The Just Men of Cordova · Chapter 2 (1/2)

II

Colonel Black, Financier

The firm of Black and Gram had something of a reputation in City circles. Gram might have been a man beyond reproach⁠—a veritable Bayard of finance, a churchgoer, and a generous subscriber to charities. Indeed, Black complained with good-humoured irritation⁠—if the combination can be visualized⁠—that Gram would ruin him one of these fine days by his quixotic munificence.

Gram allowed his heart to dictate to his head; he was too soft for business, too retiring. The City was very sceptical about Gram. It compared him with a certain Mrs. Harris, but Black did not fly into a temper; he smiled mysteriously at all the suspicion which the City entertained or expressed, and went on deploring the criminal rustiness of a man who apparently sought, by Black’s account, to made the firm reputable in spite of the rumours which centred about Colonel J. Black.

In this way did Black describe himself, though the Army list was innocent of his name, and even a search through the voluminous rolls of the American honorary ranks failed to reveal any association.

Black and Gram floated companies and dealt largely in stocks and shares. They recommended to their clients certain shares, and the clients bought or sold according to the advice given, and at the end of a certain period of time, Black and Gram wrote politely regretting that the cover deposited had been exhausted, and urgently requesting, with as little delay as possible, the discharge of those liabilities which in some extraordinary fashion the client had incurred. This, at any rate, was the humble beginnings of a firm which was destined to grow to important proportions. Gram went out of the business⁠—was never in it, if the truth be told. One doubts if he ever breathed the breath of life⁠—and Black grew in prosperity. His was a name to conjure with in certain circles. In others it was never mentioned. The financial lords of the City⁠—the Farings, the Wertheiners, the Scott-Teasons⁠—had no official knowledge of his existence. They went about their business calmly, loaning their millions at a ridiculously small percentage, issuing Government loans, discounting bills, buying bullion, and suchlike operations which filled the hours between eleven o’clock, when their electric broughams set them down in Threadneedle Street, and four o’clock, when their electric broughams picked them up again.

They read of Colonel Black in their grave way, because there were days when he dominated the financial columns. They read of his mighty stock deals, of his Argentine electric deal, his rubber notations and his Canadian copper mines. They read about him, neither approving nor disapproving. They regarded him with that dispassionate interest which a railway engine has for a motorcar.

When, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, he approached the financial lords with a promising proposition, they “regretted they were unable to entertain Colonel Black’s interesting suggestion.” A little baffled, a little annoyed, he approached the big American group, for it was necessary for the success of his scheme that there should be names on his prospectus. Shrewd fellows, these Americans, thought Colonel Black, and he set forth his proposals in terms which were at once immodest and alluring. In reply⁠—

“Dear friend,” (it was one of those American businesses that turn down a million dollars with five cents’ worth of friendship), “we have carefully considered your proposition, and whilst we are satisfied that you will make money by its fruition, we are not so certain that we shall.”

Black came to the City of London one afternoon to attend a board of directors’ meeting. He had been out of town for a few days, recruiting in advance, as he informed the board with a touch of facetiousness, for the struggle that awaited him.

He was a man of middle height, broad of shoulder. His face was thin and lank, his complexion sallow, with a curious uniform yellowness. If you saw Colonel Black once you would never forget him⁠—not only because of that yellow face of his, that straight black bar of eyebrow and the thin-lipped mouth, but the very personality of the man impressed itself indelibly on the mind of the observer.

His manner was quick, almost abrupt; his replies brusque. A sense of finality marked his decisions. If the financial lords knew him not, there were thousands that did. His name was a household word in England. There was hardly a middle-class family that did not hold his stock. The little “street punters” hung on his word, his issues were subscribed for twice over. And he had established himself in five years; almost unknown before, he had risen to the dizziest heights in that short space of time.

Punctual to the minute, he entered the boardroom of the suite of offices he occupied in Moorgate Street.

The meeting had threatened to be a stormy one. Again an amalgamation was in the air, and again the head of one group of ironmasters⁠—it was an iron combine he was forming⁠—had stood against the threats and blandishments of Black and his emissaries.

“The others are weakening,” said Fanks, that big, hairless man; “you promised us that you would put him straight.”

“I will keep my promise,” said Black shortly.

“Widdison stood out, but he died,” continued Fanks. “We can’t expect Providence to help us all the time.”

Black’s eyebrows lowered.

“I do not like jests of that kind,” he said. “Sandford is an obstinate man, a proud man; he needs delicate handling. Leave him to me.”

