Читать книгу The Twister - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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Mr. Elk of Scotland Yard was the only detective known to fame who had ever permitted himself to be mysterious. And there was no circumstance about Mr. Elk's life that was more mysterious than the quality of lodgers who drifted to the house where he had his residence. Thieves, decayed noblemen, confidence men, and once a murderer, had slept under that interesting roof in the Gray's Inn Road. And now Tony Braid heard, dumbfounded, that a mysterious drunken somebody who knew all about Lulanga oil wells shared quarters with Mr. Elk. And just then Lulanga Oils was a subject that occupied his mind to the exclusion of all others.

To Ursula Frensham the topic of a possibly intoxicated authority upon Lulanga Oils was not especially fascinating. But this lank man with the lined face and the twinkling eyes was a figure of romance.

"He's a nice fellow, this Colburn," Elk was drawling. "Nothing mean about the man—a prince. Smokes cigars that a gentleman can smoke, has got a bit of money, and will get more when these shares go up." He looked at Tony quizzically. "I thought of seeing you about these oil shares. You gentlemen in the city could tip me off, and I'd just as soon make money out of stocks and shares as I would out of honest work. Sooner, as a matter of fact."

"Could you bring him down to Ascot?" asked Tony, lowering his voice.

Mr. Elk scratched his neck and thought he might.

As they were proceeding on their way—"What startled you so terribly about—what's the name of the stock—Lulanga?" asked Ursula.

"Nothing very much, only I'm rather interested in the operations of that company."

"Isn't that one of Julian's?" she asked, suddenly remembering. "Of course: and Uncle has a tremendous number of shares; he's been rather worried about them."

Mr. Braid made no reply.

She dropped him at Clarence Gate, a little mystified by his silence, more surprised when, at parting, he asked her not to speak to her uncle of the meeting with Elk.

He made his way to his little house in Park Street, which was both home and office, for in truth, though he had much business in the city, it was conducted from his home address, and the modest suite he rented near the Mansion House was very seldom honoured by his presence.

The moment he got into his study he took up the telephone and called the office and gave instructions as fast as the stenographer at the other end of the wire could write them down. Within a few minutes of ringing off he had dismissed Lulanga Oils and Julian Reef from his mind and was immersed in the study of the Racing Calendar.

Mr. Julian Reef would have given a great deal for the Twister's gift of detachment.

If you asked the average reputable man of affairs in the city of London who was the shrewdest of the younger financiers he would have answered a little vaguely that he supposed it was that fellow in Drapers' Gardens—what was his name again? Ah, yes, Reef—Julian Reef. There was a coterie that would have replied without reluctance, and enthusiastically, for he was very popular with a certain set.

They would have pointed with pride to his flotation of Kopje Deeps, to his daring currency deals, to that flutter in tin which nearly fluttered three old-established firms into the bankruptcy court. Only they had reserves. The consequence of that flutter was that Julian was caught short and was within an ace of crying "good-morning" to a registrar in bankruptcy.

There were suave and weighty men of finance who watched Julian's meteoric rise with a certain amused interest.

"He will become a millionaire, but he will never be Lord Mayor of London," said one of these cryptically. Once Mr. Reef brought to a great house a proposition that had every promise of a cast-iron profit. The head of the house was polite but negative.

"But, my dear Mr. Ashlein, this is gilt-edged!" protested Julian.

The wise old Jew smiled.

"It does not stop at the edge, Mr. Reef," he said genially. "We could not participate without being under an obligation to you and associating our house with your future enterprises. We are—um—a little conservative."

It was the first and only time that Julian ever attempted to mix the new wine with the old: he was clever enough to realize his tactical error. It was a mistake to court the old houses; it was, he discovered, a greater error to despise the new.

Not that one would describe Mr. Anthony Braid as a financial power, new or old. He had his humble suite of offices in Lothbury and controlled a number of obscure diamond syndicates which from Julian's point of view were wholly unimportant. In the city he was regarded less as a financier than an authority on the sport of horse racing. Except by those city folk who had met him in Johannesburg.

Julian came straight to his office after his unpleasant encounter with the man he hated most in the world, and Mr. Rex Guelder met him on the threshold of his private room.

Mr. Guelder was stout and shabby and spectacled. He was a native of Holland, a country which for some curious reason he never visited. He had a round, fat, rather stupid-looking face, with protruding eyes and parted lips; his hair stood stiffly erect, and his careless attire was common talk in the city.

He greeted Julian familiarly and as an equal, almost pushed him into his private office, and closed the door with a bang.

"Ah, my frient, I will tell you something amusing. Your ridiculous Lulangas, they rise again—three sixteenths—a quarter."

He spoke English with a certain ponderous correctness, though his speech was thick, and he had a habit of rolling his r's.

"Bad luck," said Julian ironically. "I sold eight thousand this morning; they ought to have fallen two points."

Mr. Guelder shrugged his shoulders and beamed.

"Does it matter—anything?" he asked. "These things are so small, so unimportant." He waved Lulanga Oils out of existence with a contemptuous gesture. "The new crucible has come and will soon be put up! Also the electric furnace from Sollingen. In six weeks we shall have the new installation, and this morning the stones have come from Amsterdam!"

