George softened as he looked at his brother and smiled, realizing that now even he had been taught caution by experience. The greatest bank in the world had made its impression. It had taken the biggest to do it, but it had happened.
"Austin," George said. "If I am wrong, there'll be no need to return—so I'll buy one-way tickets."
A pause held as eyes met across the table; then the combined laughter of the trio, tensions gone, was enough to summon the waiter, who opened the curtain to the alcove, emptied the champagne bottle into the half-filled glasses and went off to find another Krug '61—chilled. He made his way across to the door leading down to the wine cellar.
Garraway's, the waiter thought as he weaved between the crowded tables, avoided elbows, legs, feet and table edges, where several port bottles were now precariously perched; Garraway's, he thought, as he absorbed the scene around him and caught yet again a glimpse of the display above the door before going through it; Garraway's is becoming its old self again.
Above the lintel of the wine-cellar door was a large, framed old poster advertising South Sea shares, offering fantastic dividends for modest investments. On either side of the poster were two small newspaper clippings, also framed. Both had barely discernible headlines: SOUTH SEA BUBBLE—BURST.
Bills of Exchange
THE year 1872, in England, was known chiefly, by those who survived it, as the most remarkable weather year of the century. The first week of January had brought shocks of earthquake, fearful thunderstorms and a hurricane with snow and hail. The precedent thus set was faithfully followed throughout succeeding months.
Steady rains and cold were prolonged far into the summer, to be followed by "an amount of electrical disturbance" unparalleled in living memory. Gales caused disastrous wrecks at sea. Thunder and lightning of destructive violence raged, which, with the accompanying polar winds and snow, greatly retarded the crops and vegetables, destroying those which were early. Throughout the month of May, heavy thunderclouds often overspread the whole heavens, and only occasionally was the sky clear, even then checkered by a canopy of wispy silver.
Cirro-stratus or nimbus?—Mac could not remember. He saw, as he looked up, St. Paul's Cathedral framed by the high cloud diffusing against a pale blue sky. But the morning was fresh, and he had enjoyed the long walk from Victoria along
the riverside to Blackfriars. The rattling traffic—horses and carts, drays, high-stepping four-in-hand, ponies in traps and cabbies cracking whips at urchins—and messenger boys who darted across the roads: all this was a background to thought as his regular stride ate up the several miles to his destination in the City.
Barges passed on the river as eventually, fractionally faster than his pace, they overtook him, disappearing with hoots from the tug to which they were attached as it pulled them beneath bridges straddling the River Thames.
Mac turned up Puddle Dock, entered Queen Victoria, then Godliman Street and crossed into St. Paul's Churchyard. Here he paused only to ask the way of a little girl selling flowers. He gave her enough to buy a pair of shoes, then, entering Cannon Street, recognized the area from his previous walks, some time before, during the celebrations for the Prince of Wales's recovery. He strode briskly up New Change until he reached the corner of Paternoster Row.
The sign THOMAS STRAKER, ENGRAVER AND PRINTER hung outside the premises. Mac had a list. Straker was on it. He entered and closed the door behind him, shutting off the noise of the city. Smells of ink, fresh-carved wood and burnished metal—copper and brass—along with oil from machinery, thick and heavy; also light, almost sweet aromas from the lubricating liquids were the first things Mac absorbed. All were familiar. He was a master at what, he could say honestly, was an art, not a craft. Forgery was a word for Law. Mac never used it. He took a deep breath, absorbing the rich mixture in the air—filling his lungs in a way that was almost sensual.
"Yes, sir?"
The voice was helpful, polite; it recognized quality. Mac turned to face the speaker as he emerged from the workshop at the back. Ink-stained hands, a magnifying glass pressed to his eye, a filthy apron about his waist, the proprietor shuffled toward his gentleman client.
"Straker?" said Mac.
The man nodded, brushing back thin white hair. "Do you do copperplate work?" asked Mac. "Indeed I do, sir," Straker replied.
Mac had brought with him several blank bills of exchange of the type used in London by the major financial houses and banks. They were accessible on order from any reputable stationery manufacturer.
