Читать книгу The Mixer - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5
II. — THE GREAT GENEVA SWEEPSTAKE
ОглавлениеThe Scallywags
GRAESIDE is a very pleasant house in a very pleasant road in the pleasantest suburb of a North of England town. It may be mentioned in passing that the owner of Graeside suffers from some chronic chest trouble, and spends the greater part of the year in the high Alps. Artistically and even comfortably furnished, with an acre or so of excellent garden, it was the source of some bitterness to its wheezy owner that he found a difficulty in letting Graeside furnished at seven guineas a week.
He confided this much to Mr. Burnstid over an after-luncheon cigar in the lounge of the Hotel Bellevue, at Interlaken. The emptiness and desolation of Graeside, the meanness of prospective hirers of furnished houses, and his asthma were Mr. Ferguson's main themes, and Mr. Burnstid, who had listened drowsily to a long dissertation upon what Dr. This had said and Dr. That had advised, and had taken a yawning interest in the various symptoms of the disease which assailed Mr. Ferguson, woke up suddenly when the virtues of Graeside came to be discussed.
Burnstid was a very stout man, with a large, healthy face and a large, healthy nose. He was always well-dressed and even better than that. He wore across his yellow waistcoat an immense chain of gold, and on his plump fingers sparkled and scintillated the products of Kimberley.
"Nice house, eh?" he asked. "Good neighbourhood, and all that sort of thing?"
"The best," said Mr. Ferguson emphatically.
"In a road or standing by itself," asked Mr. Burnstid, and Mr. Ferguson explained that it was detached, that it was not overlooked, that it had electric light and bathrooms of transcendant beauty, that it was honestly worth ten guineas of anybody's money, and that a spirit of meanness and parsimony had swept over the whole of the North country.
"H'm," said Mr. Burnstid, and sucked at his cigar, looking at the floor through half closed eyelids. "Are you letting this place yourself or have you got an agent? You always ought to have an agent, you know."
"I've got an agent," said the melancholy Ferguson, and gave his name.
At Mr. Burnstid's request, he added the address, and remarked in parenthesis that he was probably the most inefficient agent that any house owner ever had.
Mr. Burnstid grunted, and a little while afterwards went to his room, where his first act was to write down the name of the agent and the place where he was to be found. He did not mention Graeside to Ferguson or show the slightest interest, and when, eight or nine days later, the delighted Mr. Ferguson heard from his agent to the effect that Graeside was let, Burnstid was not at Interlaken to hear the good news, or to receive the congratulations and thanks of Mr. Ferguson, even supposing that Mr. Ferguson had been aware of the
fact that it was due to his stout and amiable companion that the letting had been effected.
Mr. Burnstid had indeed gone across country to Lausanne, and thence by boat to the Lake of Geneva, for he had an appointment with his two partners, also stout men who smoked expensive cigars and were girded with large gold cables.
The meeting took place in an airy office on the Rue du Mont Blanc, and was wholly informal. There were Mr. Epsten and Mr. Cowan present in addition to Mr. Burnstid.
"Well?" was Mr. Epsten's first greeting, and he was apparently a person of some importance. "What's the prospects?"
"The prospects is pretty good," replied Mr. Burnstid, who was superior to the rules that governed the speech of his adopted country. "I am sending three-quarters of a million circulars, and they will all be posted in England. We are certain to get in two hundred thousand from our old clients, the fellows we had for the Cesarewitch sweep, and a lot more besides. I haven't wasted the winter."
"That's good," said Mr. Epsten, nodding. "Then you think the Lincoln sweep is going to be a success?"
"Think?" scoffed the other. "I know. It will be like shelling peas. We ought to get in at least £100,000."
"What prizes are you offering?" asked Mr. Cowan.
"First prize £20,000," said Burnstid promptly. "Wait a bit. I'll give you the full particulars." He took from his pocket a slip of paper, adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and looked down his nose at the document. "First prize, £20,000," he read. "Second, £10,000; third, £5,000; fourth, £1,000; ten consolation prizes of £600, and £500 for every other horse drawn."
Mr. Cowan nodded, satisfied.
"That ought to bring 'em in," he said, "but wouldn't it be well to make the first prize £40,000?"
Burnstid shook his head.
