Читать книгу Up the Ladder of Gold - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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It was very seldom that Mr. John Glynde smiled. When he did, it was usually in connection with some twist in the affairs of his patron reflecting, if only indirectly, upon himself. There was, however, what seemed to be almost an imbecile grin on his face late in the afternoon of the next day, when he ushered a young lady into Warren Rand’s somewhat unique reception room, situated on the top floor of Kingsway Buildings.

“This is Miss Stanley Erdish,” he announced. “You sent for her to see you at four o’clock.”

Warren Rand pushed his easy-chair away from the window out of which he had been gazing, and swung around. He frowned at the slim, very attractive-looking young woman who was making her way composedly across the room towards him, and he remained seated in his easy-chair, with the stump of an extinct cigar between his fingers.

“I don’t want to see Miss Stanley Erdish,” he said. “I want to see her father, or her brother, or whoever it is.”

She smiled at him disarmingly.

“You don’t,” she assured him. “You want to see me.”

He looked her up and down. She would have found favour in the sight of most men, for her hair and eyes were of a pleasant shade of brown, her complexion of a creamy pallor, which made cosmetics seem a futile aid to beauty, and her mouth had that pleasant curve which in a man means humour and in a woman tenderness. She apparently failed, however, to please Warren Rand. He threw his cigar end into the fireplace, but he still remained seated, and his tone was morose.

“I don’t do business with women,” he said harshly. “My secretary here knows that well enough. I’m afraid he’s only wasted your time bringing you up.”

“The trouble of it is,” Glynde pointed out apologetically, “that we have been doing business with a woman without knowing it. This undoubtedly is the ‘Stanley Erdish’ who has been our publicity agent in this country for over six months, and who obtained the post, if you remember, by very pertinent letters, and kept it through excellent service.”

“Nice little man,” the girl murmured. “It’s the truth too.”

“My God!” Warren Rand groaned. “So my affairs have been in the hands of a woman all this time! I wish I had read the correspondence myself.”

“I’d like you to know that it wouldn’t have made any difference,” Glynde assured him. “I was completely deceived, and I am more acute in such matters of detail than you are.”

“You flatter yourself,” Warren Rand rejoined. “I can smell a woman out from the first three words in her letter. She’s humbugged you, Glynde. Why don’t you sit down, young lady? Now that you’re here, I expect that I shall have to talk to you.”

“I was waiting,” she replied, smiling sweetly, “to see if you stood up.”

Something happened to the muscles of Warren Rand’s face, but it would have taken a very clever physiognomist to have decided whether or not it was a smile.

“No need to tire yourself out waiting for manners from me,” he warned her bluntly. “I haven’t got any. Besides, women have knocked all that sort of thing on the head by insisting upon the equality of the sexes. I wouldn’t have employed you for a thousand pounds if I’d known you were a woman—especially a young and apparently a good-looking one—but since you’ve tumbled into the thing, you’ve done your work well. I sent for you to tell you so, and to give you instructions for the next few months. As it is, you had better give Miss Stanley Erdish a cheque for what we owe her, Glynde, and wish her good afternoon.”

“Does that mean that my engagement is ended?” the young woman asked.

“That’s just what it does mean,” was the curt reply. “My scheme of life doesn’t include employing women in confidential positions.”

“What a pity you didn’t know about my sex,” she sighed. “You see, it’s too late now.”

Very many men in assured positions of life had quailed before such a look and such a frown. Miss Stanley Erdish suffered them gladly.

“What do you mean by ‘too late’?” he demanded.

“You see,” she explained, selecting the most comfortable chair within reach, “you employed me as a press agent in an entirely new and unique capacity. It almost took my breath away when I really had mastered your secretary’s letter. Every other commission I have ever had in my life has been to keep my client in the limelight. Yours, as I accepted it from Mr. Glynde, was to keep your name out of every newspaper, to see, in fact, that the name of ‘Warren Rand’ never appeared in print; to let the world think, whenever a financial deal was successfully accomplished, a newspaper bought, or control of it acquired, that some one else was concerned, but never Warren Rand. I’ll admit the commission intrigued me. I never had anything like it before. I have never enjoyed work so much in my life.”

“That’s lucky,” was Warren Rand’s dry comment, “because you’re through with it.”

“Not at all,” she protested; “I’m only just beginning.”

“Don’t you understand that you’re fired?”

She shook her head gently.

“Oh, no,” she objected, “you couldn’t do that. That wouldn’t be possible, Mr. Rand.”

“Take her into the cashier’s office and give her a cheque for what’s owing to her,” the latter enjoined.

John Glynde rose to his feet, but she caught him by the wrist and detained him.

