Читать книгу The Pursuits of Mr. Peter Pell - Short Fiction - Страница 5

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IF a house be searched, however careful the housewife, there will be surely found, in some odd nook or corner, a cobweb. So in most cities of the world there are to be found, in the odd corners, traps for the unwary human flies. Tangarten Chambers, on the "Terrace," has an imposing position. Most of the chambers are inhabited by members of the legal fraternity. But there are others, and of the others is to be numbered Mr. Peter Pell.

Pell had "arrived" since the day when the sun, on its daily pilgrimage, had discovered him in his Esplanade bedchamber. A lucky deal with the Terrace "odds-shouters," in which those gentlemen had not displayed their accustomed acuteness, had resulted in Mr. Pell becoming the owner of a fair banking account. Success had bred encouragement, and Mr. Pell blossomed out as a Land and Estate Agent.

It is sad to reflect that a business connected with so dignified subjects as Lands and Estates should be the mantle for so many rogues. Yet it is a fact that if a bad man sets out to fleece his fellow men commercially, it is usually under the cloak of a Land and Estate Agency.

In the case of Mr. Pell, that gentleman would have been puzzled had he been required to find a client anything in the shape of an estate, or even a small block of land. Notwithstanding this minor drawback, the office was there and the door emblazoned with the titles of the business Mr. Peter Pell was willing to undertake.

As in the case of the cobweb in the house, so the net that Mr. Pell set for the fly he was confident one day he would snare, was set in an inconspicuous part of the inscription. It was a bare and innocent web and announced quietly that on the other side of that door were the offices of the "Great Fallgall G. M. Syndicate."

Within the office Mr. Pell had done himself well. The carpet on the floor, the large roll-top desk and the client's chair, all bore an appearance of wealth. Mr. Pell was resplendent and would have inspired confidence in the most wary of city men. With prosperity, or the semblance of it, Mr. Pell had indulged his taste in fine raiment to the fair. He affected the style of a London business man, frock coat, and something neat and classy in the matter of waistcoats. In the case of Mr. Pell, however, the waistcoat was classy if not exactly neat. Whatever the general taste may be, Mr. Pell fancied himself and grew more and more complacent as he gazed at the large expanse of waistcoat revealed by his office mirror.

The office of Mr. Peter Pell, Land and Estate Agent and Secretary to the Great Fallgall Gold Mining Syndicate, had been established for more than a couple of months, at the time our records open, and the proprietor had begun to study his bank-book with some misgivings. True one or two small flies had walked round the web but had, in spite of the genial welcome they received, contrived to back out of the trap without more than singeing their wings. In fact the total takings of the "web" had resulted in a paltry "fiver" while the expenses were large. Mr. Pell did not complain. He was prepared to "stick it out" as he, in a moment of confidence, stated to a friend, until the right kind of fly (he did not use this exact expression) had become entangled. To those who can wait, success will come.

One morning as Mr. Pell strolled in the direction of Tangarten Chambers he had an inspiration that that day would later be marked on the office calendar with a red circle. The sun was high in the sky and the majority of the business men of the metropolis were at their desks, but Mr. Pell did not hurry. Human flies are foolish mortals and have not the intellect of their winged confrères and if the human fly had noted the web for examination it was certain that he would buzz around until Mr. "Spider" Pell arrived. Therefore, without increasing his wonted leisurely pace, Mr. Pell entered the Tangarten Chambers and cordially, yet distantly, returned the salutation of the lift-boy. In the exigency of existence Mr. Pell had fully realised the potentialities of his fine presence and developed the art of taking full advantage of it. But after a few months on the register of the tenants of the Chambers he had become one of notabilities of the building, in the eyes of the attendants. A few cigars, a very little silver, and the trick was done. Mr. Pell, with his tips at the wrong seasons of the year was "it."

Arriving at the third floor, Mr. Pell withdrew from his trouser pocket, by a silver chain that in size might have done duty for the cable of a rather large toy man-o'-war, his office key. Directly facing the lift entrance was the office of the Great Fallgall G. M. Syndicate and standing at the door with all signs of impatience stood "The Fly."