"You'd scare 'em at £40,000," he said. "£20,000 is a reasonable sum. You see, the public argue this way:—They think we are making a bit out of it, and they don't mind so long as it isn't too much. If we offered £40,000, they would smell a fake, because the people who go in for sweepstakes know very well that there ain't a great deal of money going for the Lincolnshire Handicap, anyway. No, we want to put a reasonable prize list out, and I think this will do."
"That's all right," said Epsten. "Now what about money for preliminary expenses?"
"I reckon it will cost £10,000," said Burnstid, "not reckoning my own personal expenses, if I am going to stay to work it as I did last year. I'll put up £2,000, and you two others put up £4,000 each, and we'll split three ways."
There was some argument as to this division, because it was not in the nature of either Mr. Epsten or Mr. Cowan to agree readily to any proposal which involved the putting down of hard cash, but eventually the agreement was made.
"What about a staff?"
"I've got that fixed," said Mr. Burnstid. "In fact, I have been very lucky. I have taken the old war society offices at a reasonable figure, and I have engaged a bright young man to run the whole thing."
"A bright young man?" said Mr. Epsten suspiciously. "Where did you get him?"
"He's a young British officer, very well connected, by all accounts," explained Mr. Burnstid, "very smart, and willing to do anything. He speaks French, German, and English, and he is well in with the authorities here. I am going to fix it up so that if any trouble comes he will be the mug."
Mr. Epsten smiled and Mr. Cowan smiled, and Mr. Burnstid smiled in sympathy.
"Is he straight?" asked the virtuous Mr. Epsten. "We don't want any crooks in this business, you know, Burnie. I mean, suppose he finds out that none of the big prizes are paid?"
"Leave that to me," said Mr. Burnstid with confidence. "I tell you, this lad will do anything for £1,000, and, besides, I can always fake the draw; and, in fact, I have made arrangements already for the awarding of the first prize."
He did not explain what the arrangements were until later, but his companions were satisfied.
They left that night for Paris, leaving Mr. Burnstid to carry out his plans. Mr. Burnstid did not exaggerate the qualities of the young gentleman whose services he had secured. They had met one day on the boat to Ouchy, and Mr. Burnstid, who never lost an opportunity, nor failed to diagnose the financial conditions of those with whom he was brought into contact, had, as he was subsequently satisfied, accurately placed the bright and talkative young man whom he met in the smoking-room of the boat.
He saw his friends off from the station, and then went to the little Café du Planet, where he had arranged to meet his new assistant. The new assistant was sitting disconsolately gazing at an empty coffee cup, but brightened up at the sight of his new patron.
"It's all right, Stevens," said Mr. Burnstid jovially. "I've fixed up your job with my partners."
"Oh, I say," said the grateful young man, "that is really awfully jolly of you. You are most kind. Really, you are a perfectly dear old thing."
"Not so old," growled Mr. Burnstid, with whom age was a sore point. "Now, you understand I am putting a lot of confidence in you. This business of ours is not exactly—er—business."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Stevens chirpily. "I think you're a deuced good sportsman, and don't worry about my conscience because I haven't one. After a fellow has been serving his country in the trenches, and all that sort of thing, and has killed a few hairy Boches, he has not many scruples left. I suppose you haven't a son?"
"I have," said Mr. Burnstid enthusiastically, "one of the brightest boys in the old country. He is about your age."
"What was he in?" asked the interested young officer.
"Well, he wasn't in anything," said Mr. Burnstid carefully. "He was too valuable a life to risk, if you understand."
"Quite," nodded the young man. "There are people like that."
"He was in the Ministry of Munitions and he did very well indeed, though, of course, the air raids knocked him over a bit."
"I see." Again the young man nodded. "Now, let's hear what I've got to do."
Mr. Burnstid told him. Apparently Stevens had to do nothing but to sit in a luxurious office and keep an eye upon innumerable other men and women who were opening envelopes containing currency, which would be sent from Britain by even larger numbers of other young men and women, desirous of getting rich quick by drawing the winner of the Lincolnshire Handicap.
"You will take charge of all the money and be boss. If anybody comes and wants to know who is running it, remember it is you. You will sign all the cheques."
The young man purred.
"After I have initialled them," said Mr. Burnstid. "I have arranged with the bank manager that no cheques will be cashed unless my initials are on the left-hand corner."
"Very proper, very proper," said the young man.
"Now you understand"—here Mr. Burnstid became more careful than ever, and spoke slowly and with emphasis—"that it often happens that we do not get in enough money to pay the big prizes. In that case the prizes are reduced. That's fair, isn't it?"
