Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 44

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It was two days later, when Consols touched 80, that T.B. Smith gathered in Elk and marched him into the City.

The agitated Committeeman of the Stock Exchange met them in his office and led them to his private room.

“I must tell you the whole story,” he said, after he had carefully shut and locked the door. “Last Wednesday, the market still rising and a genuine boom in sight, Mogseys — they’re the biggest firm of brokers in the city — got a wire from their Paris agents, which was to this effect: ‘Sell Consols down to 80.’ They were standing then at 90, and were on the up grade. Immediately following the wire, and before it could be confirmed, came another instruction in which they were told to sell some gilt-edged stocks — this was on a rising market, too — down to prices specified. I have seen the list, and taking the prices as they stood on Wednesday morning and the price they stand at today, the difference is enormous — something like three millions.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that the unknown bears have pocketed that amount. Well, Mogseys were paralyzed at the magnitude of the order, and cabled away to their agent asking for particulars, and were equally dumbfounded to learn that they were acting on behalf of the Credit Bourbonaise, one of the biggest banks in the South of France. There was nothing else to do but to carry out the order, and on Thursday morning they had hammered stocks down ten points — stocks that have never fluctuated five points each way in mortal memory!”

The Committeeman, speaking in tones of reverence of these imperturbable securities, mopped his forehead with a tumultuous bandana.

“Now,” he resumed, “we know all the bears throughout all the world. The biggest of ’em is dead. That was George T. Baggin, one of the most daring and unscrupulous operators we have ever had in London. We know every man or woman or corporation likely to jump on to the market with both feet and set it snagging — but there isn’t a single known bear who has a hand in this.

We’ve tried to discover his identity, but we’ve always come up against a blank wall — the bank. The bank can’t give away its client, and even if it did, I doubt very much whether we should be any the wiser, for he’s pretty sure to have hidden himself too deep. “We’d probably find the bank was instructed by a broker, and the broker by another bank, and we’d be as far off a solution as ever.”

“Is there any cause for the present break!”

“I’m coming to that. In all previous slumps there has been a very good excuse for a panic hanging round. In the present instance no such excuse exists. There is a good feeling abroad, money is free and the Bank Eate is low, and the recent spurt in Kaffirs and Yankee rails has put a good heart into the market — why, even Bronte’s have dealt!”

He mentioned the name of the great bank, which in the City of London, ranks only second to the Bank of England.

“I don’t know exactly the details of their dealing, but it is pretty generally known in the City that they have increased their commitments, and when a conservative house like Bronte’s take advantage of a spell of prosperity, you may be sure that peace is in the very air we breathe.”

T.B. Smith was thoughtfully rolling a glass paperweight up and down a blottingpad, and Elk was regarding the ceiling with an air of pained resignation.

Neither of the two spoke when the Committeeman finished his recital, or when he looked from one to the other, secretly disappointed that two men of whom he expected so much should be so little perturbed, indeed, so little interested, by his story. He waited a little longer for them to offer some remark, and, finding that neither had any comment to make, he asked a little impatiently —

“Well!”

T.B. roused himself from his reverie, and Elk brought his gaze to earth.

“Would you mind telling me the names of the stocks again?” asked T.B., “the stocks that are being attacked.”

The member recited a list.

“Um!” said the Commissioner thoughtfully. “Industrials, breweries, manufactories — the very shares that enjoyed the boom and are now undergoing the slump!

“Will you give me a Stock Exchange Yearbook!”

“Certainly.”

He unlocked the door and went out, reappearing shortly with a fat brown volume.

T.B. turned the pages of the book with quick, nervous fingers, consulting the list at his side from time to time.

“Thank you,” he said at length, pushing the book from him and rising.

“Have you any idea — ?” the broker began, and T.B. laughed.

“You nearly said ‘clue,’” he smiled; “yes, I’ve lots of ideas — I’m just going to work one of them out.”

He bowed slightly and the two detectives left the building together.

At the corner of Threadneedle Street he bought an evening paper.

“Issued at 4:10,” he said, glancing at the “fudge” space, where the result of a race had been printed, “and nothing has happened.”

He hailed a passing cab and the two men got in.

“Bronte’s Bank, Holborn,” was the direction he gave.

“Like the immortal Mrs. Harris, there ain’t no Bronte, as you know,” he said. “The head of the business is Sir George Calliper. He’s an austere young man of thirty-five or thereabouts. President of philosophical societies and patron of innumerable philanthropies.”

“Has no vices,” added Elk.

“And therefore a little inhuman,” commented T.B. “Here we are.”

They drew up before the severe fagade of Bronte’s, and dismissed the cab.

The bank was closed, but there was a side door — if, indeed, such an insignificant title could be applied to the magnificent portal of mahogany and brass — and a bell, which was answered by a uniformed porter.

“The bank is closed, gentlemen,” he said when T.B. had stated his errand.

“My business is very urgent,” said T.B. imperatively, and the man hesitated.

“I am afraid Sir George has left the building,” he said, “but if you will give me your cards I will see.”

T.B. Smith drew a card from his case. He also produced a tiny envelope, in which he inserted the card.

A few minutes later the messenger returned.

“Sir George will see you,” he said, and ushered them into an anteroom. “Just a moment, gentlemen, Sir George is engaged.”

Ten minutes passed before he came again. Then he reappeared, and they followed him along a marble-tiled corridor to the sanctum of the great man.

It was a large room, solidly and comfortably furnished and thickly carpeted. The only ornamentation was the beautifully carved mantel, over which hung the portrait of Septimus Bronte, who, in 1743, had founded the institution which bore his name.

Sir George Calliper rose to meet them.