For Mac, Straker had one use. Provided he stuck to precisely what was asked of him, he would be none the wiser. Mac represented himself as the member of a firm who traveled the world—Straker would soon see where. Mac put his prepared list on the counter, then took out his purse. Ignoring further attempts at conversation, he watched Straker fumble with his reading glasses.
"Here is a list of city names I wish prepared, in the precise style of these bills, each separate," said Mac. He offered a sovereign to Straker whilst the engraver was still putting on his spectacles. He accepted the coin, then took up the list, referring to one of Mac's bills. Mac put away the leather purse, watched Straker copy out the list and took it back.
"I shall call in seven days," he said. "Good-bye."
Straker looked up as Mac began to go, confused at the speed with which his customer had conducted what ordinarily would be a leisurely exchange and eventual agreement. He was a man who did not like the way the century was going. Now it was all rush; time was... He interrupted his thoughts. "Your name, sir?"
Mac paused imperceptibly and spoke as he reached the door.
"Brooks."
In the comparative silence within the shop, Straker began to read his handwriting slowly, aloud to himself. "Cairo; Bombay; Hong Kong; Val-pa-raiso; Yoko-hama; Con-stanti-nople .. ."The list was long.
§
The area Mac wanted had a perimeter bounded by Moorgate, Liverpool Street, Fenchurch Street, Cannon Street and Blackfriars: all railway stations; all serving the City, whose daily exodus to the suburbs was rapidly increasing. The word "commuter" had just been coined to describe the daily journey many took to City jobs as urban development swallowed the outlying villages and work was transferred into London itself. To live within one's means was becoming an equation of time, distance and skill at husbandry.
Mr. Arthur Mitchell lived in Hackney Wick and as a young man had walked to and from the City each day. Now he took the omnibus to save his legs. Horse-drawn and crowded, it took some time to reach Throgmorton Street, but it was worth it. Weather changes were always telegraphed to Arthur Mitchell's legs, translated by arthritis or rheumatism, he still didn't know which, then conveyed to his awareness by varying degrees of pain and discomfort—to be relayed throughout the day to his customers.
As Mac entered, Mitchell thought he saw a man good for several sovereigns and some advice on how the English weather was to settle after the miserable year to date.
A foreigner he is, thought Mitchell, and American it has to be, as Mac sat down on the stool at the counter and made his introduction with two printed bills of exchange laid flat on the counter top beside his gloves. The first attempts Mitchell made to elucidate the elemental disturbances were greeted with a polite smile, silence and a firm indication that the speaker should pay attention to business and leave the atmosphere to God. Having perused the first bills with care, Mitchell took a third bill of exchange from Mac and held it to the light.
"Observe closely, Mr...?" Mac paused.
"Mitchell, sir," said the tradesman without disturbing his concentration.
"It is different from the others in one respect and one respect alone," continued Mac.
Well, of course it is, thought Mitchell; it has been endorsed.
"Can you make me a seal and holder that will provide an accurate copy of that endorsement mark?" asked the American gentleman.
"I see, sir," said Mitchell, observing—as he had been instructed—clos
ely.
"Can you do it?" asked Mac.
"Well, sir .. ." Mitchell began a twenty-year-old practice of "procrastination for profit," as he described it to his wife. "Do a favor," he'd say, "and you gets no thanks—but give 'em the wait-an'-see an' you 'ave 'em eatin' out yer 'and."
"Difficult," said Mitchell. He looked at his customer and raised his eyebrows.
Mac had heard enough of Mitchell in his inquiries to persevere. He took out the answer to all tradesmen's problems and laid it on the counter. Mr. Mitchell smiled at the two sovereigns.
"How long, Mr. Mitchell?" Mac's patience had an edge to it.
Mitchell scratched his head and began. "Well, it's an . . . unusual request like... sir...."
Mac swiftly took out from his purse two more sovereigns, placed one in each of Mitchell's hands forcefully, then took from his pocket a carefully written list.