“Don’t trouble about that,” she begged. “I am in no need of money for the moment. Now, with regard to that question of being fired. You simply couldn’t do it. You perhaps don’t know that when I took up this publicity profession, I very nearly went in for blackmailing instead—even more lucrative, I believe, but difficult as regards one’s subjects. There are not many people like you in the world, you know, Mr. Rand.”

“Blackmailing?” he repeated. “What have you got against me, young lady? It’s been tried on before. There’s one man in Holy Cross Cemetery, another at the bottom of the Hudson, and two others doing fourteen years each. No one has succeeded yet.”

Miss Stanley Erdish was unmoved.

“They didn’t go the right way about it,” she confided, “and they didn’t know as much as I know. Now, just think, Mr. Rand, think of the things I’ve kept secret on your behalf during the last twelve months. Who knows that you are the mysterious syndicate who bought the Daily Clarion? Who has the slightest idea that you are the unknown financier who lent six million pounds to Turkey just when Greece was going to declare war against her? Who knows that St. Clair Dent, who owns that great northern syndicate of newspapers, is receiving a matter of ten thousand a year from you in return for permission to edit his weekly notes? Who knows the name of the secret buyer of gold during the last few weeks—”

“Stop!” Warren Rand interrupted. “Well?”

“It is I who have thrown dust in the eyes of the world upon all these points,” she reminded him. “It is I who might supply the eye lotion.”

Warren Rand sat quite still, looking at his very charming visitor. She returned his scrutiny, an engaging light in her eyes. John Glynde, who was afraid because he knew that his Chief was angry, intervened after his own fashion.

“The young lady is quite right,” he insisted. “She has worked well for us. To send her away just because of this matter of sex would be foolish. Anything else,” he concluded, blinking into his Chief’s steely eyes, “would be worse than foolish.”

“Such an intelligent little man I have always said that you were, Mr. Glynde,” she sighed. “Besides, there’s last night’s affair, you know. I am probably the only person who could succeed in keeping the whole world from knowing that Mr. Warren Rand has bought out Gervoise Harrison and is the sole owner of the Daily Sun, or the truth about that article on the Peace Conference in Geneva in this morning’s paper. I am sure you are too sensible to try to do without me. The only thing is,” she concluded reflectively, “that now you’re in England, the work is going to be very much harder for me, and I think you ought to consider the matter of a rise in salary.”

“Are you married?” Warren Rand enquired.

She held up her ringless hand.

“Not yet. I am hoping to be some day, of course, but just the right man hasn’t come along yet. I should like an American, if possible. Every one says they make such good husbands.”

“Any brothers?”

“No brothers or sisters.”

“So you are the only one of the family?” Warren Rand meditated.

“The only one,” she acknowledged. “Why? Did you think you might find places for my relatives if I had any?”

“What salary is the young woman getting?” he asked abruptly.

“Fifteen hundred a year,” John Glynde replied, “and a moderate expense account.”

“It sounds a great deal,” she reflected, “but everything is so dear nowadays. Shoes and stockings alone,” she went on, looking down at her own beautifully shaped little patent shoes and silk stockings of the latest shade, “cost a small fortune.”

“How much are you going to stick me for?” he demanded.

“I have an aged mother to support,” she sighed, “who has a penchant for night clubs, and week-end visits to Paris. I have always wished that I could gratify her taste for travel.”

“Send her round the world,” Warren Rand grunted. “Give the girl three thousand a year, Glynde.”

“Such a pleasant sum,” she murmured. “I shall do quite nicely on that.”

Warren Rand fixed her with that negative glance of his.

“In case you should become conceited,” he confided, “let me tell you this. You have done quite well, but there have always been powerful influences behind you. There is scarcely an editor of a respectable newspaper in this country who doesn’t know my weakness and isn’t prepared to subscribe to it. You could see my name pencilled out of dozens of paragraphs every day by men who have never heard from me, whom I have never met in my life. They know, though.”

She nodded and, stooping down, opened her little brown despatch case, took out a sheaf of papers, and selected a proof. She crossed the room and, leaning over his chair, held it out for his inspection. He was angrily conscious of a very unfamiliar thing—a faintly sweet, unrecognisable perfume as though from unseen flowers.

“You wouldn’t have liked that to appear,” she observed. “You see, it got as far as type.”

He read out the first few lines:

“One of the most singular innovations in modern politics is the intrusion of wealthy and influential newspaper proprietors into the counsels of the leading statesmen of the day. It is rumoured that, although his name appears on no shipping list, Warren Rand, the multi-millionaire, and, as he is popularly called, ‘The Newspaper Sphinx of New York,’ is now on his way to Europe, and is expected to take part in the councils at Geneva.

