Читать книгу Tenant for Death - Alfred Alexander Gordon Clark - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Saturday, November 14th

The London and Imperial Estates Company, Ltd., and its eleven associated companies, familiarly known on the Stock Exchange as “The Twelve Apostles”, occupied imposing offices in Lothbury. There were eight storeys in all, a grandiose Portland stone façade without, waxed oak panels within. The entrance hall was adorned with pillars of polished marble, and was guarded by the largest and smartest commissionaire in the City of London. On the floors above, large airy rooms housed during business hours regiments of typists, clerks, and office boys. In smaller and more luxurious apartments, their superiors—managers, accountants and heads of departments—pursued their mysterious and, presumably, profitable ways. But to the man in the street, and more particularly to the investor or speculator in the City, all this splendour was summed up in and made significant by the personality of one man—Lionel Ballantine.

Ballantine was one of those picturesque figures appearing from time to time in the financial world of London, whose activities lend colour to the ordinarily drab record of commerce. He was, in the generally accepted sense of the phrase, one of the best known men in the City. That is to say, a large public was familiar through the papers with his outward appearance and that of his country house, his racing stables, his yacht and his herd of pedigree Jerseys. A smaller and more closely interested public knew something, though not as much as it would have wished, of his financial interests. In actual fact, the man himself was probably as little known as it is possible to be. He had no intimate friends and even his closest associates knew how far they were from possessing his full confidence. His origin was obscure, and if many people would have liked to penetrate the veil in which he chose to shroud it, there were more who contented themselves with prophesying, cynically or blasphemously, as to his future.

By the world in general, however, Ballantine was taken as what he appeared to be—a spectacularly successful business man. In a comparatively short space of time, he had risen from nothing—or at least from very little—to a position of genuine importance and even power. Such a career is never to be achieved save at the cost of a good deal of jealousy and detraction, and he had received his fair share of both. More than once there had been unpleasant whispers as to his methods, and on one occasion—the famous Fanshawe Bank failure of four years before—something louder than whispers. But each time the murmurs had died down, leaving Ballantine more prosperous than ever.

But now the whispers were beginning to be heard again in many places, and nowhere more urgently than in the little ante-room to Ballantine’s private office on the top floor of the great building. Here the affairs of the company were being discussed in low tones by two of its employees.

“I tell you, Johnson,” said one, “I don’t like the look of things. Here’s the Annual General Meeting not two weeks away, and the market’s getting jumpy. Have you seen this morning’s figures?”

“The market!” said the other contemptuously. “The market’s always got nerves. We’ve been through worse scares than this, haven’t we? Remember what happened in ’29? Well, then——”

“I’ll tell you another thing,” went on the first speaker without listening to the interruption. “Du Pine has got the jumps too. Have you seen him this morning? He was absolutely green. I tell you, he knows something.”

“Where is he now?” asked Johnson. “In there?” He nodded his head to a glass-panelled door labelled “Secretary”.

“No. He’s in the old man’s room. Been in and out there the last half-hour, like a cat with the fidgets. And the old man isn’t there either.”

“Well, what of it? Would he be, on a Saturday morning?”

“Yes, he would—this morning. He’s got an appointment for eleven o’clock. I was here when Du Pine made it for him.”

“An appointment? Who with?”

“Robinson, the Southern Bank man. And he’s bringing Prufrock with him.”

“Prufrock? The solicitor?”

“That’s him.”

Johnson whistled softly. Then he said after a noticeable pause:

“Percy, old man, I suppose you don’t happen to know what it was they were coming to see him about, do you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I mean, if it was the Redbury bond issue they were asking about, and if old Prufrock starts nosing round——”

“Well?” said Percy. “Suppose it was. You had the handling of that issue, hadn’t you? What about it?”

Johnson was looking straight in front of him. He looked right through the wall and saw a trim red-brick villa at Ealing, heavily mortgaged and utterly desirable, with two small children playing on its minute scrap of lawn, and his wife on the doorstep watching them.

“Well?” Percy repeated.

Johnson turned his head.

“I was just thinking,” he said. “A pal of mine in Garrisons’ told me there was a head clerk’s job going there. It would mean dropping fifty a year, but—I think I shall put in for it, Percy old man.”

An understanding glance passed between the two men, but before either could speak the telephone on the table between them rang. At the same moment the door of Ballantine’s private room opened and Du Pine, the secretary to the company, walked quickly out. He picked up the receiver, barked into it: “Send them up at once!” and had disappeared again in the space of a few seconds.

“You see what I mean?” murmured Percy. “Nervy, eh?”

“I suppose that was Robinson and Prufrock,” said Johnson, rising to his feet. “Well, I’m going round to Garrisons’, now.”

In the inner room, Du Pine took a deep breath and squared his thin shoulders, like a man preparing to face an assault. For a moment he stood thus, then relaxed. His hands, which he had kept still during that brief space by an effort of will, began to jump uneasily from the wrists. He paced the room twice in each direction, then came to a halt opposite a looking-glass. He saw in it a face which would have been handsome but for the unhealthy sallowness of the cheeks, black hair neatly brushed down, a pair of bright beady eyes with heavy lines beneath them. He was still staring at the reflection, as though at the portrait of a stranger, when the visitors were announced.

