The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder · The Troupe (2/3)

“Yes, sir. One had a paper bag full of ’em, all sizes. I bought the lot for twelve thousand dollars, took ’em down to T’ronto and got them valued at something under a million dollars.”

Bertie Claude was listening open-mouthed.

“These fellows had come from Moscow. They’d been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the other swells⁠—I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.”

He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasise his words.

“The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back to Russia for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next week.”

“Twenty million dollars!” gasped Bertie Claude. “What will it cost you?”

“A million dollars⁠—two hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the grandest emeralds you ever saw⁠—all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for⁠—well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like any stone you see⁠—why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.”

Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr. Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.

As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a flat-topped felt hat, but beyond noticing that he wore a ready-made cravat, that his shoes were square-toed and that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.

“Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr. Staffen, are you not?”

“Yes,” said Bertie shortly.

“I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on⁠—er⁠—a matter of some moment?”

Bertie waved an impatient hand.

“I’ve no time to see anybody,” he said brusquely. “If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.”

And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.

Mr. Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr. Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the station cab that was waiting for him dripped from every surface.

“Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,” he grumbled.

Mr. Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.

“It suits me,” he said. “This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.”

The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr. Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of cosiness and comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered dining-room, where tea had been laid.

Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the snugness of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a trim, pretty waiting maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man in footman’s livery, who had taken off his wet mackintosh and had rubbed his boots dry before he entered the dining-room.

“No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,” said Mr. Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. “Jenkins, the butler, is my man, so is the valet; the other people I just hired with the house.”

After tea he showed Bertie up to his bedroom, and, opening a drawer of his bureau, took out a small steel box, fastened with two locks. These he unfastened and lifted out a shallow metal tray covered with a layer of cotton-wool.

“You can have any of these, that take your eye,” he said. “Make me an offer and I’ll tell you what they’re worth.”

He rolled back the cotton-wool and revealed six magnificent stones.

“That one?” said Mr. Lomer, taking the largest between his finger and thumb. “Why that’s worth six thousand dollars⁠—about twelve hundred pounds. And if you offered me that sum for it, I’d think you were a fool, because the only safe way of getting emeralds is to buy ’em fifty percent under value. I reckon that cost me about”⁠—he made a mental calculation⁠—“ninety pounds.”

Bertie’s eyes shone. On emeralds he was something of an expert, and that these stones were genuine, he knew.

“You wouldn’t like to sell it for ninety pounds?” he asked carelessly.

Art Lomer shook his head.

“No, sir. I’ve gotta make some profit even from my friends! I’ll let you have it for a hundred.”

Bertie’s hand sought his inside pocket.

“No, I don’t want paying now. What do you know about emeralds anyway? They might be a clever fake. Take it up to town, show it to an expert⁠—”

“I’ll give you the cheque now.”

“Any time will do.”

Art wrapped up the stone carefully, put it in a small box and handed it to his companion.

“That’s the only one I’m going to sell,” he explained as he led the way back to the dining-room.

Bertie went immediately to the small secretaire, wrote the cheque and, tearing it out, handed it to Mr. Lomer. Art looked at the paper and frowned.

“Why, what do I do with this?” he asked. “I’ve got no bank account here. All my money’s in the Associated Express Company.”

“I’ll make it ‘pay bearer,’ ” said Bertie obligingly.

Still Mr. Lomer was dubious.

“Just write a note telling the President, or whoever he is, to cash that little bit of paper. I hate banks anyway.”

The obliging Bertie Claude scribbled the necessary note. When this was done, Bertie came to business, for he was a business man. “Can I come in on this jewel deal?”

Art Lomer shook his head reluctantly. “Sorry, Mr. Staffen, but that’s almost impossible. I’ll be quite frank with you, because I believe in straightforward dealing. When you ask to come in on that transaction, you’re just asking me for money!”

Bertie made a faint noise of protest.

“Well, that’s a mean way of putting it, but it comes to the same thing. I’ve taken all the risk, I’ve organised the operation⁠—and it’s cost money to get that guy out of Russia: aeroplanes and special trains and everything. I just hate to refuse you, because I like you, Mr. Staffen. Maybe if there’s any little piece to which you might take a fancy, I’ll let you have it at a reasonable price.”

