Читать книгу Men of Affairs - Roland Pertwee - Страница 9

The meeting of the directors had been arranged to take place at Lord Almont Frayne's house in Park Lane. Nugent Cassis was first to arrive. It was part of his scheme of life to be five minutes early for appointments. He nodded to the man-servant, crossed to the fire and rubbed his thin hands before it.

"I expect his lordship will be down directly," said the servant.

"Do you?" said Cassis and that was all.

A precise, erect, parchmentlike person was Nugent Cassis, entirely colourless in himself and his outlook. The emotions of life never for an instant affected him. He was apparently insensible to pain, passion, triumph and disaster. His brain worked at one unvarying speed with clocklike regularity. He was always efficient, he was never inspired. He believed in himself and his judgments and doubted everyone else and their judgments. He was a machine, self-contrived, for the purpose of making money, which he had no capacity for spending. He could carry in his head the entire overnight market quotations and invariably did so. He seldom made a mistake and never admitted the mistakes he made. His transactions were honest because his knowledge of the law was unrivalled and he knew to a hair how close to the wind a man might sail. As he never wasted a moment he occupied the time of waiting, in ringing up his broker and firing a barrage of instructions. This done he returned to the fireplace, consulted his own watch, corrected the mantelpiece clock which was a minute and a half slow, sniffed critically and proceeded to warm his hands again. There was nothing spontaneous in the action, warming his hands was as much a part of his daily programme as reading the Financial Times, the two minutes he spent lying flat on his back after lunch, or the single round of golf which he played every third Sunday throughout the year.

The clock was striking eleven when Mr. Hilbert Torrington, a bent, bald, clean shaven man of eighty years, entered on the arm of the servant. Mr. Torrington, his age claims the prefix, was a different type to Cassis. He possessed a pair of blue eyes that might have belonged to a child and the expression of his face, a face threaded with a thousand wrinkles, was sweet and calm. People who saw him but had no intimate knowledge of his powers, marvelled that this frail, kindly, stooping old man, with his look of innocence that was almost sublime, could in reality be a giant in the world of money. Such was the case. Mr. Hilbert Torrington had his fingers on the financial pulse of the world and at a pressure could accelerate or decelerate it, to suit his mood. Unlike Cassis, Mr. Torrington had time for everything. When he worked he worked instantaneously, achieving in an hour work that would have kept a less remarkable man busy for a month. After one of these flashes he would relapse into pleasant gardens where he grew roses, or pleasant galleries where he looked with eyes of understanding into the heart of pictures. Sometimes he amused himself by playing with urchins in St. James's Park and on one occasion had been seen to divest himself of his coat to supply the wickets for an informal cricket match. When asked why he bothered to take part in the rack and strain of high finance he gave the amiable reply:

"Because it's such fun."

The servant piloted him to a high elbow chair and helped him to be seated.

"Thank ye," said Mr. Torrington. "And if you'll put a side table alongside I'll try a new patience. No, don't bother to tell me your master won't be long, I know that bit by heart."

He unwound a silk comforter from his neck, hung it over the arm of the chair and produced from his pocket a small pack of cards.

"Cold, Cassis?"

"I was cold," replied Cassis exactly.

"Hm! Fine growing weather, this."

He began to lay out the cards in neat little packs.

"Bulbs are coming through nicely. I was hoping to spend a day or two in the garden but I'm afraid not—'fraid it won't be possible."

Cassis put his hands behind his back.

"This business," he said.

"Yes."

Lord Almont Frayne, a rather resplendant young man of thirty, came into the room with all the bounce of youth. His chin shone from a ten minutes' old shave, his hair clove to his head like fresh laid paint and the crease in his trousers was razor edged.

"Most awfully sorry, dear hearts," he exclaimed in clamourous apology.

"Deuce of a late night at Thingumy's ball. Do excuse."

From which the reader may assume that his lordship was a bit of an ass—but no. Under the ecstatic exterior of twentieth century modern man-about-townism there existed in the composition of Lord Almont many of the shrewd qualities that had made his father one of the richest bankers in England. People in the know would assure you it was not only luck that had kept the parental millions secure and had even increased them after the old gentleman's decease. Lord Almont had a sense of the market and his intelligence was not entirely devoted to matters sartorial.

"Anybody have anything? No. Too early? Infernally hot in here. Mind if we have a window up?"

Cassis was only just in time to lodge an objection.

Lord Almont pointed to the street.

"Here comes old Cranbourne bobbing along. Shall we wait?"

