Читать книгу The Dagger and Cord - Aidan de Brune - Страница 3

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"WANT 7a Peyton Place?" Sam Kearney swung round on the swivel-chair, his ruddy face alight with keenness. "What for?"

"To sell." Roy Onslay leaned back and calmly met the gaze of the big estate speculator. "You know I do a bit in that line, Mr. Kearney."

"So I've heard." The lower lip of the square, ruddy race jutted out fiercely. "Maybe one day you'll find yourself bought and sold, m'boy."

Roy did not answer. The Peyton Place property did not represent a big deal in the quickly developing city of Sydney. It was a two-story building in a back street not far from Circular Quay, and with only fifteen years of a long lease to run. The price would not be large, possibly well under five thousand pounds. He was prepared to go to that limit, but not a penny beyond.

"The Peyton Place property!" Sam Kearney leaned back in his chair until the solid structure groaned beneath his big weight. "There's a bare fifteen years of the lease to run, and you won't get it renewed. Well, it's your look out. What'll you give!"

"Three thousand pounds."

"And—"

"I've got to make a profit, Mr. Kearney."

"Then talk up in thousands. I'll tell you where to stop." The big speculator swung round towards his desk and picked up a letter. "Should tell you I've a man coming to see me in a few minutes, and you have a long way to go."

"Meaning?"

"You're wasting time."

"Three thousand five hundred." The big speculator picked a cigar from an open box on the table and bit off the end. There was a grim little smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

"Suppose you give me a starter, Mr. Kearney.

"Offers reviewed. Go ahead, boy. That was a good break. Five hundred at a jump, but, you've got a long way to go."

"Four thousand!"

"My, You're anxious for it." Sam Kearney lit the cigar. "I'll say you're getting warm—but, keep on."

"I'll wait until you put it up for auction." Roy took his hat from the corner of the desk.

"Mayn't." The man did not look up.

"You've no reserve?"

"What's yours?"

"I'll go my limit. Five thousand pounds!"

"That all!"

"The last penny."

For a long minute the big man sat and stared at Roy. Not a muscle of his massive face changed, only from between the thin, firm lips came a spiral of fragrant smoke. With a shrug of his shoulders he swung the protesting chair towards his desk and drew to him a pile of papers.

"Nothing doing—good day!"

ON THE Pitt Street pavement Roy Onslay looked up at Aiken House, in which Sam Kearney had his offices. He was puzzled. His expert knowledge told him he had offered well over the value of the lease. At the outside it was not worth more than four thousand pounds. In making an offer of an additional thousand pounds he felt he had passed the business limit. Sam Kearney had turned down a big premium on his speculation.

Roy knew the big man had held the property for some time—it was one of his few bad guesses. He had bought it for a quick turnover, and had found it left on his hands. Kearney had paid two thousand seven hundred pounds for the lease. Now, after holding it for six months, he had refused five thousand pounds! Why? The speculator was a keen buyer and seller, satisfied with quick, small turnovers. He must have long since discovered that be had a white elephant on his hands, yet be refused to unload at a big profit!

Pondering on the problem, Roy turned up Pitt Street. Outside Mansell & Co's estate offices he hesitated, and finally entered. After a short wait be was shown into the private room of the head of the firm.

"No. 7a Peyton Place?" said Mark Mansell, a small, bald, fair man as he rubbed his head. "Belongs to Sam Kearney? Yes, I remember. Bit of a frost, wasn't it? Sam's not usually caught napping. What's wrong with it?"

"On your books?"

"Used to be. Funny thing. Only yesterday Sam rang up and told me not to make a price. Just to take offers. Now, I wonder what's up? What do you know?"

"I'll give you four thousand five hundred for it."

"Whew!" The estate agent pressed a button on his desk. To the clerk who answered the summons, he said: "Bring me the record of 7a Peyton Place. One of Mr. Kearney's properties."

The clerk left the room and Mansell sat silent, gazing at the top of his desk. Roy felt more bewildered. The estate agent had asked him what was wrong with it, and now he felt inclined to echo the words. There must be something wrong about the property. Sam Kearney's action in turning down a fine profit on his deal had appeared strange; his withdrawal of the property wholly from sale was still stranger. What had influenced the man's actions? He tried to think of something that would induce the speculator to hold on to the property, but he could not. There were many improvements going on in the city, but none of them would greatly influence Peyton Place.

Roy was not purchasing the property for himself. Twelve months previous he had, on inheriting a small legacy, left his job in the offices of Mansell & Co., Real Estate Agents, and started in business as a property broker. The previous day he had been commissioned to obtain 7a Peyton Place. His client was a stranger to him, but had produced satisfactory references. He had known of Sam Kearney's purchase of the property and the price the speculator had paid for it. Roy had suggested that Kearney might take a thousand pounds advance on his deal, secretly believing thee man would be glad to get out of the speculation with his money back. He had suggested that the property could be obtained for about three thousand pounds and was astounded when he was informed that he was at liberty to go as high as five thousand pounds, provided that the property passed immediately into his client's possession.

He had attempted to voice some protest, only to be told to follow his instructions explicitly. Now, his limit offer had been turned down, almost with contempt.

"Four thousand five hundred, you said." Mark Mansell was examining a record book. "Well, you're well over the price it was given to us to sell at, Roy. That price firm?"

"I'll write you a deposit cheque now, if you like."

"Not from you." The little man smiled cheerfully. "Say, you should get it. Let you know tomorrow."

Roy rose from his seat and went to the door As his hand was on the handle Mansell called to him in a low tone, "Say, Roy."

The young man walked back to the desk.

"What's the matter with the place? Title good?"

"So far as I know. I'm buying it for a client who seems to know all about it. Why?"

"Well, it's you I'm telling, not your client, remember. Sam would have let that place go for three thousand pounds, or close offer, yesterday."

ROY walked back to his office in Bent Street, puzzling over the problem and the strange attitude of the big estate speculator. Sam Kearney had been prepared to sacrifice the Peyton Place property the previous day for practically what he had paid for it. Today, he had refused to discuss an offer of nearly one hundred per cent profit on his bargain.

There could be only one reason for the man's actions. During the previous twenty-four hours something had happened in the city affecting the value of the Peyton Place properties. More, the unknown quantity in the problem was of such a nature that it was impossible at the time to judge of the estimated value.

Peyton Place lay away from the new city railway and the proposed alterations to Circular Quay. But those improvements had been public property for some time and well advertised in the newspapers. Their effect would certainly be far-reaching in the value of all property in the city, but in the instance of Peyton Place the freeholder would benefit nearly entirely.

Again in his office, Roy turned to the file of newspapers hanging on the wall. There might be some proposal for city improvements that he had overlooked. He did not think so, for he kept well in touch with all private and municipal proposals.

With eager fingers he turned the pages. Nowhere could he see anything that would warrant the peculiar actions of the big real-estate speculator. The day's Morning Mirror lay on the desk. A careful search of the newspaper was without result. He could find nothing to account for Sam Kearney's attitude, or for the desire of his client to acquire the property, even at a large figure.

Roy leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. Somewhere lay information it was vital for him to have, but where? There was not one clue to the problem in the many columns of the newspaper on the desk before him.

He began to scan the columns once more, then suddenly he sat upright in the chair, alert in every nerve.

Here was a clue, but he could not understand it.

One of the small-advertisement pages of the news-sheet lay open. Towards the bottom of the left-hand corner was a half-column of "Personal" advertisements. The fifth from the heading held a strange significance. It read:—

"Lonely Lady. No friends or relations in Australia. 7a Peyton Place, Sydney. Will some one help?—Box 3971, this office."