Читать книгу Up the Ladder of Gold - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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Warren Rand spent the next eight days in the manner he loved. He scarcely moved from his palatial suite of apartments, which contained, indeed, everything necessary for a man’s daily welfare, from gymnasium and swimming bath to an open-air promenade upon the roof. Most of the time he was closeted with John Glynde, or with Tellesom, or with Philip Reich, the head of his foreign newspaper department, and during these long series of conferences, the telephone and cable wires hummed with vital and impressive words. On the ninth day, Warren Rand was ready for the next move in the game. He received by appointment no less a person than Herr Anselm Loeb, a Cabinet Minister of the German Republic, president of the Berliner-Dusseldorf Bank, and representative of Germany at the Geneva Conference.

Loeb was a small, puppet-like man, perfectly dressed, with flaxen hair which was obviously a wig, false teeth, and the manners and gestures of a performing doll. Warren Rand affected not to see his outstretched hand and received him indeed with the barest show of civility. He waved him to a chair and for welcome contented himself with a brusque little nod.

“This is a great pleasure for me,” Herr Loeb declared, unabashed by his cold reception. “I have for a long time looked forward to making the acquaintance of one so famous in the world of finance and journalism.”

“Thank you, Herr Loeb,” Warren Rand replied. “I think you would rather have attended my funeral than come to hear what I have to say to you. Please understand, to commence with, that I am no diplomat. You are up against certain interests of mine, and I have come over to Europe to see that those interests are preserved and respected. I have sent for you to visit me here, not to argue with you or to plead with you, but to show you that you had better change your line of action and change it quickly. I consider that you, more than any of the other representatives, are responsible for the spirit of unrest which exists among many of the members of the Conference at Geneva.”

The pink and white amiability faded from Herr Loeb’s face. With the disappearance of his perpetual smile, his mouth hardened, but became more like the feature of a human being.

“Don’t trouble to deny anything,” Warren Rand went on. “It wouldn’t make any difference, and I only speak of the things I know. The first is this. You, in league with Felix Behrling, are the secret director of a band of ruffians whom you make use of to terrify people who are in your way and in the way of your policy. One of them was out after me last Monday week. He is in Westminster Hospital at the present moment, and still unconscious. The next one who comes, you’ll have to look for in the mortuary. My men on the other side learned this game before you thought of it.”

Herr Loeb, when he chose, was a very eloquent man. He had learned a greater gift, however—the gift of silence. He continued to look across at his companion with expressionless face and tightly closed lips.

“The second thing I have against you,” Warren Rand continued, “is that it was entirely owing to the advice given by you to your Government that the Disarmament Treaty remains unsigned at Geneva.”

“That is not true,” Herr Loeb pronounced. “Italy was opposed to it; even England is still hesitating.”

“You were the first dissentient,” Warren Rand declared. “When you reopen, it will be your first talk to announce that you and Russia are prepared to sign the Disarmament Treaty.”

“And what about England?” Herr Loeb demanded.

“That is my affair,” was the cold reply. “You see, there’s no subtlety about my methods. Before you leave this apartment, I require your undertaking to sign. I also require an undertaking that I shall not be further molested in this capital, and that Felix Behrling and his myrmidons shall remove their activities elsewhere.”

Anselm Loeb’s face relaxed. The grimness with which he had been listening passed. He laughed quietly but heartily. There was a vein of sarcasm in his mirth, but he was distinctly more himself.

“You ask a good deal for a man who offers nothing,” he remarked.

“My offer is coming, but as a threat, not a bribe,” Warren Rand rejoined. “You know, I presume, the names of your principal newspapers—the Times, for instance, the Tablet, and the Star.”

“The world knows them. They are of our best.”

“They belong to me,” Warren Rand announced.

Herr Loeb’s reëstablished self-control momentarily deserted him. He sat with his mouth wide open, staring across at his companion.

“That is not possible,” he muttered.

Warren Rand touched one of the coloured bells upon his desk.

“I scarcely expected you to believe my word,” he observed. “Proof, however, is easy. I want the signed agreements and receipts from the German newspapers, also a copy of yesterday’s articles which have been written by members of the staff here for the Sunday edition of the Tablet,” he went on, turning to John Glynde, who had made due appearance, a roll of papers in his hand.

The latter nodded.

“I thought that might have been what you rang for,” he said. “You’ll find everything here.”

“Hand over the papers to Herr Loeb.”

John Glynde did as he was bidden and left the room. Warren Rand waited patiently whilst his vis-à-vis examined the documents. The latter was of slow and precise habits. When at last he had finished his examination, which was interspersed with many guttural exclamations of amazement, the fingers which gripped the papers were trembling.

