“Indeed—they’re in our hands.”
“How did the journalist get his hands on documents of that importance?”
“It’s quite a story. His paper is backed by the government. Barsac often remembers that he was once a journalist, and poor. He noticed Grandjean, who’s a very capable fellow, and gave him the editorship of the Malin. But Grandjean’s wife interested him even more; it appears that the former Antoinette de Morges has a particular entrée to the Quai d’Orsay. It’s from her that Walesport got the documents.”
“So they’re damning for Claude Barsac?”
“Judge for yourself. You know all the tricks that the Boche are using to avoid payment. There’s a settlement of a billion marks in gold due at the end of the month. The letter in question indicates a transaction between Barsac and the Chancellor of the Reich granting Germany a delay of two years, in return for which Barsac will receive a trifling fifty million.”
“Marks?”
“Francs.”
“And you’ve seen the letters? They’re not fakes?”
“No, nothing to fear on that side. Besides which, Grandjean has every interest; he’s already been paid a million and promised ownership of the paper where he started out as a junior reporter.”
“A clever scoundrel, this Grandjean. Where does he come from?”
“A notary’s clerk who became an officer during the war, and then a journalist. He married the exceedingly pretty daughter of the Comte de Morges.”
“De Morges loved the high life—and his daughter married that adventurer?”
“The father is glad to be rid of her; he no longer has a sou.”
The blind woman smiled; she knew a little about where the Comte’s fortune had gone. “If the papers are authentic, the affair is excellent. There’s a big coup on the Bourse to bring off on Barsac’s fall.”
“You advise me to go ahead boldly, then.”
“Certainly. You can dispose of five hundred thousand on my behalf. What about your brother?”
“He’s still holding the devil by the tail.”
“I’ll put in a hundred thousand francs for him.”
There was a knock on the door and a domestic came in, carrying a card on a tray.
“Hans de Bliggen,” the banker read. “Don’t know him—refer him to my secretary.”
“The Monsieur insisted,” said the usher. “A private matter, on behalf of Monsieur Albert Baruyer.”
“Oh, that’s different. Show him in.”
“I’ll go,” said the blind woman. “You can tell me what it’s about later.”
VI. A Settlement of Accounts
Georges Baruyer looked at the man who was presenting himself on his brother’s behalf, who was unknown to him. He indicated an armchair with a gesture, and straightened up in his own.
The visitor, a chic fellow, quite tall, with the appearance of a perfect gentleman, sat down, after moving his chair closer to the financier’s desk. While Baruyer waited, he carefully adjusted the impeccable crease in his trousers before speaking.
“Excuse me for making use of a subterfuge in order to get in to see you.”
“I don’t much like my door being forced like that, Monsieur. I hope that the motive that led you to act thus is at least susceptible of interesting me.”
“It will interest you—too much, perhaps, for your taste. My name is Hans de Rodock.”
“What’s that?”
“Hans de Rodock. I see that the name isn’t unknown to you. You knew my father well.”
Hans’ attitude and gaze, as well as his tone of voice, warned Baruyer that he ought not to treat the matter lightly, and that it was necessary to take this adversary seriously.
“Indeed, Monsieur. If you’re the son of Karl de Rodock, I have no reason to hide the fact. To what do I owe your visit?”
“The desire to have some information regarding the mysterious death of my father and the present state of his affairs.”
“Listen, my dear Monsieur. You’re young, and your behavior is pardonable because it’s justified by the love you have for the memory of someone dear to you. I understand that the death, far away from you, of the head of the family might appear troubling and enigmatic to you, and if it were in my power to edify you, believe that I would not fail to do so. Although I have no ability to inform you in any precise fashion about your father’s last moments, however, I believe I can tell you that he died entirely naturally, doubtless of chagrin. The affair that brought him to Paris only caused him disappointments. He had built up his hopes thereon, and it was, alas, a lamentable fiasco in which I lost a great deal of my own money.”
Hans stared coldly into Georges Baruyer’s eyes. “I possess a few letters proving that there was a very close relationship between your brother and accomplice, Albert Baruyer, and my father.”
Georges Baruyer came to his feet. “Letters?” he stammered. “You have letters?”
Hans de Rodock, also standing up, took a thin sheaf of transparent sheets out of his pocket.
“Here they are,” he said—but added, smiling: “Or, rather, these are only copies, for I’ve put the originals in a safe place, as you might imagine. Would you like me to read you one of these documents?”
Georges Baruyer made no reply. He sat down again, while, still master of himself, the visitor read:
“Why, my dear Monsieur, did you not come yesterday evening to La Broue’s? I found myself alone with Walesport and those ladies. Now, I’m beginning to be very anxious, because I don’t understand very much of this American’s dealings in the affair of the Eskinen mines. The company has scarcely been constituted when there’s talk of dissolving it. And I, the originator and holder of a great many shares, haven’t even been consulted.
“I hope that you will not be long in giving me reassuring explanations, for I have vague anxieties that I would be glad to dissipate.
“Always believe, my dear Albert Baruyer, in my dearest sentiments, Karl de Rodock.