Stevens agreed.
"And sometimes," explained Mr. Burnstid further, "even when there is a lot of money the expenses are so heavy that we have to knock off the first prize to pay our way."
"I see," said Stevens thoughtfully.
"When I say knock off the first prize," said Mr. Burnstid. "I do not mean that we go and tell the people that we have had to knock off the first prize. We award as though we hadn't knocked it off, if you understand."
"That's a jolly good idea," approved Stevens. "I suppose the poor josser who gets it doesn't get it at all. Is that the scheme?"
"Not quite, not quite," Burnstid rubbed his nose and hesitated. "Well, you have got to know this, as you are in the game, and you are going to draw £1,000 —a whole thousand Jimmy O'Goblins—as your share of the—"
"Loot?" suggested Mr. Stevens.
"That's the word, loot. We may have to plant somebody to take the first prize. You see, strictly speaking, the draw occurs the day before the race, and the holders of the various horses are advertised. Well, you can't do that, because if you planted a man with the favourite, the favourite might lose. So what we do is to announce the names of the people who have drawn the horses after the day of the race and then the thing is simple."
"Simplicity itself. My dear fellow, I understand the business quite well. What you mean to say is that we are running a commercial concern, and we cannot afford to take uncommercial risks, ha! ha!"
Burnstid smiled in sympathy.
"Now," Mr. Burnstid continued. "I have taken a house called Graeside, in the North of England. I am going to get somebody I can trust to live there till the draw. I need hardly tell you that the first prize is going to the tenant at Graeside. If inquiries are made there, he will be as large as life, ready to answer any questions. Now, I am sending my son, Barney, there. Nobody knows that I am connected with this —this—"
"Swindle?" suggested the other innocently, and Mr. Burnstid frowned.
"That is not the word," he said sharply; "enterprise is a better one. Anyway, he will be there. Now you know the whole run of the game. If we have a very successful sweep, I'll give you a little more than the thousand for the season—you will find me pretty generous. If there is any kind of trouble, don't forget that you are the man in charge, and you have got to take whatever medicine is coming to you. That is why I am paying you so high."
The young man known as Stevens light-heartedly brushed aside the possibility of there being any trouble. If there was, he was quite prepared for all eventualities.
For the next few weeks Mr. Burnstid lived a contented life. He saw his office coming into shape, and was more than satisfied with the adept way in which this young man handled his staff. The sweep had been well advertised, and the fruits of the circulars were beginning to appear. The stream of money orders and postal orders and bank notes—the promoters of the Great Geneva Sweepstake accepted no cheque— grew in volume, but never in the busiest time was Mr. Stevens snowed under. Then, when all things were looking serene, a blow fell.
One day Stevens was summoned to the Bellevue Hotel, and found his employer pacing the ante-room of his elegant suite.
"Here's a pretty mess," he said. "Somebody in England has discovered that Barney is my son, and has advertised the fact—and after Barney had moved into Graeside with his wife!"
"That's pretty bad. You can't award him the prize now."
Mr. Burnstid did not answer. He was completely occupied in cursing the interfering busybodies on the newspaper press of Britain, who had stuck their noses into business which did not, from his point of view, concern them.
"This is pretty bad, pretty bad," he said, shaking his head. "It's too late to plant another winner."
"What are you going to do?" asked Stevens.
"Well," said Mr. Burnstid, controlling himself with an effort. "My partner, Mr. Cowan, has got a plan and it is a very good idea, too. Have you ever heard, of The Mixer?"
"The Mixer?" asked Stevens with a smile. "I've heard of more than one."
"I'm talking about the famous one," said Mr. Burnstid impatiently. "There was a bit in the paper about him. He fooled a crook in London, and pinched his money."
Stevens shook his head.
"No. What is he?"
"Well, according to the newspaper," said Mr. Burnstid, "he is an officer who is out on the make. He is getting rich by robbing crooks—not," he added, virtuously, "that crooks shouldn't be robbed. I think it is a very good idea. People who steal money don't deserve to keep it."
"Well, where does The Mixer come in?" asked Stevens.
"Sit down and I'll tell you."
Stevens took a seat in a big bow window overlooking the lake, and Mr. Burnstid let himself carefully into another chair.
"Suppose after the draw me and you go to London with all the stuff we have collected in a bag?"