Bertie thought for a moment, his busy mind at work.

“What has the deal cost you up to now?” he asked.

Again Mr. Lomer shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what it’s cost me⁠—if you offered me four times the amount of money I’ve spent⁠—and that would be a considerable sum⁠—I couldn’t let you in on this deal. I might go so far as giving you a small interest, but I wouldn’t take money for that.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” said Bertie, who never lost hope.

The rain had ceased, and the setting sun flooded the river with pale gold, and Bertie was walking in the garden with his host, when from somewhere above them came the faint hum of an aeroplane engine. Presently he saw the machine circling and disappearing behind the black crown of Quarry Wood. He heard an exclamation from the man at his side and, turning, saw Art’s face puckered in a grimace of annoyance and doubt.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’m wondering,” said Art slowly. “They told me next week⁠ ⁠… why, no, I’m foolish.”

It was dark. The butler had turned on the lights and drawn the blinds when they went indoors again, and it was not difficult for Bertie to realise that something had happened which was very disturbing to his host. He was taciturn, and for the next half-hour scarcely spoke, sitting in front of the fire gazing into the leaping flames and starting at every sound.

Dinner, a simple meal, was served early, and whilst the servants were clearing away, the two men strolled into the tiny drawing-room.

“What’s the trouble, Lomer?”

“Nothing,” said the other with a start, “only⁠—”

At that moment they heard the tinkle of a bell, and Art listened tensely. He heard the parley of voices in the hall, and then the footman came.

“There’s two men and a lady to see you, sir,” he said.

Bertie saw the other bite his lip.

“Show them in,” said Art curtly, and a second later a tall man, wearing the leather coat and helmet of an airman, walked into the room.

“Marsham! What in hell⁠—!”

The girl who followed instantly claimed Bertie Claude’s attention. She was slim and dark, and her face was beautiful, despite the pallor of her cheeks and the tired look in her eyes. The second of the men visitors was hardly as prepossessing: a squat, foreign-looking individual with a short-clipped beard, he was wrapped to his neck in an old fur overcoat, and his wild-looking head was bare.

Art closed the door.

“What’s the great idea?” he asked.

“There’s been trouble,” said the tall man sulkily. “The Prince has had another offer. He has sent some of the stuff, but he won’t part with the pearls or the diamonds until you pay him half of the money you promised. This is Princess Pauline Dimitroff, the Prince’s daughter,” he explained.

Art shot an angry look at the girl.

“Say, see here, young lady,” he said, “I suppose you speak English?”

She nodded.

“This isn’t the way we do business in our country. Your father promised⁠—”

“My father has been very precipitate,” she said, with the slightest of foreign accent, which was delightful to Bertie’s ear. “He has taken much risk. Indeed, I am not sure that he has been very honest in the matter. It is very simple for you to pay. If he has your money tonight⁠—”

“Tonight?” boomed Art. “How can I get the money for him tonight?”

“He is in Holland,” said the girl. “We have the aeroplane waiting.”

“But how can I get the money tonight?” repeated the Canadian angrily. “Do you think I carry a hundred thousand pounds in my pistol pocket?”

Again she shrugged, and, turning to the unkempt little man, said something to him in a language which was unintelligible to Mr. Staffen. He replied in his hoarse voice, and she nodded.

“Pieter says my father will take your cheque. He only wishes to be sure that there is no⁠—” She paused, at a loss for an English word.

“Did I ever double-cross your father?” asked Art savagely. “I can’t give you either the money or the cheque. You can call off the deal⁠—I’m through!”

By this time the aviator had unrolled the package he carried under his arm, placed it on the table, and Bertie Claude grew breathless at the sight of the glittering display that met his eyes. There were diamonds, set and unset; quaint and ancient pieces of jewellery that must have formed the heirlooms of old families; but their historical value did not for the moment occur to him. He beckoned Art aside.