"Read it," Mac said.
Mitchell read it—willingly.
"Well?" asked Mac.
Mitchell grinned and replied, "No trouble at all, sir, I'm sure. Now let me just get this down."
Mac watched patiently as Mitchell finished his own version of the list, reading aloud as he wrote it down. "Hamburg Banking Company—Smith, Payne and Smith—Bank of Belgium and Holland—The London and Westminster."
Mac then took out four drafts on those companies listed, handed them to the engraver and indicated the endorsement marks on each. Mac and Mitchell looked at each other a moment in silence. It was the hat and the cut of clothes that kept Mitchell's mouth closed. He confirmed for himself the only justifiable story acceptable: a gentleman of business he was, this American, and questions don't get sovereigns.
Mitchell grinned, remembering he had already been "crossed with gold." "You want exact copies in the same lettering?"
"As each differs, Mr. Mitchell, copy it to precision—if you are able."
"Indeed I am, sir," Mitchell stated proudly. "No doubt you'll be wantin' these seals with 'andles?" He paused as his customer nodded.
Mac remained impassive and was about to go when Mitchell referred again to the bill on the counter.
"All marked 'accepted,' sir—right?"
"No, Mr. Mitchell," Mac said firmly. "As it states on each of these bills"—he indicated the examples in front of the tradesman—"the word printed is 'endorsed.' " The man nodded, took up one of the bills and held it to the light.
" 'Accepted' is written, if you observe, by the guarantor in his own handwriting," continued Mac.
Mitchell no longer bothered to hide the fact that without a magnifying glass he was becoming quite positively longsighted, and although his reputation remained beyond reproach, he had begun to notice, in his work, small mistakes, before he spotted them and made corrections. He concentrated, squinting hard.
"Endorsed . . ." He began to spell it out as he read. Mac frowned and glanced at the bill; one of them was wrong, and he could see that Mitchell was squinting.
"With a C," Mac said.
Mitchell referred to the bill. "It says here quite clearly ..." He held it out to be examined by Mac.
But Mitchell had exhausted Mac's patience; he was experienced, and Mac had given him adequate information and excessive payment.
"I will be back in one week," he said brusquely.
Mitchell watched Mac step to the door before asking the name of his customer.
"Morris," Mac replied.
Squinting still, Mitchell started to write it down. He began speaking before he looked up. "Morris, sir—with an S?" But Mac was gone.
§
Mac had a solitary lunch amidst the furor of Garraway's, then walked out and down Exchange Alley to begin the afternoon's business. He had hoped the list of engravers would prove sufficient halfway through, but inquisitive eyes and probing questions had forced him farther down it all morning, until only six names remained.
It was important that what work he required be done with diligence and skill, but most of all without the necessity for credentials that, firstly, he was unable to produce and secondly, he knew, if asked for, indicated immediately that the craftsman concerned was likely to be "on" to the authorities.
Mac was being doubly careful. If the tradesman was prepared to do the job asked of him for the princely sum Mac paid—no further information solicited—all well and good. Mac scrutinized the examples on display each time he entered a shop; only then did he watch the craftsman, his eyes, the hands, the way he talked of his work. Above all Mac respected pride. Mac, utilizing his particular skills, intended himself to put together the work bought from the craftsmen. He would then be able to make very passable facsimiles of accepted and endorsed bills of exchange, each one missing but two things: the sum to be drawn and the date issued. This, along with signature and, indeed, handwriting of any sort, Mac felt confident, would prove no problem for him.
Now he had only two more calls to complete the list.
Mr. Chaloner had all the abilities Mac required. His specimen books of scrollwork were beautifully done, and Mac did not hesitate to show admiration. Flattered, Chaloner went on to pull out other books, which Mac looked at but which were unnecessary to his choice.
It was a good move; Chaloner beamed at Mac, who had shown his complete understanding of the difficulties intricate patterns presented when made into a printing stamp. Mac listened and waited. He was tired; it was becoming a long day.
"Good day, sir," Chaloner said, eventually.