The meeting adjourned lamely enough, and Black was leaving the room when Fanks beckoned to him.

“I met a man yesterday who knew your friend, Dr. Essley, in Australia,” he said.

“Indeed.”

Colonel Black’s face was expressionless.

“Yes⁠—he knew him in his very early days⁠—he was asking me where he could find him.”

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“Essley is abroad, I think⁠—you don’t like him?”

Augustus Fanks shook his head. “I don’t like doctors who come to see me in the middle of the night, who are never to be found when they are wanted, and are always jaunting off to the Continent.”

“He is a busy man,” excused Black. “By the way, where is your friend staying?”

“He isn’t a friend, he’s a sort of prospector, name of Weld, who has come to London with a mining proposition. He is staying at Varlet’s Temperance Hotel in Bloomsbury.”

“I will tell Essley when he returns,” said Black, nodding his head.

He returned to his private office in a thoughtful mood. All was not well with Colonel Black. Reputedly a millionaire, he was in the position of many a financier who counted his wealth in paper. He had got so far climbing on the shadows. The substance was still beyond his reach. He had organized successful combinations, but the cost had been heavy. Millions had flowed through his hands, but precious little had stuck. He was that curious contradiction⁠—a dishonest man with honest methods. His schemes were financially sound, yet it had needed almost superhuman efforts to get them through.

He was in the midst of an unpleasant reverie when a tap on the door aroused him. It opened to admit Fanks.

He frowned at the intruder, but the other pulled up a chair and sat down. “Look here, Black,” he said, “I want to say something to you.”

“Say it quickly.”

Fanks took a cigar from his pocket and lit it.

“You’ve had a marvellous career,” he said. “I remember when you started with a little bucket-shop⁠—well, we won’t call it a bucket-shop,” he said hastily as he saw the anger rising in the other’s face, “outside broker’s. You had a mug⁠—I mean an inexperienced partner who found the money.”

“Yes.”

“Not the mysterious Gram, I think?”

“His successor⁠—there was nothing mysterious about Gram.”

“A successor named Flint?”

“Yes.”

“He died unexpectedly, didn’t he?”

“I believe he did,” said Black abruptly.

“Providence again,” said Fanks slowly; “then you got the whole of the business. You took over the notation and a rubber company, and it panned out. Well, after that you floated a tin mine or something⁠—there was a death there, wasn’t there?”

“I believe there was⁠—one of the directors; I forget his name.”

Fanks nodded.

“He could have stopped the flotation⁠—he was threatening to resign and expose some methods of yours.”

“He was a very headstrong man.”

“And he died.”

“Yes,”⁠—a pause⁠—“he died.”

Fanks looked at the man who sat opposite to him.

“Dr. Essley attended him.”

“I believe he did.”

“And he died.”

Black leant over the desk. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What are you suggesting about my friend, Dr. Essley?”

“Nothing, except that Providence has been of some assistance to you,” said Fanks. “The record of your success is a record of death⁠—you sent Essley to see me once.”

“You were ill.”

“I was,” said Fanks grimly, “and I was also troubling you a little.” He flicked the ash from his cigar to the carpet. “Black, I’m going to resign all my directorships on your companies.”

The other man laughed unpleasantly.

“You can laugh, but it isn’t healthy, Black. I’ve no use for money that is bought at too heavy a price.”

“My dear man, you can resign,” said Colonel Black, “but might I ask if your extraordinary suspicions are shared by anybody else?”

Fanks shook his head.

“Not at present,” he said.

They looked at one another for the space of half a minute, which was a very long time.

“I want to clear right out,” Fanks continued. “I reckon my holdings are worth £150,000⁠—you can buy them.”

“You amaze me,” said Black harshly.

He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a little green bottle and a feather. “Poor Essley,” he smiled, “wandering about Spain seeking the secrets of Moorish perfumery⁠—he would go off his head if he knew what you thought of him.”

“I’d sooner he went off his head than that I should go off the earth,” said Fanks stolidly. “What have you got there?”

Black unstoppered the bottle and dipped in the feather. He withdrew it and held it close to his nose.

“What is it?” asked Fanks curiously.

For answer, Black held up the feather for the man to smell.

“I can smell nothing,” said Fanks. Tilting the end quickly downwards. Black drew it across the lips of the other.

“Here⁠ ⁠…” cried Fanks, and went limply to the ground.

“Constable Fellowe!”

Frank Fellowe was leaving the charge-room when he heard the snappy tones of the desk-sergeant calling him.

“Yes, sergeant?” he said, with a note of inquiry in his voice. He knew that there was something unpleasant coming.