“If you can keep these people here tonight,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll undertake to raise all the money you want on that collection alone.”

Art shook his head.

“It’s no use, Mr. Staffen. I know this guy. Unless I can send him the money tonight, we’ll not smell the rest of the stuff.”

Suddenly he clapped his hands.

“Gee!” he breathed. “That’s an idea! You’ve got your chequebook.”

Cold suspicion showed in the eyes of Bertie Claude.

“I’ve got my chequebook, certainly,” he said, “but⁠—”

“Come into the dining-room.” Art almost ran ahead of him, and when they reached the room he closed the door. “A cheque can’t be presented for two or three days. It certainly couldn’t be presented tomorrow,” he said, speaking rapidly. “By that time we could get this stuff up to town to your bankers, and you could keep it until I redeem it. What’s more, you can stop payment of the cheque tomorrow morning if the stones aren’t worth the money.”

Bertie looked at the matter from ten different angles in as many seconds.

“Suppose I gave them a postdated cheque to make sure?” he said.

“Postdated?” Mr. Lomer was puzzled. “What does that mean?” And when Bertie explained, his face brightened. “Why, sure!” he said. “That’s a double protection. Make it payable the day after tomorrow.”

Bertie hesitated no more. Sitting down at the table he took out his chequebook and a fountain pen, and verified the date.

“Make it ‘bearer,’ ” suggested Art, when the writer paused, “same as you did the other cheque.”

Bertie nodded and added his signature, with its characteristic underlining.

“Wait a second.”

Art went out of the room and came back within a minute.

“They’ve taken it!” he said exultantly. “Boy,” he said, as he slapped the gratified young man on the shoulder, “you’ve gotta come in on this now and I didn’t want you to. It’s fifty-fifty⁠—I’m no hog. Come along, and I’ll show you something else that I never intended showing a soul.”

He went out into the passage, opened a little door that led down a flight of stone steps to the cellar, switching on the light as he went down the stairs. Unlocking a heavy door, he threw it open.

“See here,” he said, “did you ever see anything like this?”

Bertie Claude peered into the dark interior.

“I don’t see⁠—” he began, when he was so violently pushed into the darkness that he stumbled.

In another second the door closed on him; he heard the snap of a lock and shrieked: “I say, what’s this!”

“I say, you’ll find out in a day or two,” said the mocking voice of Mr. Lomer.

Art closed the second door, ran lightly up the stairs and joined footman, butler, trim maid and the three visitors in the drawing-room.

“He’s well inside. And he stays there till the cheque matures⁠—there’s enough food and water in the cellar to last him a week.”

“Did you get him?” asked the bearded Russian.

“Get him! He was easy,” said the other scornfully. “Now, you boys and girls, skip, and skip quick! I’ve got a letter from this guy to his bank manager, telling him to⁠—” he consulted the letter and quoted⁠—“ ‘to cash the attached cheque for my friend Mr. Arthur Lomer.’ ”

There was a murmur of approval from the troupe.

“The aeroplane’s gone back, I suppose?”

The man in the leather coat nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I only hired it for the afternoon.”

“Well, you can get back too. Ray and Al, you go to Paris and take the C.P. boat from Havre. Slicky, you get those whiskers off and leave honest from Liverpool. Pauline and Aggie will make Genoa, and we’ll meet at Leoni’s on the fourteenth of next month and cut the stuff all ways!”

Two days later Mr. Art Lomer walked into the noble offices of the Northern Commercial Bank and sought an interview with the manager. That gentleman read the letter, examined the cheque and touched a bell.

“It’s a mighty big sum,” said Mr. Lomer, in an almost awestricken voice.

The manager smiled. “We cash fairly large cheques here,” he said, and, to the clerk who came at his summons: “Mr. Lomer would like as much of this in American currency as possible. How did you leave Mr. Staffen?”

“Why, Bertie and I have been in Paris over that new company of mine,” said Lomer. “My! it’s difficult to finance Canadian industries in this country, Mr. Soames, but we’ve made a mighty fine deal in Paris.”