He was a tall young man with sandy hair and a high, bald forehead. From his square-toed boots to his black satin cravat he was commercial solidity personified. T.B. noted the black ribbon watchguard, the heavy, dull gold signet-ring, the immaculately manicured nails, the dangling, black-rimmed monocle, and catalogued his observations for future reference. Elk, who saw with another eye and from a different point of view, mentally recorded a rosebud on the carpet and a handkerchief.

“Now, what can I do for you?” asked Sir George; he picked up the card from the desk and refreshed his memory.

“We’re very sorry to trouble you,” began T.B. conventionally, but the baronet waved the apology aside.

“I gather you have not come to see me out of office hours without cause,” he said, and his tone rather suggested that it would be unpleasant even for an Assistant-Commissioner, if he had.

“No, but I’ve come to make myself a nuisance — I want to ask you questions,” said T.B. coolly.

“So long as they are pertinent to the business in hand, I shall have every pleasure in answering,” replied Sir George.

“First and foremost, is there the slightest danger of Bronte’s Bank failing?” asked T.B. Smith calmly.

The audacity of the question struck the baronet dumb.

“Failing?” he repeated, “Bronte’s fail — Mr. Smith, are you jesting?”

“I was never more in earnest,” said T.B. “Think what you like of my impertinence, but humour me, please.”

The banker looked hard at the man before him, as though to detect some evidence of ill-timed humour.

“It is no more possible for Bronte’s to fail, than the Bank of England,” he said brusquely.

-1 1 am not very well acquainted with the practice of banking,” said T.B., “and I should be grateful if you would explain why it is impossible for a bank to fail.”

If Sir George Calliper had been a little less sure of himself, he would have detected the monstrous inaccuracy of T.B.’s confession of ignorance.

“But are you really in earnest?”

“I assure you,” said T.B. seriously, “that I regard this matter as being one of life and death.”

“Well,” said the banker, with a perplexed frown, “I will explain. The solvency of a bank, as of an individual, is merely a matter of assets and liabilities. The liabilities are the elementary debts, deposits, loans, calls, and such like, that are due from the bank to its clients and shareholders. Sometimes the liability takes the form of a guarantee for the performance of certain obligations — that is clear enough?”

T.B. nodded.

“Assets may be represented as gold, Government securities and stock convertible into gold, properties, freehold, leasehold, land; but you know, of course, the exact significance of the word assets?”

T.B. nodded again.

“Well, it is a matter of balance,” said the banker; “allowing a liberal margin for the fluctuation of securities, we endeavour to and succeed in keeping a balance of assets in excess of our liabilities.”

“Do you keep gold in any quantity on the premises? — what would be the result, say, of a successful burglary that cleared your vaults!”

“It would be inconvenient,” said Sir George, with a dry smile, “but it would not be disastrous.”

“What is your greatest outstanding liability?” demanded T.B.

The banker looked at him strangely.

“It is queer that you should ask,” he said slowly, “it was the subject of a discussion at my board meeting this afternoon — it is the Wady Semlik Barrage.”

“The Egyptian irrigation scheme?” asked T.B. quickly.

“Yes, the bank’s liability was very limited until a short time ago. There was always a danger that the physical disabilities of the Soudan would bring about a fiasco. So we farmed our liability, if you understand the phrase. But with the completion of the dam, and the report of our engineer that it had been submitted to the severest test, we curtailed the expensive insurance.”

“When are the works to be handed over to the Egyptian Government?”

Sir George smiled.

“That I cannot tell you,” he said, “it is a secret known only to the directors and myself.”

“But until it is officially handed over, you are liable!”

“Yes, to an extent. As a matter of fact, we shall only be fully liable for one day. For there is a clause in the agreement which binds the Government to accept responsibilities for the work seven days after inspection by the works department, and the bulk of our insurances run on till within twentyfour hours of that date. I will tell you this much: the inspection has taken place, I cannot give you the date — and the fact that it was made earlier than we anticipated is responsible for the cancellation of the insurances.”

“One more question, Sir George,” said T.B. “Suppose, through any cause, the Wady Semlik Barrage broke on that day — the day upon which the bank was completely liable — what would be the effect on Bronte’s?”

A shadow passed over the banker’s face.

“That is a contingency I do not care to contemplate,” he said curtly.

He glanced at his watch.

“I have not asked you to explain your mysterious visit,” he said, with a smile, “and I am afraid I must curb my curiosity, for I have an appointment in ten minutes, as far west as Portland Place. In the meantime, it may interest you to read the bank’s balance-sheet.”

Elk’s vacant eye was on him as he opened a drawer in his desk.

He closed it again hurriedly with a little frown. He opened another drawer and produced a printed sheet. “Here it is,” he said. “Would you care to see me again at ten tomorrow?”

T.B. might have told him that for the next twelve hours the banker would hardly be out of sight for an hour, but he replied —

“I shall be very pleased.”

He had shaken hands with Sir George, and was on his way to the door, when Elk gave a sign which meant “cover my movements,” and T.B. turned again.

“By the way,” he said, pointing to the picture over the fireplace, “that is the Bronte, is it not?”

Sir George turned to the picture.

“Yes,” said he, and then with a smile, “I wonder Mr. Bronte did not fall from his frame at some of your questions.”

T.B. chuckled softly as he followed the uniformed doorkeeper along the ornate corridor.

In a cab being driven rapidly westward, Elk solemnly produced his finds.

“A little rose and a handkerchief,” he said.

T.B. took the last-named article in his hand. It was a delicate piece of flimsiness, all lace and fragrance. Also it was damp,

“Here’s romance,” said T.B., folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. “Somebody has been crying, and I’ll bet it wasn’t our friend the banker.”