"In a week, Mr. Chaloner," Mac replied. He went out of the shop and closed the door slowly.
At the bottom of Mac's formidable list was a Mr. Dalton. Although he was very tired, Mac was sustained by the fact that this was the last name and there were still rules and ink to buy. Afterward he knew where he would go. Mac entered Dalton's shop.
Somewhere bells chimed six o'clock. Mac stood quietly waiting for the man before him (hunched over a workbench) to turn and give him attention.
"Sir?" Mac maintained his charm, even though the edges were frayed. The man continued his task, oblivious of his customer.
"Sir?" Mac began again, his voice hardening. "Sir, if your name is Dalton, you have a customer."
Still the man remained at his work, his concentration total.
The long day welled up inside Mac, and raising his cane, he determined to speak only a few words before giving Dalton the edge of it.
"Be damned, you ill-mannered navvy!"
It was the shadow of the cane that Dalton saw as the evening sunlight outside, slanting across the workbench, was split in two for a moment. He spun round with surprising speed.
"So, you've ears, at least," Mac said. "If you have a mouth, you might make an apology before I take my leave of you!"
Dalton could read the discontent in Mac's face and realized what had taken place—unlike Mac. Slowly Dalton grinned and then shook his head. Pointing first to his mouth, then to his ears, he covered his eyes with both hands; then, opening two fingers, he peered out at Mac with the humor of a goblin.
Mac later remembered this as an apt description, when relating the story to George and Austin, and even, in the telling, laughed all over again, much as he began to do at the very moment he loosened his tie and sat down heavily beside Dalton, on a second stool, at the bench. He clapped the man on the back and shed the strain of the day in loud, unconfined laughter, accompanied by the soundless convulsions of the deaf-and-dumb craftsman.
The two men remained together for an hour.
§
As Mac stepped into the Red Lion Public House in Holborn, after the brisk walk from St. Paul's, he knew there were two things he wanted badly. The first was a drink, so he crossed to the bar, amidst the jocular crowd shuffling around on the sawdust floor, and asked the barmaid for whiskey. His voice spoke teasingly, as if he were a stranger, but his eyes betrayed the feeling inside.
She looked enchanting as her face fell at the tone of his voice, but as her intuition caught the look in Mac's eye, May's face broke into the smile
he would not have exchanged for a bagful of sovereigns.
"Well," she said, exuberant, glowing with pleasure, "my gentleman friend!" She held a pause that Mac dictated with his own smile—one of appraisal—as he saw what a little money and his confidence in her had done for his waif.
May leaned over the bar top, pushing the whiskey glass toward Mac. She softened.
"Where've you been?"
Mac took the glass, then said pointedly, "What would you recommend to revitalize a tired man after a hard day's business, May?"
May looked first at the whiskey, then into Mac's eyes, which glittered, as hers did, at the thought.
"I ain't thanked you properly," she said.
"That's 'cause I ain't let ya," Mac replied, mimicking her accent.
May pursed her lips and cast her eyes at the ceiling without thinking.
"They've been good to me since I was able to pay me way. I got two rooms now"—she paused and smiled beautifully— "upstairs."
To date Mac had been only a kindly benefactor, giving May time to re-establish her confidence and spirit. He respected her pride and recognized the quality, inherited from some past conjoining, that created in her a unique spark. She was the woman he had known he would always recognize when the time came. She was not what he had thought she would be—not overly intelligent, fine, mannered, cultured, knowledgeable or the thousand other prerequisites society concocts as the amalgam of the perfect mate. She was just May, and he loved her.
"I tol' you they'd take me back if'n I was presentable," May said.
"Well, you certainly are that," Mac replied.
Farther down the bar, the owner of the public house turned and shouted for May; then, seeing Mac, tipped his hat and went off to do the job he had been about to delegate.
Mac's money had spoken well at the Red Lion, securing May as permanently as she wished. The proprietor's financial problems had been partly resolved by Mac; and in consequence, the freehold establishment had acquired a barmaid with a small percentage of the profit.
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