Sergeant Gurden seldom took any opportunity of speaking to him, except in admonishment. The sergeant was a wizen-faced man, with an ugly trick of showing his teeth when he was annoyed, and no greater contrast could be imagined than that which was afforded by the tall, straight-backed young man in the constable’s uniform, standing before the desk, and the shrunken figure that sat on the stool behind.

Sergeant Gurden had a dead-white face, which a scrubby black moustache went to emphasize. In spite of the fact that he was a man of good physical development, his clothing hung upon him awkwardly, and indeed the station-sergeant was awkward in more ways than one.

Now he looked at Fellowe, showing his teeth.

“I have had another complaint about you,” he said, “and if this is repeated it will be a matter for the Commissioner.”

The constable nodded his head respectfully. “I am very sorry, sergeant,” he said, “but what is the complaint?”

“You know as well as I do,” snarled the other; “you have been annoying Colonel Black again.”

A faint smile passed across Fellowe’s lips. He knew something of the solicitude in which the sergeant held the colonel.

“What the devil are you smiling at?” snapped the sergeant. “I warn you,” he went on, “that you are getting very impertinent, and this may be a matter for the Commissioner.”

“I had no intention of being disrespectful, sergeant,” said the young man. “I am as tired of these complaints as you are, but I have told you, as I will tell the Commissioner, that Colonel Black lives in a house in Serrington Gardens and is a source of some interest to me⁠—that is my excuse.”

“He complains that you are always watching the house,” said the sergeant, and Constable Fellowe smiled.

“That is his conscience working,” he said. “Seriously, sergeant, I happen to know that the colonel is not too friendly disposed⁠—”

He stopped himself.

“Well?” demanded the sergeant.

“Well,” repeated Constable Fellowe, “it might be as well perhaps if I kept my thoughts to myself.”

The sergeant nodded grimly.

“If you get into trouble you will only have yourself to blame,” he warned. “Colonel Black is an influential man. He is a ratepayer. Don’t forget that, constable. The ratepayers pay your salary, find the coat for your back, feed you⁠—you owe everything to the ratepayers.”

“On the other hand,” said the young man, “Colonel Black is a ratepayer who owes me something.”

Hitching his cape over his arm, he passed from the charge-room down the stone steps into the street without.

The man on duty at the door bade him a cheery farewell.

Fellowe was an annoying young man, more annoying by reason of the important fact that his antecedents were quite unknown to his most intimate friends. He was a man of more than ordinary education, quiet, restrained, his voice gently modulated; he had all the manners and attributes of a gentleman.

He had a tiny little house in Somers Town where he lived alone, but no friend of his, calling casually, had ever the good fortune to find him at home when he was off duty. It was believed he had other interests.

What those interests were could be guessed when, with exasperating unexpectedness, he appeared in the amateur boxing championship and carried off the police prize, for Fellowe was a magnificent boxer⁠—hard-hitting, quick, reliable, scientific.

The bad men of Somers Town were the first to discover this, and one, Grueler, who on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion had shown fight on the way to the station, testified before breathless audiences as to the skill and science of the young man.

His breezy independence had won for him many friends, but it had made him enemies too, and as he walked thoughtfully along the street leading from the station, he realized that in the sergeant he had an enemy of more than average malignity.

Why should this be? It puzzled him. After all, he was only doing his duty. That he was also exceeding his duty did not strike him as being sufficient justification for the resentment of his superior, for he had reached the enthusiastic age of life where only inaction was unpardonable. As to Black, Frank shrugged his shoulders. He could not understand it. He was not of a nature to suspect that the sergeant had any other motive than the perfectly natural desire which all blasé superiors have, to check their too impulsive subordinates.

Frank admitted to himself that he was indeed a most annoying person, and in many ways he understood the sergeant’s antagonism to himself. Dismissing the matter from his mind, he made his way to his tiny house in Croome Street and let himself into his small dining-room.

The walls were distempered, and the few articles of furniture that were within were such as are not usually met with in houses of this quality. The old print above the mantelpiece must have been worth a workingman’s annual income. The small gate-legged table in the centre of the felt-covered floor was indubitably Jacobean, and the chairs were Sheraton, as also was the sideboard.

Though the periods may not have harmonized, there is harmony enough in great age. A bright fire was burning in the grate, for the night was bitterly cold. Fellowe stopped before the mantelpiece to examine two letters which stood awaiting him, replaced them from where he had taken them, and passed through the folding doors of the room into a tiny bedroom.