Mr. Torrington continued playing his patience game until Cranbourne was announced. And if you are interested to know what manner of man Cranbourne might be then turn to the description of the diner at the table near the door in the Berkeley Café. As to his associations with these other gentlemen it remains only to be said that he was a supplier of ideas and occasionally of ideals.

"Anybody know anything?" said Lord Almont.

Cassis shrugged his shoulders negatively.

Mr. Torrington put down a card.

"Waste of time," he said. "Waste of time. Barraclough will never get out of London by ordinary ways. It was a useless attempt."

"Well, we don't know."

"He hadn't got through at ten thirty last night," said Cranbourne. "He was dining at the Berkeley Grill. 'Course he might have had a shot later."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No—just nodded. Billings tells me he was shot at when he tried to make the tug on the river."

"The boat was shot at, you mean," said Cassis.

"Anyone rung him up this morning?" asked Mr. Torrington.

"No, it was arranged we shouldn't."

"Then he's sure to be here soon."

The remark was prophetic for as the words were spoken Barraclough was announced.

"No good," he said.

"You look tired, Barraclough," observed Mr. Torrington, who thought about men as well as money.

"Am a bit."

"Did you try to make Hendon?"

"Did I try? Yes, I tried and travelled a Wild West shooting man on the lid of the cab who worked a hold up by The Welsh Harp. Far as I can see there must be hundreds out to prevent me." His mouth hardened. "But I'm going to do it. I mean to do it somehow."

Mr. Torrington smiled sweetly.

"Ardent young man," he said.

Cassis put his finger tips together and remarked:

"Recklessness is a luxury we can't afford."

"I'm prepared to take chances," said Barraclough.

Mr. Torrington quoted:

"'On the sand drift, on the veldt side, in the fern scrub we lay.

That our song might follow after by the bones on the way.'"

"That's all very well," said Cassis sourly, "but our sons won't be able to follow after so long as Barraclough obstinately determines to keep the secret entirely to himself."

"Pooh! pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Torrington. "That was understood."

"It was," said Barraclough and swivelled round to face Cassis. "I've said frankly that until I get the concession no one but myself will be told the map reference. That's absolute."

Cassis sniffed.

"It was a pity you didn't get the concession when you made the discovery."

"You know quite well that I wasn't sure. A false move might have brought every prospector in the world to the place—would have done. Besides with all this post-war territorial shuffle it was pretty nearly impossible to say which government actually owned the land. Been jolly if we'd got a title too soon and from the wrong people."

"But the territorial point has been cleared up now, hasn't it?" Cassis put the question shrewdly.

Barraclough shut up like a clam and made no answer.

Lord Almont butted in.

"Still you're pretty confident of getting the concession if you manage to get clear."

Barraclough nodded.

"If I can slip through and they don't stop me I'll be back with the whole thing settled in three weeks from the hour of starting."

"And during those three weeks," said Cassis sourly, "Van Diest and his crowd will subject us to an intensive course of financial buffeting. As matter of fact he has begun already."

"Well, it was no fault of mine the other side knew anything about it," said Barraclough. "If your confidential secretary had kept his mouth shut——"

"There is no use in discussing that," said Cassis.

Mr. Torrington swept the cards into a heap and shuffled them to and fro like a cook making pastry.

"Getting very active is Van Diest," he remarked. "Not a good loser, poor fellow. Quite set his heart on getting into our little syndicate. Started unloading American Rails yesterday afternoon—broke the market badly. I had to reciprocate by selling Dutch Oils. Our losses on the day were about equal."

Lord Almont remarked that his broker had rang him up to tell him of a fuss. Had no idea Van Diest was at the back of it. Cost him about ten thousand but he held on.

"Quite so and it's all very well if we are going to get a return for our losses," said Cassis. "But so long as Barraclough is held by the heels we become a mere kicking post for the opposition. Not good enough."

"Any suggestions?" said Barraclough.

"Yes. I suggest under the seal of confidence you inform us of the exact location of this field and we dispatch a trustworthy servant to carry out the necessary negotiations."

Barraclough remained silent.

"If you refuse to adopt that view all I can see for it is either to drop the whole thing or to let Van Diest come in and split the profit."

For one instant the placid blue eyes of Mr. Torrington were lit with a shiny white fire.

"Van Diest will not be in this, Cassis," he said.

"But look here, dear old Mr. Torrington," Lord Almont exclaimed.

"Surely you agree that Barra ought to give us his trust."

