Payment Deferred · Chapter 4 (2/2)

Somehow the moral tables had turned during those few minutes. Undoubtedly Marble was now in the ascendant. Largely, of course, this change was due to the fact that the conversation was about a subject of which he knew much and the other nothing. But on the other hand it must be admitted that the vague thing known as “Personality” was affecting the case, too. Marble was putting out all his strength to influence Saunders unobtrusively, and he was succeeding. Men can do much when they have to.

“Well,” said Marble, bleak eyes set like stones, “the franc is going to rise, and now is the time to buy.”

The secret was out now. Saunders could betray him now at leisure. But Marble, never taking his eyes off Saunders’, was sure he would not.

“I don’t say you’re not right,” said Saunders, “but what’s the little game? Where do I come in? And where do you come in?”

“It’s like this,” said Marble, showing his whole hand, so sure was he. “It isn’t much good buying francs outright. I could do that myself next door. But you don’t stand to make much that way. This time you might make a hundred percent, but of course that’s not good enough.”

“Of course not,” said Saunders submissively.

“The best way to do it is to make a ‘forward operation’ of it. That means you must put up ten percent.”

“On a margin,” put in Saunders, proud of this little bit of argot picked up during much frequenting of City public-houses.

“Exactly. On a margin. That means that a five percent rise in the franc gives you fifty percent profit. As I said, it might be a hundred percent rise this time. That would be a thousand percent profit⁠—ten to one, in other words,” added Marble, countering Saunders’ effort.

Saunders only dimly understood.

“But I don’t see now why you’re telling me all this,” he said. “Why don’t you get along and do it? Why tell anyone else at all?”

“Because I’m not allowed to put a forward operation through for myself in the Bank. You have to have some legitimate reason for wanting to.”

“And what reason would I have?” Saunders was being rapidly drawn into the net.

“Oh, that’s easy. You can easily have some business in France, can’t you? Don’t you ever bet on French races?”

“Of course I do, sometimes.”

“And don’t you ever send money to France?”

“Well, I have done, once or twice.”

“Right, then. If you were to tell the Bank that you wanted to buy francs they’d believe you all right. And they love you in the Bank, anyhow. You keep a big current account, and they love anyone who does that.”

Saunders was still struggling against the mesmeric influence that was beginning to overpower him.

“Tell me some more about this ‘forward operation’ stunt,” he pleaded, wavering, conscious that in a minute he would have to decide one way or the other, conscious that he would most probably fall in with Marble’s plans, and conscious, too, that he did not really want to. “Tell me what I should have to do.”

Marble explained carefully, drilling it into his man with meticulous care. Then he threw his last bait. He showed how, if a man were to take his profit when it amounted to a mere five times his stake, and had the hardihood to fling both profits and stake into the business again, by the time the currency purchased stood at twice the figure it stood at at the start, the profit would not be ten, but thirty-five units.

Saunders scratched his head wildly.

“Here, what are you drinking?” he asked, signalling agitatedly to the barman, and then leaning forward again to go over the details once more. Marble’s cold judgement had chosen his man well. A bookmaker earns his living by other people’s gambling, but even with this practical example always before him there is no one on earth so ready to gamble⁠—in anything not pertaining to the turf.

Then Saunders made a last despairing effort to writhe out of the business. He said that, after all, he was unacquainted with Marble.

“How do I know it’s straight?” he asked pitifully.

“It can’t be very well anything else, can it?” replied Marble, and the condescension in his tone was an added spur to Saunders. “I won’t be able to pinch your money, will I? It will all be in your account, won’t it? If it isn’t straight I can’t make anything out of it.”

Saunders had realized this as soon as the words had left his mouth, and he apologized. Mr. Marble, hope boiling in his veins, was very gracious.

“Well, what is it you want out of it?” asked the wretched Saunders.

“Ten percent of what you make,” said Marble uncompromisingly, “and, of course, I’m going to have a bit on, too.”

“How much?”

“Sixty quid.” Mr. Marble produced a roll of five-pound notes⁠—the last of those he had been so careful about changing. He was throwing discretion to the winds now. If ever the notes were traced to him, it would be his own fault, but there was no time for complicated manoeuvres to change them.

Saunders took them half involuntarily.

“In fact,” said Mr. Marble, “I should like to have more than that on. Only I haven’t got it with me. I could raise it by tomorrow. But tomorrow will be too late.”

With those baleful eyes upon him, and the reassuring feel of those five-pound notes in his hand, Saunders could do nothing except make the inevitable offer.

“Thanks,” said Marble. “Look here, I tell you what we’ll do. Put four hundred in. Two hundred of that will be yours. There’s another sixty. Then you lend me the odd one-forty. That makes us just even.”

Saunders agreed helplessly.

“Time’s getting on,” said Mr. Marble, with a glance at the clock. “We’d better get a move on. I can tell you what to do all over again as we walk back.”

As though in a dream Saunders rose from the table and followed him out. The stimulus of the fresh air outside revived him sufficiently to remember to ask Marble how it was he was so certain that the franc was going to rise.

“I know all right,” said Marble casually. He could afford to be casual, so sure was he of himself, and above all, so sure was he of Saunders.

And Saunders weakly yielded to the man with the superior knowledge. He would have hooted with derision at a man who proposed to back a stray acquaintance’s favourite horse to the tune of two hundred pounds; he would have rolled on the ground with mirth if he heard that the same man was going to risk another one hundred and forty by backing that horse for his friend; but this was not horse-racing, about which he was thoroughly well informed. It was business⁠—Big Business⁠—and he was awed and submissive.

Marble ended his instructions just as they reached the main door of the National County Bank.

“Go in there and say you want to buy francs as a forward operation. They’ll send you along to my department, so don’t worry. I’ll be there. I may even do the business for you. But I expect it’ll be Henderson that you see. Oh, yes, and don’t forget, whatever you do, to ring me up two or three times today and tomorrow. Get through to Foreign Exchange and then ask for me. It doesn’t matter what you say. Just say⁠—what is that you always say when you see anyone in the bar?⁠—‘Hallo, old bean, how’s things?’ Keep it up for a bit; say ‘Doodle-oodle-oodle’ if you can’t think of anything else. That’s just to give me authority to move the account about when it’s necessary. Got it all? All right, then. Goodbye.”

Mr. Saunders, dazed and mazed, walked weakly into the National County Bank. Mr. Marble walked on to the side entrance where dwelt his own among other departments. The sweat was running off him in streams; for a brief space he had been a master of men; he had swayed a hardheaded man into doing something totally unexpected; he had gambled with fate and he had won; for a while he had known the wild exultation of success. He had done something that he would certainly not have done without the urgent impulse due to⁠—a slight indiscretion one stormy night some months ago, but reaction closed upon him with terrible swiftness. His steps dragged as he came into the department of Foreign Exchange. He felt, and he looked, inexpressibly weary. The junior clerks nudged each other again as he walked by.

“Old Marble’s had as much as he can carry already. He’ll be getting the sack one of these days, just see if he doesn’t.”

And Marble, tired to death, weary with fear, worn out by the thumping of his heart, crept brokenly to his desk and buried his face in his hands.