Too wary to frighten his prey, Mr. Pell opened his door and strode to his desk. The "Fly" meekly followed him. Without speaking, Mr. Pell opened his letters and indulged in a running commentary on the contents. It might be as well to explain here that these letters had been carefully prepared by Mr. Pell some time previous and were nightly placed on the desk in preparation of the visit of the "Fly." Here was the victim, and the spoiler was ready and eager.

"Humph! Great Fallgall's up two points! Sanders wants to know if any for sale! No none for him! Ho! So Matthews has made up his mind to buy that house at last. Well he'll have to pay for the delay. He'll spring another tenner if I hold off a bit. The cheapest house in the State. What's this! Application for Great Fallgall shares. Another! Yet another! And another!!! Let me see. Five and ten are fifteen and ten hundred shares in one post are twenty-five! Twenty-five good business!"

Then, thinking the "Fly" properly impressed, "Oh, beg pardon! Didn't see you there. Come in, sir, make yourself comfortable. Sit there. Now, tell me what I may have the pleasure of doing for you?"

As the "Fly" seated himself gingerly in the client's chair, beside the big desk, Mr. Pell took careful stock of him. He was a tall thin man with a long gaunt face. His clothes were untidy and looked ready made, but his boots were the true index to the man, and, on a rapid survey, Mr. Pell ejaculated under his breath, "Farmer."

A London spider would have profanely thought "yokel" but in Western Australia the commercial spider is not so rude and unpolished. He dignifies the "fly" from the country by the correct appellation "farmer." It is not to be understood that "yokel" or "farmer," there is any change in the established methods of spiders. Both London and Perth spiders treat the country visitors alike. Flatter and toady; tickle and excite. But, in the end, skin them or swallow them alive.

Mr. Pell prepared to do both. The "Fly" prepared for the interview by extracting from a large case a pair of the largest and roundest spectacles Mr. Pell had ever seen. Perching them on a very long thin nose, he proceeded to state his requirements.

"My name is Smith, Joseph John Smith," he commenced in a high nasal drawl. "You are the proprietor of this Great Fallgall Gold Mine."

"Only the secretary," replied Mr. Pell modestly. "The proprietors are umph—It is owned by a Syndicate, you know!"

"Pre-cise-l-y," drawled Smith. "You are the secretary." Then after a short pause came the question like the shot from a gun.

"You sell the shares?"

"The Syndicate sells the shares," replied Mr. Pell smoothly, wondering all the while what on earth his visitor was driving at. "I am but the humble servant of the Syndicate."

"Pre-cise-l-y!" drawled Smith in exactly the same tone. Then a change of voice. "You cannot deceive me."

"My dear sir!" Mr. Pell was horrified at the suggestion. "All the dealings of this office are open to the widest, I may say the fullest, investigation."

"That is what I intend, sir," exclaimed Smith, ferociously. "I received one of your circulars."

"Prospectus," suggested Mr. Pell mildly. "It sounds so much better."

"Bosh!" exploded Mr. Smith. "If I come from the country I am not a born fool."

Mr. Pell tried to look hurt and really achieved a fair success. "I have come to investigate this matter to the ground, and if I like it—" here Mr. Smith sank his voice to an impressive whisper, "I will buy it."

"Buy some shares?" asked Mr. Pell, for once out of his depths.

"Buy the mine—all the shares—the—er—controlling interest, sir," howled Mr. Smith with all the semblance of fury.

"That would be a very expensive operation," suggested Mr. Pell, his heart sinking at the thought that his visitor was more madman than "Fly."

"Expense, be damned," retorted Mr. Smith, leaning forward in his chair and glaring at Mr. Pell through his large round glasses. "Do you know who I am?"

"I—er—I'm sure I don't know." Mr. Pell's imposing waistcoat was visibly curving in at the waistline, and his collar appeared to be undergoing some liquefying process.

"I'm Joseph John Smith, and I breed sheep?"

Mr. Pell made an effort. "You can't buy shares like you do sheep, Mr. Smith."

"Why not? Tell me why not. I've made my money in sheep. Lots of it, lots of sheep. Why can't I buy anything I want as I buy sheep. Tell me that."

"It will be a very expensive operation, Mr. Smith."