"Stuff? You mean money?"
Mr. Burnstid nodded.
"And suppose between Folkestone and London the bag's pinched by The Mixer?"
"Not being pinched at all, but being planted by us at Folkestone or somewhere?"
"That's the idea," said the admiring Mr. Burnstid. "My word, you have got a brain! And suppose we put it out that The Mixer has taken it, and left a note to that effect, and then me and my partners offer to pay out half the prizes out of our own pockets?"
"Talking of brains," said Mr. Stevens, no less admiringly. "What a head you've got!"
"You see," said the flattered Burnstid, "that wouldn't be a bad advertisement for the next sweep. Shows our honesty, and all that sort of thing, and at the same time saves us a matter of about £50,000, which ain't to be sneezed at. To make it more proper, we will have the press over to see the draw."
"And to make things more lifelike," chuckled Mr. Stevens, "what about getting a couple of detectives from London to accompany us on our way. I know a man who is in that business, and he could supply us with a couple of guards."
To this suggestion Mr. Burnstid at first demurred, but eventually consented, and things fell out as they had planned. There was a draw, conducted with great solemnity, in the presence of representatives of the sporting press. There were two solemn young men brought from London by Mr. Stevens, who guarded the treasure, and after the press men had been sent on their way rejoicing, and announcements had been sent on to London to the effect that the money would be distributed in person by the promoter, Burnstid, his assistant, and the two detectives boarded a through train from Basle to Boulogne.
"To minimise the risk," said Mr. Stevens in retailing his plan to the last of the pressmen.
The scheme as the two had arranged it was simple. The big bag containing the money was to be handed to one of the partners on their arrival at Folkestone, who would give in return a bag of similar size containing old newspapers, and who would make his way into the town and on to London by motor car. The boat came into Folkestone harbour at dusk. There was certain to be a great deal of confusion at passengers' landing, and, anyway, Stevens undertook to allay the suspicions of the detectives.
Everything went without a hitch except that one of the detectives was so overcome by seasickness that he could not come on from Folkestone. Outside Charing Cross Station Mr. Burnstid opened the bag in the presence of the remaining detective, and, with a simulation of horror, which was very well done, discovered the substitute.
"We have been robbed, robbed!" he said. "Look!"
He drew out a card from the top of the bag inscribed:
"With compliments and thanks.—The Mixer."
"This is terrible," moaned Mr. Burnstid.
"This is horrible," moaned Mr. Stevens.
There was a small crowd of reporters waiting at Charing Cross Station, for the arrival of a gentleman with £100,000 in bank notes and postal orders was, in the romantic circumstances, an event. To these Mr. Burnstid unfolded his terrible tale of pillage, and the faces of some of the prize winners who had gathered to get as near to their money as was possible fell in ratio to their hopes.
"But," said Mr. Burnstid, addressing his small audience in a voice broken with emotion. "I am not going to let the prize winners lose. Out of my own pocket I am going to pay fifty per cent, of the money due, and you gentlemen of the press can take that as official."
They got to their hotel, and, locked in their private sitting-room, Mr. Stevens and Mr. Burnstid exchanged happy smiles.
"That's all right," said Burnstid. "They took it very well, and it's a good ad. for me, old man." He looked at his watch. "In a couple of hours I'll stroll across to Ealing. Cowan will be there with the money."
On his arrival at Mr. Cowan's beautiful dwelling, the latter gentleman greeted his partner on the doorstep with a look of surprise.
"Have you got that bag?" asked Burnstid without ceremony.
"Bag?" roared Cowan. "You telegraphed me not to meet you until the next day."
"What!" yelled the other. "You weren't at Folkestone station?"
"Of course I wasn't," said Cowan. "I tell you, you telegraphed me—"
But Burnstid was making tracks for his taxi, and a second later was being whirled back to his hotel, for he had a few questions to ask Mr. Stevens.
But Stevens, who was called Anthony by those who knew him, was at that moment in company with one of the two pseudo detectives, sorting the ill-gotten gains of Mr. Burnstid. The Mixer, with the aid of the gentle Paul, and Sandy, his most trusty valet, had turned the pious fraud of the Great Geneva Sweepstake promoters into reality.
"Paul," he said, "you count the tenners; I'll make a heap of the money orders—I'll send them on to old man Burnstid. They don't amount to much, anyway, but they will help to pay that fifty per cent, which he has promised—officially!"