The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "In," he said.

  "Three and four," said Austin quietly. "Are we set, George?" he asked.

  George Bidwell leaned into the table, as did the others; he began to spell out the details.

  "We'll introduce 'Mr. Noyes' to the Continental Bank as your clerk, Austin." George looked at the newly arrived friend. "There Austin's to be known as Horton, Ed." Noyes concentrated harder. "We'll then spend until Christmas buying as many bills of exchange as we can afford; putting them in the Bank of England through Frederick Albert Warren's account. Only Austin is to be seen there at 'the Old Lady,' Ed, and known only by that name—Warren. We get the bills credited, all bona fide. Time bills, all of them—short and long periods up to ninety days. They'll all come due eventually and give the right impression. Big business. All the while, Mac will make copies of each one. When Mr. F. A. Warren has built his way into the confidence of Colonel P. M. Francis, you, Ed, me and Mac will conduct the business from thereon."

  George looked at Austin a moment.

  "Where did we decide to say the factory was to be

  built?" he asked his brother. "Birmingham," said Austin.

  "Then Mr. Warren goes to Birmingham," said George, for Edwin's benefit.

  ' 'What factory?'' asked Noyes.

  "There won't be any factory," replied Mac.

  "I don't understand," said Noyes.

  "Austin," continued George, explaining patiently, "will actually leave the country. He'll be gone."

  "What?" said Noyes, "but how—?"

  "Mac and myself," said George, "will go to Birmingham and send in the bills we've prepared ourselves, by mail."

  "Can that be done?" asked Noyes.

  "When the time comes—yes," said Austin firmly.

  "Mac and I will remain unknown," said George; "only you, Ed, in your own name, as Horton's clerk at the Continental Bank, and Austin at 'the Old Lady,' in the name of Warren, will have been seen.''

  Edwin Noyes shook his head. He was still behind. "After Austin has gone, Mac will copy Austin's handwriting on 'the Old Lady's' checks with the Warren signature, made payable to Mr. C. J. Horton."

  "And I'm to cash them?" asked Edwin as the plan began to come clear.

  "Exactly," said Austin.

  "The bills Mac makes, that we both send from Birmingham," said George, "will mount up in Warren's Bank of England account. Horton's credit will rise as he receives checks regularly from Mr. F. A. Warren. You, Ed, will put them in and draw out cash at the same time. To the eye it'll seem they've a business going on between them, Mr. Warren and Mr. Horton."

  George grinned. Edwin's mouth fell open.

  "But," he said, "they're both you—Austin."

  Austin nodded humorously. "But we live apart, Ed. Mr. Warren's at the Golden Cross. Mr. Horton is at the Terminus Hotel, London Bridge."

  "Where the hell are you, then?" asked Edwin.

  "I'll be at the Grosvenor, Victoria," Austin replied.

  Edwin Noyes shook his head again, looking for a flaw.

  He couldn't find one—immediately.

  "The Bank of England will never see you, Ed. They won't even know you exist—like Mac and myself," said George.

  "So when do we start to use my bills?" asked Mac.

  "We'll decide—exactly—later," answered George. "After months of good bills coming due, we won't get questions asked when the forged ones start arriving in batches. Ninety-day bills, Ed"—George looked at Edwin—"take the full three months to get cleared."

  "How long do we play it?" asked Edwin. "I mean, after we start sendin' in the forged bills?"

  "Thirty days," answered George.

  A pause held in the alcove, and brandy was sipped by all.

  "That isn't enough time," said Austin. "We can't sent them every day—and if we're after big money..." He paused and looked at Mac.

  "We don't have bills bigger than a thousand pounds, George. More than that is—well—unusual; so—"

  Mac was interrupted.

  "Then if it looks good," said George, "we'll play it sixty days."

  "So that leaves us only thirty days to get away before the first bill comes due and is declared a fraud," said Mac, thinking aloud. "It's not a lot of time, George."

  Edwin drank his coffee. All eyes were on George.

  "Look, Mac," he said, "if—he emphasized the word and repeated it—"if things went wrong—and they aren't going to—Ed will be the only one around whom anyone can recognize. And that at the Continental! The bills come due at the Bank of England!"

  The point was clear, but Edwin was decidedly unhappy —the flaw found.

  "Terrific," he said.

  George looked at Noyes, his patience strained.

  "Ed . . ." He paused as Edwin looked up at him, sullen now. ". . . if'—again he repeated the word—"if the untoward occurred, you'd only have to say you were employed by a Mr. Horton, to be his clerk. You know nothing about Mr. Warren. All you do know, Ed, is that money is building in Horton's account, and that from Warren's Bank of England account, which is what Mac and I will be concerned with."

  "Where do I say Mr. Horton is?" asked Edwin.