“Warren Rand, whose newspapers must have interviewed many thousands of less famous men, has never himself been interviewed or photographed, nor has he, more than three or four times in his life, signed the articles which are reputed to have come from his pen. He is a man of strong character, and curiously secretive habits, but the power he wields is unbounded, and if, at any time, he should choose to take a vigorous part in contemporary European history, he would be a force gravely to be reckoned with. His present mission is said to be due to a desire to intervene in the disarmament question, and it is no secret that certain powerful influences which have done so much to retard progress at Geneva are awaiting his visit with apprehension.”

Warren Rand returned the slip and eyed the girl coldly.

“Where did you get that from?” he asked. “Your own little printing press?”

“From the Hemisphere office,” she replied, disregarding his sneer. “It would have appeared in the Hemisphere but for me. One of my best efforts,” she went on. “It cost me a great deal.”

“Are you telling the truth?” he demanded.

“It is quite a habit of mine,” she assured him.

“You wish me to believe that George Soames, the editor of the Hemisphere, was bribed by you, with your paltry means, to prevent the appearance of this paragraph?”

“Not with money,” she admitted. “Certainly not with money. The personal effort was amazingly strenuous. I had to let him take me out to dinner three times, to the theatre twice, and I don’t know how many times to luncheon. I don’t dislike Mr. Soames,” she went on, “but he dances very badly and he’s a little troublesome as a companion. However, there’s the proof of my influence. The paragraph never appeared. And yet you thought of firing me!”

“I am still considering it,” he muttered.

John Glynde shook his head.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” he expostulated. “You shall have your cheque for the first quarter on the new basis before you leave the building if you like, Miss Erdish.”

“I always thought you were nice,” she confessed, flashing a smile at him. “At first I didn’t think you were at all the sort of man to be secretary to Warren Rand, but I’ve changed my mind. I am wondering,” she went on, fastening up her despatch case, “whether it would not be a good plan to take me with you when you go to France, Mr. Rand. It isn’t the French papers who are so inquisitive, but nowadays there are so many English paragraph writers hanging round the Riviera and aching for news, against whom I think you ought to be protected.”

“How the hell do you know I’m going to France?” he demanded.

“Of course you’re going there,” she rejoined. “They’re breaking up at Geneva almost at once. I shouldn’t be surprised if it were the rumour of your coming which scared them. I don’t know where the others are going, of course, but there are one or two of them bound for the Riviera whom I am sure you will want to see. Of course,” she continued amiably, “I don’t wish to embarrass you when I suggest going with you to France. I could travel with your suite, or alone. I am sure Mr. Glynde here would look after me if I needed any help, or you have a very charming man, whom I’ve seen about once or twice—a Colonel Tellsom—Chief of your Bodyguard, I think. He and I might work together.”

“Speak French?”

“Like a native, and Italian.”

“Well, you can put any idea of foreign travel out of your head for the present,” he told her. “I’m not going to France.”

She smiled.

“I needn’t even be on the same train,” she persisted, “although I am sure I should be useful, if there were any newspaper men about.”

“But I tell you that I’m not going to France,” he repeated.

“Then may I use the motor boat you have sent to Cannes?” she begged innocently.

He glared at her.

“How the devil did you know I had a motor boat at Cannes?”

She was on her way to the door. She looked back over her shoulder.

“I am a publicity agent, as well as a secrecy agent,” she confided.

Warren Rand bit savagely into a cigar and lit it.

“A most unpleasant young woman, that, Glynde,” he pronounced.

The secretary stroked his narrow chin thoughtfully.

“She knows her business,” he remarked.

The buzzer of the telephone marked “Private” on Warren Rand’s desk sounded. John Glynde conversed with an unseen interlocutor for several moments. Then he laid down the receiver and spoke softly to his Chief.

“The Prime Minister wants to know if you’ll dine at the House of Commons at eight o’clock?”

“Silly old ass!” Warren Rand scowled. “What’s the good of my doing that?”

“No good at all in your doing it,” John Glynde agreed, “but a great deal of harm in your refusing. Besides, you may just as well satisfy yourself what his attitude is likely to be.”

“Say you can’t find me, and you’ll ring up in five minutes.”

John Glynde obeyed orders. Warren Rand sat with his hands in his trousers pockets, his thick lips protruding.

“How the devil do you suppose he got to know that I was in England?” he grumbled. “My name wasn’t on the passenger list and we know the Marconigram people were square.”

“You can’t expect impossibilities,” John Glynde told him coolly. “We kept your departure from New York, and your arrival here, out of the newspapers. That was difficult enough. You mustn’t forget, though, that England has still a secret service, and you’re a marked man.”

“I’ll dine with him, hang it!” Warren Rand decided. “He’ll get nothing out of me, and he hasn’t brains enough in his head to say anything worth my hearing. Never mind! I’ll dine with him. My compliments, and I’ll be there at eight o’clock.”