The old man smiled whimsically.

"Think so?" he said.

"I mean to say, we're not the kind of people to take advantage of a man."

"Nonsense! Of course we are," came the answer.

"That's honest," Barraclough laughed.

"Not at all, my dear boy, it's a confession of dishonour of which I am heartily ashamed."

Cassis could not leave the subject alone. Tenacity was one of his strong points.

"Suppose you were killed," he suggested. "The secret would be lost for all time. And where should we stand?"

"Several degrees better than myself," was the answer. "You'll come out with your lives."

"That's not the point. Our involvement is equivalent to yours. Your risk is physical, ours financial, and of the two, in my own opinion——"

"I know," Barraclough cut in. "Our views are opposed about that. I made the find and as soon as I have turned it into actual possession, you will have the chance to exploit it, but until——"

"Yes, but half a shake, old son," said Lord Almont. "How about the marvellous healing properties—all the jolly old hospitals we were going to endow. One doesn't want to be a dog in the manger."

Barraclough grinned. Whatever other qualities Nature had bestowed upon the ebullient peer philanthropy was not outstanding.

"I notice in this argument," he said, "money came over the horizon before the hospitals showed their smoke."

"Then deposit the map reference in a safe place so we can get hold of it if you break up."

"And where it will be at the mercy of the first man with a jimmy and a blow lamp. No, thanks."

There are certain types of stubbornness that increase in direct ratio to the pressure applied. To this type Barraclough belonged. He had yet to find the man who could induce him to talk against his will. Woman? Ah, that's a different matter. The argument took an angry turn.

"It occurs to me," said Mr. Torrington sweetly, "it was a pity I deserted my greenhouses this morning. We remain in statu quo ante."

A reproach from Mr. Torrington seldom failed to reach its mark.

"I'm sorry," Barraclough apologised, "but I give you my solemn word that somehow I'll win you the purse."

"The purse," Mr. Torrington smiled. "One almost forgets the purse in a case like this. It is eclipsed by the will to succeed. Adventure! The one thing of which old people never tire."

And then it was that Cranbourne who, curled up in the window seat with his chin resting on his knees, had taken no part in the debate, made his first observation.

"If Barraclough is to succeed it will have to be in the next three days. At midnight on the 27th he is going to be kidnapped."

All eyes turned upon Cranbourne as he made this announcement.

"How the devil do you know that?" exclaimed Barraclough.

Nugent Cassis answered the question.

"We have our private information bureau in the opposite camp."

"Ah! Anyone I know?"

"That's immaterial."

"I think I deserve your confidence."

"Have you given us yours?"

Barraclough lit a cigarette.

"Oh, very well," he said. "So I'm to be kidnapped."

"At twelve precisely," Cranbourne nodded. "In the course of the next three days Van Diest will try the persuasion of bribes and failing success you disappear, my friend, for a short inquisition."

Barraclough shut his fists tight.

"By God," he said. "So that's the way of it. Three days, what! I'll break through that damned ring if it kills me."

"I wonder," murmured Mr. Torrington. "Quite a lot I wonder. Still it's great fun. Don't do anything in a hurry. Three days is a life time. Take my advice, go and sit with your girl and calm down."

"Good idea, I will. We shall meet again?"

"Surely."

"Au revoir then."

As Barraclough moved toward the door Cranbourne spoke.

"Why did you pass me by at the Berkeley last night?"

Barraclough wrinkled his forehead perplexedly.

"The Berkeley?"

"Yes, about ten thirty."

"At ten thirty I was plugging a man in the jaw at St. Pancras Station."

Cranbourne sprang to his feet.

"Honest?" he cried.

"Honest."

"And you never went to the Berkeley?"

"Nowhere near it."

A light of wild enthusiasm leapt into Cranbourne's eyes and he brought his hands together with a loud report.

"Got it," he cried. "Got it! Oh, what an idea!"

"What's up with you?"

The enthusiasm came under control but his voice still trembled.

"It's all right, gentlemen, I can see a way. With any luck we'll succeed. Don't do anything until eleven o'clock on the night of the 27th. I'm going to try and find someone." And he made for the door.

"But hang it all," Lord Almont shouted, "be a bit more explicit."

Cranbourne turned.

"Have you missed it," he said. "Then here's something to think about.

Suppose Van Diest kidnaps the wrong man." The door slammed behind him.

Mr. Torrington laid a card on the table with careful deliberation. He was smiling.

"Great fun," he murmured to himself.