"Did I ever shirk an expensive operation? Ask the people of the Gascoyne if any deal was too big for me. I'm a born Australian, and nothing's too big for me."

"It will take a lot of money, Mr. Smith." Mr. Pell tried hard to discover what ground he had to stand on. Either his visitor was a clever business man, or into the web had walked one of the fattest, juiciest flies that ever spider dreamed of. What dare he put up to this glorious prey?

"I may tell you Mr. Smith," Mr. Pell continued, "that the mine is undeveloped. We have taken out very fine specimens, sufficient to show great possibilities. I don't want this information round the town, but we have the very deepest, richest mine in the whole of the Commonwealth. It will take a lot of capital to obtain the controlling interest."

"Name your figure!" The large horny hand of the visitor moved to his breast pocket.

"Not that, Mr. Smith." Mr. Pell waved the thought of a cheque aside with a magnificent gesture. "Not that! We must go into the matter a lot more carefully before I can venture to accept your cheque."

Joseph John Smith extended the hand that hovered around his breast pocket in the direction of Mr. Pell.

"Shake!" he exclaimed. "You're an honest man."

Fortified with the good opinion of his visitor, Mr. Pell devoted himself to posting his prey in the details of the Great Fallgall G. M. Facts and figures rolled from his tongue in a manner that would, as a writer of fiction, have assured him more than a competence. As a walking delegate of a trades union he would have been an unqualified success.

"It comes to this," concluded Mr. Pell. "It will cost you about three thousand pounds or thereabouts to take up the balance of shares in the possession of the Syndicate, and about fifteen hundred more to repurchase the balance of shares necessary to give you the control."

"Is that all?"

"I am afraid, so." Mr. Pell was disappointed. He felt that fate had used him unkindly in not instructing him more fully of the tender morsel prepared for his detection.

"Will you have the cheque now, or wait till you get it?"

"Wait until I get it," promptly exclaimed Mr. Pell. Again a doubt arose in his mind as to the fallibility of his "Fly." Was he to discover after all his work that the "Fly" was in reality a brother "spider"?

"Spoken like a man!" exclaimed Smith with satisfaction. "Now—" and again the horny hand moved in the direction of the breast pocket.

"My dear sir!" Mr. Pell stretched forth a detaining hand. "I could not think of such a thing. You must examine. You must enquire. You, sir, may deem me to be an honest man, but others may think otherwise. I have enemies. What successful man has not. You must enquire. I insist you must satisfy yourself that Peter Pell is the honest man you now think him."

"That's all right, my boy," exclaimed Smith genially "I ain't dealt with men up north to be taken in by a town shark. Don't you think it."

"Your candour does you credit, sir, and touches my heart." Mr. Pell produced a very fine pocket handkerchief and vigorously blew his nose. He felt that a tear would be a great relief, but had not the power to raise one. He would have much preferred a laugh.

"Look 'ere, Pell." Smith leaned forward in his chair and laid his hand on the well turned leg of Mr. Pell. "Take that cheque."

"No." The monosyllable was decisive.

Smith looked keenly at Mr. Pell. "I thought you wouldn't! You wouldn't have got it if you had said 'yes.' I ain't no fool, and its only fools that pay the price asked 'em for the goods. Now I'll make you an offer."

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Pell—the fly was walking right into the trap and in a moment the door would shut behind him. "Sir, I will give to your offer my gravest consideration, but you must remember that I am only the servant of the Syndicate and they must determine your offer. My word," here Mr. Pell swelled visibly—'carries great weight with the Syndicate. I would deceive you if I let you think otherwise. And that word will be used in your favour, of course, providing your offer is commensurate with the value of the mine. But I am afraid—I am afraid—" and Mr. Pell's head rolled gently on its fleshy support.

"Well then!" Mr. Smith sat upright with a visible jump. "Tell your Syndicate, or whatever you like to call them, that I will give them two thousand pounds for the whole concern, lock, stock and barrel."

Mr. Pell stared. Two thousand pounds! And that for a piece of ground that, if it held gold, still retained the secret. Certainly the ground was there. He, himself, had taken over the mining rights from a hard up friend some month or more ago, but he had never seen the property and, from what he had heard, gold had not been discovered within many weary miles of the location.