He opened the safe in a corner of the room, took out a wash-leather bag, and carefully guiding the stones through his hand poured out the contents on Julian's blotting pad. Nearly a hundred cut diamonds flashed back a thousand rays in the sunlight. There were big yellow diamonds, and diamonds that were so dullishly red as to be almost the colour of rubies, and diamonds of a faint greenish tint; but never one that was white.

"What did they cost?" frowned Julian.

Mr. Guelder smiled broadly.

"Fleabitings," he said. "Fifteen thousand pounds. On account I have paid t'ree. Eight houses have collected them from here, there, and everywhere. Their values who shall know? For us, my dear Julian, millions certainly. Not because we shall sell them, as I have often told you, but because——" He tapped the side of his nose and winked.

"Put them away." Mr. Reef was a little irritable this morning. "Why have Lulangas risen a quarter? I wonder if somebody is trying to catch me short?"

Mr. Rex Guelder spread out his plump hands.

"I do not know," he said. "What does it matter? Why bozzer with these oil shares, my dear Julian? You make a few thousand here and a few thousand there, but it is playing with money when you should reserve every centimo for the great coup!"

Julian Reef shifted impatiently in his chair.

"But is it so much of a great coup, Rex?" he asked. "Of course, I realize that you're a deuced clever chemist and a genius at this sort of thing, but I suppose you know that we've spent fifty thousand pounds already? If anybody had told me ten years ago that I should be looking for the philosopher's stone——"

"Philosopher's stone!" snorted the other. "Poof!" He snapped his fingers derisively. "You disparage me, Julian; you disparage my genius; you disparage science! You shall see!"

He scooped the stones carefully to the edge of the table with one hand and into the mouth of the bag which he held open with the other, gave the leather a twist, and replaced the bag in the safe. Then quickly—"What has happened?"

Julian was nursing his jaw.

"That swine hit me when I had my back turned to him," he growled.

Mr. Rex Guelder pursed his thick lips.

"There are so many swines in this city. Was it the twisting one?"

"It was the Twister all right," snapped Julian, "and one of these days I'll give him a twist that'll leave him permanently crooked!"

He saw the slow smile dawn on the fat face of the Dutchman.

"What's the joke?" he asked.

"My frient, it is a very great joke. This morning I was talking mit—mit Jollybell—and we spoke of the twisting one. In what do you think his money is invested—what but diamonds? De Vere's, Ramier's, Orange River."

He doubled up with silent laughter, and a new expression came into Julian Reef's eyes.

"By gad—I wonder!" he said, half to himself. "If this thing were only sure! God! If I could catch him! And I will!"

A deeper shade came to his face—in his eyes burned the fire of a fanatic.

"Listen, Rex—I came to the city to make millions—not thousands. I know what it is to be poor—I am stopping short of nothing to avoid that! I don't care how I get money, or who suffers—I'm going to be rich! I'll have my villa at Cap Martin and my house in the country and my yacht in Southampton waters. I'll have a stable of horses, though I loathe racing—I'll have a house in Park Lane and a garage of cars. And my wife shall wear the jewels of a princess. Money! It's the only damn' thing that counts. They can have everything else—I'll buy it from 'em!"

"If you are careful," murmured Guelder.

"Careful! I've got to take risks. Where does all the money come from—the money we've spent on experiment? Out of trading? Careful! I'll take the gallows in my stride, but I'll have so much money that I'll make this twisting hound look like a pauper. He hit me to-day, Rex! Do you think I'll forget it? I'll break him—smash him. He'll be like those fellers hanging round the curb. With a seedy old hat and a seedy old coat, shiny at the elbows. Grinning at me and asking me for a tip. And I'll spit at him!" His face had gone from red to white in the intensity of his rage and jubilant anticipation. Professor Rex Guelder, sometime of Leyden University, stared at him owlishly.

"Goot boy!" he rumbled. "Dat's—that's the stuff. Millions, eh? Tens of millions! First the organization. Then the coup. Then all your enemies unter foot, eh? But for the moment——"

He slipped a sheet of paper toward his friend and employer.

"Sixteen t'ousand pounds fife shillin's an' threepence—differences. You must pay to-day or——" He snapped his stubby fingers.

Julian was instantly sobered.

"As much as that?"

Mr. Guelder nodded.

"And we are oferdrawn mit—with der bank! Also they ask 'What about it?' We must get some money, but we must keep our credit. If not, of what availing is the grand coup?"

"Sixteen thousand pounds?"

Julian looked at the other blankly. There still remained of Ursula Frensham's fortune twenty thousand pounds' worth of salable stock. That would have to go the way of the rest.

He went to the safe and took out a long envelope.

"Sell these and put some Vaal Power Syndicate shares in their place."

Rex went to the telephone and gave instructions. The reply had come through an hour later confirming the sale of the shares, when a clerk entered the office, and behind him walked Lord Frensham.

"This is an unexpected honour," smiled Julian.

Lord Frensham sat down heavily in the nearest chair and looked at the Dutchman, who thought this an opportune moment to make himself scarce.

Even after Guelder's departure the visitor found a difficulty in offering his proposal.

"Julian, since you left I had a chat on the 'phone with a friend of mine."

Julian Reef's heart almost stopped beating. He knew just what was coming.

"And, Julian, I've decided after all that those shares of Ursula's ought to be with her banker. Can I take them away with me?"