a bit of a dash. And all these parasites who seem to hang on to him. And his gambling. And his women. That Mary Bartram, for instance. Oh, good heavens, he broke with her a year ago. There have been others since. Mrs. Manners and the Standish girl, to name just a couple. I don't know how he keeps up with them, I'm sure. Upon the world I don't. Henry's no fool when it comes to money. He's proved that to us often enough, goodness knows. Even so, he'd need to be a millionaire to live the way he seems to. I do hope there's nothing wrong. Wrong? What do you mean? Well, after all, he has complete control of the bank. How can we be sure it really is his money he's spending so prodigally, and not the bank's? That's really civil, that's a most outrageous suggestion. We've known Henry since he was a boy. However, we may disapprove of his private behavior, as always. And that is his scrupless and absolute honesty. Nevertheless, I do think for his own good we should call in a new mayor if you choose. But I shall have nothing to do with it. After all, his personal affairs are his own, and it'd be extremely presumptuous of us to interfere. Hmm, yes, yes, I do say you're right. Very well, we'll think no more about it. By now, Pantarois' forgeries had run into hundreds of thousands. The strain of being constantly on the alert was telling. His health and his nerves began to suffer. It wasn't only the need to keep one jump ahead of discovery, but the fact that there was no one in whom to confide. He must keep the whole thing bottled inside himself. It wore him down most of all. In time, his need for a competent became desperate. He found one last. Her name was Maria Forbes. She was a little more than a school girl, but she was beautiful, and she had intelligence and sympathy. And Pantarois dared to hope that she loved him for himself. Even so, he hesitated for a long time until one night. Good night, Henry. Yes, I am, Martha. Be married, too. Well, let's not go out. I have said a proposal meal. Let's just sit by the fire and talk. Well, I... Please. You'd rather tedious for you, wouldn't it? Of course not. You're in trouble of some kind, aren't you, Henry? Trouble? What makes you think that? You couldn't trust me, Henry? Yes, but how far? Suppose what I had to say to you were to put me completely in your hands to give you the power of life or death over me. I'd give me so much, I'd make a little saber over past my lips. Look at me. You must believe me. Yes. Yes, I do believe you, my dear. Very well, then. I'll tell you. And so they sat together in the quiet room, their faces lit only by the flicking flame to the fire. Henry von Feroi unburdened his soul. He held back nothing, spared himself nothing. Not an easy excuse himself. At last it was all over. Well, there you are, my dear. You wanted the story, and now you have it. What you must have suffered, Henry. I've suffered no more than I deserved. Don't you realize what I've been telling you, Maria? I've deliberately and willfully committed crime after crime after crime. If I'm ever caught, I shall be hanged. Oh, no. Oh, yes, and quite rightly. Couldn't you replace all those bones? No, it's gone too far for that. What if the few sader houses at Hampton and Brighton realized all their assets? My dear girl, that wouldn't be fair a tenth of it, or a twentieth. How much do you owe altogether? Oh, I've not worked it out exactly. It can't be less than three hundred thousand pounds. That's a fortune. They're all fortunes. But where's the dog gone? Oh, it couldn't possibly have split away to yourself. Good Lord, no, of course I haven't. But most of it's gone back into the bank to keep itself. How's it all going to end, Henry? There's only one way it can end. I'm tired, my dear. The struggle is coming too much for me. One day I'll make a blunder, and then it'll be all over. No, you mustn't wait for that. This girl will know while you're still free. I'll leave my partners to shoulder the burden. Why should you consider them? They've never considered you. You can go work with her. You can change your name and they'll begin a flash. Would you do that for me? I'll be waiting for the man. Oh, my dear, you don't know what it means to hear you say that. If only we could. Why not? What's the status? You could get away from the bank without rising suspicion, couldn't you? Yes, I suppose you would. Oh, please, Henry. Everybody's over here just waiting for the crash. We could have fun, but I'm sure we could. Promise me you'll try. Well, I'll think