Читать книгу Captains of Souls - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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BERYL MERVILLE told herself, at least once a day, that the average girl did not give two thoughts about the source of her father's income. In her case, there was less reason why she should trouble her head. Dr. Merville had retired from practice four years before. In his time, he was what is loosely described as 'a fashionable physician' and certainly was regarded as one of the first authorities of cardiac diseases in the country. His practice, as a consultant, was an extensive one, and his fees were exceptionally high, even for a fashionable physician. When he retired he was indubitably a rich man. He sold his house in Devonshire Street and bought a more pretentious home in Park Place, but...

The zest for speculation, repressed during the time he was following his profession, had occupied the hours of leisure which retirement brought to him. An active man, well under sixty, the emptiness of his days after he had turned over his work filled him with dismay. He had broken violently from the routine of twenty-five years and found time the heaviest of the burdens he had ever carried. He tried to find interests and failed. He was under an agreement to the doctor who had purchased his practice not to return to his profession, or he would have been back in Devonshire Street a month after he had left. He bought a few thoroughbreds and sent them to a trainer, but he had no love for the Turf, and although he won a few respectable stakes, he quitted the game at the end of the first season.

Then he tried the stock market, made a few thousands in oil and grew more interested. A rubber speculation hurt him, but not so much that his enthusiasm was damped or his bank balance was seriously affected. He followed this loss with what might have been a disastrous investment in South African Mines. Then, at a nerve-wracking moment, came Steppe, who held up the market and let out Merville, bruised and shaken, but not ruinously so. Here might have ended the speculative career of Dr. Merville, had he not been under an obligation to the South African. Within a month of their meeting, the doctor's name appeared on the prospectus of one of Steppe's companies—a mild and unromantic Cold Storage flotation which was a success in every sense.

Merville had many friends in Society; people who might look askance at the name of Jan Steppe, and be disturbed by the recollection of certain other companies which that gentleman had floated, accepted Dr. Merville's directorship as evidence of the company's stability and financial soundness. The issue was over-subscribed and paid a dividend from the first year.

This object lesson was not lost upon the big man. He followed the promotion with another. The East Rand Consolidated Deep was floated for three-quarters of a million. Applications came in for two millions. Dr. Merville was chairman of the board. Even Jan Steppe was surprised. Large as was the circle of Merville's acquaintances, neither his personal popularity nor his standing as a financial authority could account for this overwhelming success. Merville himself discounted his own influence, not realizing that in the twenty-five years of professional life he had built up a national reputation. His name had been a household word since his treatment of a foreign royalty whose case had been regarded by native physicians as hopeless. This may not have been a complete explanation; probably the fact that the stock in the Cold Storage Company stood at a premium had something to do with the rush for Consolidated Deeps.

The new company did not pay dividends, but long before the first was due, Mr. Steppe had launched two others. On paper Dr. Merville made a fortune; actually, he acquired heavy liabilities, not the least of which was his heavy participation in a private flotation which Mr. Steppe, with unconscious humour, labelled 'The Investment Salvage Syndicate'. It was a stock-holding company and in the main it held such stock as a general public declined to purchase.

There are rules of behaviour which normal people do not transgress. A gentleman does not search the overcoat pockets of his fellow club-men, and confiscate such valuables as he may find; nor does he steal into the houses of people he does not know and remove their silver. A corporation man has a less rigid code. Dr. Merville found himself consciously assisting in the manipulation of a stock, a manipulation which could only be intended to deprive stockholders of their legitimate rights. There was one unpleasant moment of doubt and shame when Merville sought to disentangle his individuality from this corporative existence. He tried to think singly, applying the tests which had governed his life...he found it easier to divide his responsibility. Somehow he felt less venal when only a fourteenth of the blame attached to him. This fraction represented his holding in Consolidated Deeps.

Wealth is an effective narcotic. Rich and fearless men can find a melancholy pleasure in the contemplation of their past sins. But poverty and the danger of poverty acts as a microphone through the medium of which the still small voice of conscience is a savage roar. Beryl thought he was unusually nervous when she went to find him in his study. He started at the sound of her voice. "Ready...yes, dear. What time did Steppe say?"

"Eight o'clock. We have plenty of time, father—the car isn't here yet. Do you know whether Ronnie will be there?"

Dr. Merville was looking abstractedly at her; his mind, she knew, was very far away. "Ronnie? I don't know. John Maxton will be there. I saw him today. Steppe admires him and John is clever; he will be a judge one of these days. Yes...a judge." The little grimace he made was involuntary.

"One would think you expected to meet him in his official capacity," she laughed.

"Absurd, of course...as to Ronnie? How do you feel about him, Beryl?"

The maid tapped at the door to say the car had arrived. Beryl answered: "Do you mean—? I don't quite know what you do mean."

"About the scandal. Do you remember a man who came to see you—why he should have come to you, I don't know—with a story about his sister?"

"East was the name. Yes, Ronnie told me all about it. The man is a blackmailer and his sister was not much better. Ronnie had shown a kindness to the girl, he met her at some...some mission or other. Ronnie does queer things like that...and he gave her some money to go on a holiday. That was all."

"Humph...ready?"

"But, daddy, don't you believe Ronnie?" She was desperately anxious to consolidate her own faith.

"I don't know. Ronnie is a queer fellow." He was ready to go, his overcoat was over his arm, and yet he lingered. She guessed he would say something more about Ronald Morelle and was stiffening to defend him, but she was mistaken. "Beryl, you are twenty-two and very beautiful. I may be biased, but I hardly think I am. I have seen many lovely women in my life and you could hold your own with any of them. Do you ever think of getting married?"

She tried hard to control herself, but the colour in her face deepened and faded. "I haven't thought much about it," she said. "There are two parties to a marriage, daddy."

"Are you fond of anybody? I mean are you, in your heart...committed to any man?"

A pause, then: "No."

"I'm glad," said her father, relieved. "Very glad...you must look for something in a man which fellows like Ronnie Morelle can never give to a woman...power, fortune, mental strength and stability...come along."

She followed him to the car, dumb with astonishment, but not at that moment apprehensive. She knew that he had been talking of Jan Steppe.