Du Pine spun round on his heel.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” he exclaimed.

“You are Mr. Du Pine, I think?” said the solicitor.

“At your service, Mr. Prufrock, I think? Mr. Robinson I have met before. Won’t you sit down?”

Mr. Prufrock did not sit down, still standing, he looked slowly round the room.

“Our appointment was with Mr. Ballantine,” he said.

“Quite so,” answered Du Pine easily. “Quite so. But he is unfortunately not able to be here in person this morning, and has asked me to deal with the matter in his absence.”

Mr. Prufrock’s eyebrows went up in shocked surprise. Mr. Robinson’s, on the other hand, came down in a threatening frown. It would be difficult to say which of the two expressions Du Pine found the more unpleasant.

“Mr. Ballantine has asked you—you—to deal with this matter in his absence?” repeated the solicitor incredulously. “With the Redbury bond issue? May I remind you once more that we have a personal appointment with Mr. Ballantine?”

“Just so,” said Du Pine, beginning to show signs of nervousness. “Just so. And I can assure you, gentlemen, that Mr. Ballantine would certainly be here if—if he could.”

“What do you mean? Is he unwell?”

Du Pine indicated assent.

“That seems very strange. He seemed in perfect health yesterday. Can you tell me what form his illness takes?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Very well. Then we can assume that it is not serious. I think that the best thing would be for us to make an appointment to see him at his private house.”

Robinson here spoke for the first time.

“I rather doubt whether we should find him there, well or ill,” he observed. “If I might make the suggestion, it would be more to the purpose to enquire for him at the house of Mrs. Eales—his mistress,” he added in an aside to Prufrock, who pursed his lips and sniffed by way of reply.

“I have done so already,” Du Pine broke in. “He is not there.”

“I see.” The solicitor looked very steadily at him for a moment, to give his next question its full weight. “Mr. Du Pine, will you please answer me directly: Do you know where Mr. Ballantine is?”

Du Pine took a deep breath, like a swimmer before the plunge, and then began to speak at a great pace.

“No, I do not. And I am quite aware that in the circumstances Mr. Ballantine’s absence may seem rather—that it is a matter which calls for enquiry. But—gentlemen—before you put any construction on it—before you take any steps which—any irrevocable steps—there is one matter that—in fairness to Mr. Ballantine—in fairness to myself—it may be of importance in the future——”

“Well?”

“Mr. Ballantine had a visitor here yesterday morning, who disturbed him very much. It may in some way account for anything erratic in his behaviour——”

Prufrock turned to Robinson. His mouth was set in a hard line.

“Really, Robinson, I think we are wasting our time here,” he said.

“But, gentlemen, this is important,” Du Pine insisted.

“I can hardly think of any visitor yesterday who was more important to Mr. Ballantine than the appointment he had made for today,” said Prufrock drily.

“But I can assure you, sir, I can assure you that Mr. Ballantine had every intention of meeting you today. He had a perfect explanation of any little discrepancies there might be in the bond issue. There is only one possible explanation for his not coming, and that is that he was not physically able to come.”

“What is all this nonsense?” Robinson spoke wearily. “And what has this mysterious visitor to do with it?”

“Perhaps you will understand when I tell you that the visitor was Mr. Fanshawe——”

The two men stiffened with interest.

“Fanshawe?” echoed Prufrock. “He’s still in gaol, isn’t he?”

“His sentence is about due to expire,” put in Robinson. “Poor fellow, I knew him well before....”

“——And that he threatened him, in my hearing,” went on Du Pine wildly. “Perhaps now you gentlemen will understand—and—and give Mr. Ballantine a little time to—to make arrangements,” he ended weakly, his voice trailing away as though he were at the end of his physical resources.

“I only understand one thing,” said Prufrock drily. “Failing satisfactory assurances as to the Redbury bond issue, which Mr. Ballantine promised to give us here—personally—today, I have my client’s instructions to issue a writ against the company. He has failed to keep his appointment—whether, as you seem to suggest, because he has been kidnapped by the person you speak of, or not, does not concern me. Affairs must now take their course. The writ will be served on you on Monday morning. The bank loan, I take it, is being called in at the same time?” He glanced at Robinson, who nodded agreement. “Well, Mr. Du Pine,” he continued, “you see the position. We need not occupy your time any further. Good day.”

There was no reply. Du Pine, supporting himself by one hand on the table, a lock of his dark hair falling across a forehead glistening with sweat, appeared utterly exhausted. The solicitor shrugged his shoulders, and taking Robinson by the arm walked out of the room without another word.

Du Pine watched them go, and a full minute passed before he roused himself. Then he took from his pocket a small phial of white tablets. This he carried to the lavatory opening out of Ballantine’s room. There he filled a glass with water, dropped a tablet in, and watched with eager eyes while it dissolved. He drained the mixture in one gulp and little by little the colour began to come back into his cheeks and the animation to his eyes. When the drug had done its work, he walked back with his usual quick, springy steps, into the room. He took from his pocket a bunch of keys, selected one and fitted it to his employer’s private desk. It was all but empty, and of its few contents there were none that interested him. Next he turned his attention to the safe which was let into the wall. Here too his search was fruitless. With a shrug of his shoulders, he cast one last look round the room that had been so long the nerve-centre of a great business, and departed.