“Well, Monsieur,” Hans concluded, “what do you say to that?”
“That informs me of a more intimate relationship than I thought between your father and my brother, but I don’t see...”
“I beg you, Monsieur,” Hans continued, “not to manifest impatience. You may congratulate your brother, for his correspondence was carefully filed, and my research has been greatly facilitated.”
“In fact, Monsieur, how do these letters come to be in your possession?”
“I don’t believe I can tell you. However, I confess that I procured them against the will of your brother.”
“A theft, then? Continue, Monsieur.”
“I am continuing, Monsieur Député. This second letter is from Walesport. It also mentions you.
“My dear Albert, are you not coming back to Paris soon? I’m beginning to have had enough of Rodock, who is getting more and more agitated. Your brother got rid of him by telling him that the entire business is between you and me, which means that I have him on my back all the time, and it isn’t amusing. Georges Baruyer, moreover, is too stingy with him. He’s only given him forty thousand francs since he’s been in Paris, and you know that the fellow won’t get far with that. Now, his affair will make us enough money for us to permit a little more generosity.
“I repeat to you that he’s very agitated. Lacking funds, he might become dangerous, and I can’t urge you too strongly to come back to Paris in order to take measures with common accord. Yours truly, Walesport.”
Georges Baruyer had got a grip on himself.
“I can see, in fact, that you need an explanation, and I’ll give you one. Undoubtedly, I would have preferred to hide these painful facts from you, and I would have preferred to recount everything to someone other than Baron de Rodock’s own son, but since your suspicions oblige me to speak, I won’t hide anything from you. Know, then, that when your father arrived here he was entertaining considerable illusions about the profits that he might obtain from the mines discovered on the Eski
nen estate. I, too, made my first investment in the affair, and gave proof of a naivety almost equal to his.
“Both of us, because we were inexperienced, made the mistake of building up excessive hopes of the exploitation of a deposit about which were not well enough informed. Engineers sent out there came back with disappointing reports. They had ascertained that the return per ton of the mineral was insufficient to pay the expenses of extraction and produce a profit. The affair had been launched, however, and the company constituted. What could be done? A great deal of money had been sunk into it, uselessly; the day came, alas, when it was necessary to liquidate.
“In order to avoid the bankruptcy of a company in which my name was involved, I consented to put in an enormous sum, and your father, engaged for eight hundred thousand francs, died with that debt unpaid. Your mother sold the manor house, and all the land, and I agree with you that that was lamentable. But what do you expect me to do about it, my dear Monsieur? Those letters prove your father’s anxiety—a justified anxiety, alas—but I’m not responsible for that.”
Harshly, Hans de Rodock replied: “How is it that the Eskinen mines are presently flourishing, and that their exploitation is enriching those who own the shares?”
“That’s the hazard of business. The original company was ruined in the operation. A second bought the entitlements of the first, and favored by good fortune, discovered new deposits rich in platinum. There are banal surprises. Some are lucky, others unlucky; some are ruined, others succeed.”
“Are you not one of the major shareholders in the new company?”
“What does that prove?”
“That you’re a bandit.”
Very pale, Georges Baruyer stood up, menacingly—but the steely gaze of Hans de Rodock nailed him to the spot.
“Listen,” said the young man, in a terrible voice. “Listen to this. We’ll talk afterwards.”
Again he opened the sheaf of papers and read the rough draft of a letter from Albert Baruyer—a draft written on the back of the letter that he had received from Walesport.
“My dear Walesport, I share your opinion; Rodock is becoming a dangerous encumbrance, and I’m afraid of what he might do when the company is liquidated. If he realizes our intentions he’s capable of making a legal complaint. My mother has been to see him, and you know what an extraordinary influence she has over him. Nevertheless, she hasn’t be able to calm him down, and we still have to fear a scandal on the day we file for bankruptcy—even more so if he suspects that we’re going to buy back the entire enterprise afterwards. What are we going to do?
“The best thing would be to put an end to it categorically. The Baron is apoplectic; he loves good food and amour. Don’t you think that might favor an abrupt but plausible end after a good supper in a private dining room with the young person who is very devoted to you, and of whose talents you’ve already made use? You can tell her that we consent to the sum that my brother thought, initially, to be a little high. As is our custom, however, we don’t want to get mixed up in anything, and it’s up to you and Jane to arrange the final plan. We think, in fact, that your part in the scheme justifies your collaboration, and you know the confidence that my brother and I have in your skill.
“I shall be in Paris on Tuesday and will see you then, your A. B.”
When he had finished reading, Hand de Rodock looked at Baruyer.
“I hope that now, Monsieur, we’re not going to waste our time in idle disputes? My father died in a private dining room in the company of a certain Jane, in the circumstances foreseen by your brother; it’s beyond doubt that my father was poisoned.”
Georges Baruyer was astounded—but since Hans de Rodick had not addressed himself directly to the law and had come to see him, he must have an interesting objective. Nothing was lost as yet! Already, he had glimpsed the fabulous profits that the Barsac affair was going to bring him; he had received great dividends from the exploitation of the Eskinen mines: a considerable bleeding, on due reflection, would not sink him. But how had that imbecile, Albert, allowed those letters to be filched?