about it anyway. The only solution, the more Ponto Roy thought about it, the more convinced he became that Maria was right. With his usual taranis, he began to lay his plans. He dropped a complete list of embezzled bonds. To indemnify his partners, he wrote and signed a brief confession. To keep up the credit of our house, I have forged files of attorney and have well upon sold out all the funds on the list appended herewith. This I have done without the knowledge of my partners. Before it, I have cut the full blade. This confession and the list he locked in a tin box which he placed in the bank's safe. He decided there was much to do before he could get away. As unimpressively as possible, he began the immense task of straightening out his own time of offense. By now it was 1824, ten years since his first vote. So long he saw the deep undue and possible dangerous hate matter. And roughly a blow fell. A client of the bank, one lieutenant colonel, Franz Pellis of Uxted died, leaving 46,000 pounds invested in 3% of duties for his wife and his family. The bonds were mungoed, ponteroys had forged and sold. An executive of the estate called on the banker. My ex-executre and I have decided to relieve ourselves the responsibility to hand over the whole estate to the court of chance, the administration. So my dear sir, if you would be good enough to have prepared a complete statement together with the securities and so on. Yes, of course. I'll have it attended to in due course. When may I qualify? This afternoon? No, no, I'm afraid I must ask you to give us a few days grace. But surely this is a very simple job. No more than half an hour's worth. I'm sorry, but we're extremely busy just now. I can't possibly let you have it before next Monday. You're not being very helpful, Mr. Fonker. I assure you so. I'm doing the very best I can. Oh, well, if you can't have it up through, you can't, I suppose. I shall be here at ten next Monday. In good day, sir. There was only one way out to avoid detention. The ladies were four to six thousand pounds somehow and they bucked the missing bond. They groomed his out upon Fonker Royce at about the past, but he might have saved himself the trouble. For even as he began to check over the securities that he might yet sell, the executor of the estate, his suspicions aroused, was at the Bank of England. I'm sorry, sir. There's no record on the register of any three percent in period of the muertes held by Mr. Bellis. Well, there must be. Study the list for yourself, sir. There is a record, however, of certain bonds having been sold on Mr. Bellis's behalf last year. Sold by whom? By Mr. Fonker Royce. Here's the power of attorney with Mr. Bellis's signature. Let me see. Why, where is that signature of forgery? That's a very serious charge to make, sir. So serious that I suppose to repeat it before the magistrate. Guard that document carefully, young man. You will probably be subpoenaed to produce it a little later. Fonker Royce was not at home when the police called that evening, but next morning as he walked into the bank. Are you M.A. Fonker Royce? Yes, I'm afraid I have a warrant for your arrest. On what charge? On a number of charges, all to do with forgeries and uttering. This is absurd. Look here, Constable, you're a good fellow. What would you say to a thousand pounds in cash? Oh, so now it's a tempted bribery as well, eh? You'd better come along with me. And I wouldn't try any tricks if I were you. News of Fonker Royce's arrest spread through the city like wildfire. Frantic depositors rushed to the Burner Street Bank to find the doors closed and tacked on them a notice of spending payments. The police questioning Fonker Royce continued to assert his innocence until his signed confession was found. Then he broke down and admitted everything. That trial was a sensation of the year. The newspapers had already prejudged Fonker Royce, and every breath of scandal in his private life was relentlessly dragged to light and featured in their column. The jury was absent only 20 minutes before returning a verdict of guilty. On November 30, 1824, outside Newgate Prison, before a crowd of 100,000 people, Henry Fonker Royce was hanged by the neck till he was dead. In 1832, forgery ceased to be a capital crime. Fonker Royce made one fatal mistake. He was found out eight years too soon. Well, let's open up. I'll be back again soon to tell you some of the secrets of scavenging. Meanwhile, this is Clive Brooks saying goodbye and pleasant. Come. Thank you.