Two thousand pounds! His tongue gently inserted itself between his lips tasting the sweetness of the offer, for Mr. Pell had a fancy for the sweets of this life. Two thousand pounds! His eyes dropped to the large expanse of fancy waistcoat of which he was so proud. What fancy waistcoats could be not design and buy? Two thousand pounds! The world had been well lost for less.

"And," went on the voice of the fly, "for yourself, if you bring off the deal, there is a little packet of notes that might—mind I say might—total about two hundred and fifty. You'll put it through, Pell."

Mr. Pell's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds. British, Australian, English notes, call them what you please. It required a supreme effort on his part to regain his composure.

"Sir!" and the rich round voice rolled through the small office, "your offer as a bribe, I repudiate with indignation, with scorn. But—but as the offer of a friend, I should say, as a little testimonial to my integrity, and—and—business capacity—" even Mr. Pell could not leave it entirely to 'integrity,' "—it would be valued and esteemed."

"Say no more," replied the 'Fly.' When?"

Mr. Pell would gladly have shouted "Now!" but prudence forbade. With the greatest control he could muster, he stated, "I shall have to call a meeting of the Syndicate. Shall we say the day after tomorrow?"

With a grasp of the hand that made Mr. Pell wince, the "fly" emerged from the web, leaving the "spider" to ponder. For some time after Smith had left, Mr. Pell sat at his desk, leaning an aching head on his hands. Barely could he realise what had happened. Here was a man, dropped apparently from the clouds with a pocket full of money, asking, nay begging, Mr. Pell to relieve him of some. Did the skies rain fools?

THE MEETING of the members of the Syndicate took place in Mr. Pell's office as soon as Mr. Pell could recover his mental equilibrium. Mr. Pell was in the chair. The reading of the minutes of the Syndicate was voted unnecessary on the motion of Mr. Pell, seconded by the same gentleman. As a matter of urgency, the acceptance of the offer of Mr. Joseph John Smith, of two thousand pounds for a block of land Mr. Pell had not, and did not want to see, was moved by Mr. Pell and seconded from the Chair. Let but the "fly" venture his nose in the web again and the trap would be sprung.

During the afternoon of the next day, Mr. Pell was called to the 'phone. The conversation was short and pithy, yet entirely satisfactory to at least one member of the connection.

"Well?" came the voice along the line.

"Right-ho!" exclaimed Mr. Pell. Ordinarily he was adverse to slang.

"Cheque?" was the next question that struck Mr. Pell's ear.

"Cash! Ten tomorrow!"

And then along the line echoed Mr. Pell's last lapse from the correctness of speech: "Right-oh."

The following day Mr. Pell handed over the Great Fallgall Gold Mine, together with all rights in the registered offices of the Company, to Mr. Joseph John Smith and walked forth, a man without an occupation. In his breast pocket reposed a neat rubber-banded wad of paper inscribed with the signature of the Commonwealth Treasurer. Behind him he left a new secretary to the Great Fallgall Gold Mining Syndicate, together with an office of which the rent was long in arrears, office furniture for which an Australian Chinese was indignantly demanding hire purchase, and a telephone that at any moment might become dumb, unless the Postmaster General was pacified. All he left behind, but his fancy waistcoat stood out like the guiding flame that led the Israelites through the terrors of the desert, and against that waistcoat reposed the sum of two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds.

In the weeks that followed, Mr. Fell often thought of Joseph John Smith. Surely he had, been the "Fly" of flies. Mr. Pell thought with sore impatience of the carefully baited trap he had prepared, and of its uselessness. Any old thing would have sufficed with such a "Fly."

Then one morning, as Mr. Pell was carefully absorbing the breakfast of two ordinary men, his eye was caught by a double column heading in the West Australian. It spoke of gold, not in the usual quantities wrung from reluctant mother earth but in buckets, pails, truckloads. Gold to be taken for the asking—by those who were lucky to own that valuable spot of this earth's surface. And the name of the mine was The Great Fallgall Goldmine Limited, with Mr. Joseph John Smith, Managing Director.

Mr. Pell laid the newspaper on the table with great care. One might almost have thought it breakable.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated, "and he could have got that old hole off me for a 'fiver.'"