For a moment, he had a suspicion. He knew his brother; the blackguard, squandering money, was always up against it. Perhaps this handsome fellow was only an accomplice, and had nothing in common with the Rodock son? Albert was perfectly capable of having concocted this scheme in order to blackmail him. Why, after all, had he kept the dangerous letters?”
“Oh, the bandit!” he muttered, between his teeth. “This will cost me dear...”
Having looked at Hans de Rodock again, though, he recognized the eyes and features of the father, Karl de Rodock.”
“In sum, what do you want?”
“Three million.”
“You’re mad!”
“I estimate that that’s the sum you owe my father. It is after all, only a matter of restitution.”
“And if I refuse?”
“When I leave here, I’ll recount everything to the public prosecutor.”
Baruyer passed his hand over his forehead. It was hot.
“Why haven’t you brought a complaint?” he asked.
“I want, if possible, to settle the affair myself.”
“But Monsieur, one doesn’t have three million at one’s disposal just like that, in one’s safe. Give me time.”
“You have a large liquid reserve at this moment, for an operation that you’re planning on the exchange.”
“How do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. To prove to you that I won’t come back for more in the future, I’ll return all the letters to you. Your brother had filed them so methodically that he can be certain that I haven’t kept any.”
Georges reflected momentarily, and sighed.
“All right,” he said, finally. “Come back tomorrow at the same time, with the originals. I’ll give you the three million myself, in my brother’s presence.”
Hans stood up, placed the thick sheaf of papers on the desk and took a revolver out of his pocket.
“I’ll give you a quarter of an hour. I have the originals of the letters I’ve just read you in my wallet. A straight swap. Give me a certified check for three million. Call one of your employees. Order him, in my presence, to take it to the Banque Orientale, where I have an account, asking him to deposit it immediately to my credit. I’ll wait here for the proof of deposit, in exchange for which I’ll return your papers to you. I warn you that any trickery would be futile; at the slightest suspect gesture, I’ll shoot you like a dog. The Assize Court will judge us, if necessary. So, do it.”
Then, hiding his weapon in his overcoat, the chic young man installed himself in an armchair—and waited.
Subdued, Baruyer wrote the check with a tremulous hand, and did what had been demanded of him so peremptorily. An hour later, the employee came back with the receipt. Hans verified it, threw his wallet down in front of Georges, who was livid with rage, and went out, still calm, correct and impeccable, while the banker-député collapsed into his armchair, uttering a frightful oath.
VII. The Blind See
For a long time, Georges Baruyer remained pensive. That was a hard blow! Now, it was a matter of repairing the vast hole made in his fortune by means of the profits of the fall of the Barsac cabinet—but he did not intend to be alone in paying off young Rodock. He sniggered.
“You’ll cough up, too, my dear Walesport. You profited from the windfall; it’s necessary to take your share of the responsibility. And Albert? Where has he squandered the profits of which he was the beneficiary?” He groaned again. “Women will be his doom, and we’ll be sunk by the repercussions. Oh, the fool!”
He rang.
To the domestic who came in response to the summons he said: “Send Vincent to my brother’s place and tell him to come immediately. Telephone to warn him to be ready—needed for an urgent matter. Is Maurice Carnaud here?”
A few moments later, the chief cashier of the Walesport & Co. Bank came in. Every day, at the same time, he came to the d
éputé’s private domicile to receive the instructions of the anonymous co-director.
“Has Walesport given you instructions regarding liquid capital to be assembled with the briefest possible delay?”
“Yes, Monsieur; I’ve occupied myself with it, and you can see, by virtue of the check for three million made out to Hans de Bliggen, which I gave instructions to pay just as I was setting out to come here, since it was written, signed and certified in your hand, that the work is proceeding very rapidly.”
“What do you have remaining in my name?”
“Two million two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“Here are three checks totaling eighteen hundred thousand francs. Deposit them this afternoon”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“And as you go out, call on my mother. She’ll give you a large sum, which you’ll put into her current account. You’ll receive instructions shortly concerning the employment of those funds, as well as those that remain to us.”
“Understood, Monsieur.”
“Now sit down here beside me, and note down these shares as I read them out to you. It’s necessary that they should all be deposited with the brokers today, before noon, so that we can work with the receipts tomorrow. As they accumulate, you’ll send them on deposit to the banks I indicate to you, the largest sums to Rothschild and the Lyonnais. By the way, you’ll make out the receipts to the bearer; it’s necessary that the sellers retain their anonymity.”
“Yes, Monsieur—understood.”
For two hours the two men worked hard. At the end of that time, the voluminous piles of shares had been converted into a hundred parcels.
“Take them all away and bring me the receipts.”
Carnaud went out. Two hours later he came back, bringing Baruyer the receipts for the shares placed on deposit. The député checked them, and threw them into a drawer in his desk, which he locked with a key. Then he sent his secretary away.
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