Payment Deferred · Chapter 5 (2/2)

and all the rest of the business. It was cold and dry and formal enough, heaven knew. Bank letters are usually cold and dry and formal, even when they embody a paean of praise. This one told, with an air of supreme detachment, how Mr. Saunders had originally bought rather more than forty-five thousand francs with the four thousand pounds represented by his margin of four hundred; how they had been sold at 95, and then represented nearly five thousand pounds (a thousand pounds profit); how this thousand pounds, and the original four hundred, had purchased francs at 93, and thus, thanks to the fact that each pound did the work of ten, controlled nearly a million and a quarter of francs; this million odd had been sold at 75, bringing in sixteen thousand pounds and more. Mr. Saunders’ profit now stood at over four thousand pounds, and it and the good old original four hundred had gone back once more into francs, purchased at 75 still, thanks to Mr. Marble having taken advantage of an eddy in the market. Forty-five thousand pounds’ worth of francs did that sum control⁠—three millions of francs and a few thousand odd ones.

When they were finally sold at 65 Mr. Saunders’ credit balance stood at a paltry fifty-one thousand pounds. He probably was unable to do the simplest sum in foreign exchange; at the moment he did not have the least idea of what profit he had made; Marble’s forethought had earned it for him; most of the money would come eventually out of the pockets of less fortunate speculators, which only served them right, but some would come from the myriad firms which had to have francs at any price. Above all, if the Bank had had anything to say in the matter they would probably have cut short the speculation at the earliest opportunity, but they had never been consulted after the first interview. Mr. Marble had a specious plea of justification for having done all this on his own responsibility, in that Henderson had acquiesced in the first expansion of the deal, but he did not think he would have to use it. No bank really objects to having its clients enriched by the enthusiasm of its staff.

When the letter was finished Mr. Marble slipped out of the office. He had done no work that day, and he would not have been able to even if he had tried. He was too exhausted by the emotional strain under which he had been labouring all these hours. Instead, he walked quietly round to Saunders’ office. The hurrying crowds round him, hastening to catch the 5:10 at Fenchurch Street, or the 5:25 at London Bridge, did not pay him the tribute of a glance. They did not realize that this shabby man in blue was a capitalist⁠—a man possessed of over ten thousand pounds, if he could be sure of making Saunders pay up. They paid no heed to him, save to shoulder their homeward progress. He was rich almost to the full extent of his wildest dreams, and yet they pushed him into the gutter. Mr. Marble did not resent it. They had likewise paid no heed to him when he was only a murderer.

Saunders in his office, the last race of the day over, was glancing through some trial totals of the day’s figures when one of his two clerks showed in Mr. Marble.

“Hallo?” he said, glancing up, “so you’ve made a bit?”

Mr. Marble sank wearily into the chair indicated and took the cigarette that Saunders offered.

“What did you get? Six to one?” asked Saunders. He was half joking, half serious. He had determined that Mr. Marble’s final bait of yesterday of three thousand percent was a mere piece of bluff. Obviously Marble had taken a chance and it had come off, and he, glad to see his money back, let alone with profit attached, would not press him too hard for the fulfilment of all his promises.

“Don’t know,” said Marble. “Haven’t worked it out like that. But the total comes to something like fifty thousand.”

“What?” gasped Saunders. “Fifty thousand? Or it’s francs, I suppose you mean?”

“No,” said Marble expressionlessly, “pounds.”

“D’you mean it?”

“Oh, of course I do. You’ll get the official notification from the Bank tomorrow.”

Saunders said nothing. Nothing in his limited vocabulary was equal to the situation.

“Fifty thousand pounds,” said Mr. Marble, still expressionless, but bracing himself unobtrusively for the final effort. “Let’s work out what my share of it is.”

It was astonishing to him to find that Saunders agreed without any difficulty at all. He would not have been surprised to find him refusing to render any account whatever; he could have retained the whole and nothing could have been proved against him. But Marble, when he feared this, allowed his fear to overbalance his estimation of several important items in Saunders’ makeup. In the first place, Saunders was an honest man. In the second place, he was so dazzled by the magnitude of the profit that he did not grudge the fair share of the man who had earned it for him. In the third place, he was a bookmaker, and he was accustomed to handing over large sums on account of transactions of which no law in the United Kingdom took the slightest notice.

“Rightio,” said Saunders. “How much is it exactly?”

“Fifty thousand, three twenty-nine, and a few shillings.” Saunders hastily figured it out. Marble had done it in his head long ago.

“I make your little packet come to £27,681. Oh, and the sixty you gave me. I get twenty-two thousand odd for myself. Not bad going for three phone calls.”

Saunders was trying to be offhand in the presence of this magician who could make thousands sprout in the course of a night. Actually, he was bursting with astonishment and curiosity.

“When’s settling day?” he demanded.

“The money’ll come in soon. You’ll have it in less than a week. Might be tomorrow, but I doubt it. The Bank will let you know.”

“Right. I’ll send you a cheque then. Your working agree with mine?” Saunders was trying his best to be the complete business man, although the largest cheque he had written in his life was for no more than five hundred pounds, and that occasion still haunted him in his worst nightmares.

“Very well, then.” Mr. Marble rose from his chair.

Mr. Saunders could retain himself no longer.

“Oh, sit down, man, and tell me how it was done. No, we must go and have a drink to celebrate this. Let’s make a night of it, up West somewhere. Let’s⁠—”

But none of these things appealed to Mr. Marble, although the very mention of a drink set him yearning.

“No,” said Mr. Marble. “I have to push off home.”

And he went home, too. Although Mr. Marble was possessed of twenty-seven thousand pounds he spent his evening, as long as he was sober, sitting in a dreary little suburban drawing-room gazing out over a desolate suburban backyard, for fear lest some trespasser or some stray dog should find something out.