“I am compelled to believe you,” he acknowledged at last. “Well?”

“Through the medium of the Press,” Warren Rand pointed out, “I am now in a position at any moment to let the German public know of your activities carried out through Felix Behrling, to let your Cabinet know the real reason for your refusal to sign the Disarmament Treaty, and the probable consequences which you may have to face, and also to acquaint the financial world with the fact that the bank of which you are president is, notwithstanding its position on paper, a thoroughly unsound institution.”

Loeb was stung at last. He almost leaped from his chair.

“You lie!” he shouted. “You know nothing of what you speak. Seventy million of marks we have of surplus. We have made huge profits for three years.”

“On paper,” was Warren Rand’s cool comment. “Now I will show you a few further documents. You see, I make no statements without proofs, and I have evidence here which might alter even your opinion of your own bank. You are its president, and you will admit that it has certain attachments to the State and certain responsibilities. You are not allowed, for instance, to accept loans from foreign countries or invest capital in commercial undertakings outside Germany, without the consent of the governors of the bank.”

“What of it?”

Warren Rand glanced at the slip of paper which he held in his hand.

“You are at the present moment,” he continued, “owing the Federal Bank of New York twenty-one million dollars. You owe the Merchants Bank of Boston thirteen million dollars. You owe a smaller Western bank something between four and five million dollars. These loans have all been arranged without the knowledge of your fellow governors.”

A dull, brick-red tinge marred the smoothness of Herr Loeb’s pink and white complexion. He was showing his false teeth and he was a very ugly man.

“There were special reasons for those loans,” he insisted. “They are not your business, anyway. They can be wiped off at any moment.”

“You bought stocks and shares with them,” Warren Rand observed, “in which you had no right to deal. As for the possibility of wiping off the loans at any moment, you can only do so by selling those stocks. Have you seen to-day’s New York market?”

“It would not be possible,” Loeb replied. “It has not been open for more than an hour English time.”

Warren Rand touched one of the bells on his desk. A clerk from the banking department made his appearance.

“The connection with New York is open?” Warren Rand asked.

“It will not be disturbed until midday, sir,” the young man replied.

“How are the markets?”

“An utterly unexpected slump,” was the prompt answer. “Nearly every one of the public utilities are down fifteen to twenty points. Every one is rushing about for money. Rates have gone up from eight per cent, to fourteen.”

Warren Rand nodded.

“Keep in touch,” he directed. “Mr. Glynde will have some orders to put in directly.”

The German banker had lost alike his dignity and his poise. He was shivering in his chair.

“What can be the meaning of a slump like this?” he demanded. “I don’t understand.”

“The American market is at all times very sensitive,” the other observed, “but the immediate cause is without a doubt the fact that I opened a ten-million bear account this morning. Now, you say you can pay off your borrowings, Mr. Loeb. Well, come along with it. We need the money.”

“Who do you mean by ‘we’?” Loeb faltered.

“I am a director of the two banks from which you borrowed these sums for repayment on demand, and we have decided to call in our loans,” was the suave reply.

“I am beaten,” Loeb acknowledged bitterly. “Let me hear your terms, Mr. Rand.”

“They are better than you deserve. You will withdraw your opposition to the Disarmament Treaty and use your influence in Berlin in its favour. This country I will deal with myself. You will send Felix Behrling about his business and see that I am not further molested whilst I am in England. I, on the other hand, will undertake to bring the market normal again before closing time to-day, and your loans can run for a reasonable extension.”

“I agree,” Anselm Loeb gasped.

“Bear this in mind too. I have a private secretary, John Glynde, who is empowered to act on my behalf after my death, and if anything should happen to me within the next few days he will act exactly as I should have done.”

“I will keep my word,” Anselm Loeb promised, as he rose to his feet. “You need have no fear of that. I only wish—”

“Well, what is it that you wish?” Warren Rand asked, as the other stood, drawing on his gloves.

“That you were a German. America doesn’t need men like you. We do.”

Tellesom duly presented himself in response to Warren Rand’s summons.

“I have come to an understanding with Anselm Loeb,” the latter announced. “Felix Behrling will have to suspend operations for the moment. I think you need a holiday.”

“Just as you like,” Tellesom replied understandingly. “Any particular neighbourhood?”

“Antibes. Hotel du Cap d’Antibes. There’s probably something doing around there we might be interested in. I have only scattered threads at present, but they are coming together. I am off to Geneva in a few days and may finish there. All I can tell you for the present is that Poynton, one of the British representatives at the Conference, is meeting an Italian down on that coast, and Behrling is there already.”

Tellesom sent for a continental A.B.C., and the next morning he left for the South of France by the Blue Train.