  "You've only been left instructions," said Austin. "If there's trouble, that's what you say—and that you think Mr. Horton's 'gone off for a while. You play the innocent, Ed, and they won't have a shred of proof against you."

  "It won't be necessary, because it isn't going wrong," said George, confidently.

  "There's no way any authority could make anything stick, Ed," Mac repeated the point.

  "Well,"—Edwin Noyes hesitated—"you sure seem to have it worked out."

  The tension of explanation and inquiry drained from George, he relaxed.

  "And remember, we're only to meet in public, here at Garraway's," he said.

  "Why?" asked Edwin.

  "Well," George went on, "it's packed full of City business every day of the week. Everyone here is concerned only with food, drink or each other. Curious as the English may be, they need an introduction before being interested. It's the best country in the world, it seems to me: where you can remain a stranger in the crowd."

  "But what if I was recognized?" asked Edwin plaintively.

  "By whom?" George was harsh.

  "Clerks?" suggested Edwin.

  "Those with whom you deal," answered George emphatically, "would find this place above their station." Edwin frowned. "It's too expensive," Mac said.

  "Austin," George went on, "is in the world of solid business"—he winked at his brother—"not the kind of rash speculation that is conducted here." He paused. "You'll get to know Garraway's, Ed. It has history and a certain— reputation." George grinned reassuringly.

  "It's too 'fast,' " said Mac euphemistically, "for the respectable establishment."

  Edwin shook his head, still unconvinced.

  "Besides," George finished, "you'd only be seen with your employer, Mr. Horton, who was talking with two other men unknown to whomsoever." George emphasized the word.

  "Relax, Ed," said Austin, clasping his friend's arm, "and think of the Four Hundred."

  "Five hundred," said Mac. All eyes turned to him as he looked at the new arrival. "In thousands of dollars—each."

  Edwin lay back in the bench seat, slowly, his mouth agape. "It's not possible." Edwin was astonished at the large sum.

  "Here," said Austin, "that's only one hundred thousand pounds."

  "We're after the 'four hundred,' Ed," said George.

  "When this is over, we'll be free to do just about anything that comes to mind," said Mac.

  For a moment they were each lost in dreams—speculating on what could be done with such a vast sum which now appeared to be a definite possibility.

  "You know?" said Edwin Noyes with the first smile since dinner, "I think I'm beginning to enjoy this."

  "Good; then you start tomorrow," said George.

  ' 'What?'' Edwin was surprised, misunderstanding. .

  "A job, Ed, with Mr. Horton," George clarified
.

  "Then I'm declaring!" said Austin. The three others looked at him.

  "Up, boys," said Austin, and stood. The others followed.

  "Our sovereign independence," said Austin.

  Despite the humor of the mock toast, all four men drank what brandy they had left, quite solemnly. It was not a small thing they had agreed upon.

  Continental Introductions

  DURRANT'S Hotel was created from a terraced row of town houses just off Marylebone High Street, on George Street, opposite Manchester Square. A brick facade with brilliant white stucco pillars made it an attractive building, added to by thick clinging Virginia creeper growing from the basement to the second-floor windows, behind protective street railings. The interior was fashionable. Wood paneling, polished brass and thick carpet. The hotel had a sedate atmosphere—the norm for an excellent version in the middle category of London hostelries.

  Nevertheless, to Edwin Noyes it was grand. The ninety-dollar passage on the White Star Liner Atlantic, the journey from home had created many changes in the young man. His confidence remained basically unshaken, but his nerves were still not what they became after the several brandies he took at the end of dinner each night with his three friends. In a short time he would be as they, relaxed but alert, confident but wary, sharp but charming. Now, as the Manager bowed to gain his attention, then crossed toward him in the small foyer, Edwin Noyes's fears leaped graphically before him.

  "Ah, Mr. Noyes is it, sir?" the Manager asked pleasantly. "Yes," Edwin said, committing himself to nothing but his family name.

  "An omission, sir." The Manager, portly with success, smiled with a face that was honest, but experienced in the gamut, hotel trade offers sweated labor.

  "I'm sorry?" could have been a statement from Edwin, it was so devoid of expression. His entire nervous system had become a chaos of haywire communication.

  "The book, sir." The Manager indicated the receptionist offering the registry. "You didn't sign for us," he finished with a gesture and smile.

  Edwin coughed to cover dissolving fear.

  "Will you be staying long at Durrant's?" asked the Manager.

  Edwin signed the book in his own name. "Some time—yes," he said.

  The Manager looked at the registry and again at Edwin. "A clerk is it, sir?" he said. "May I be so bold as to ask for whom—sir?"

  Austin Bidwell had never made a better-timed arrival. Edwin Noyes was again stumbling through the hell of hesitancy when a concise reply to the inquisitive Manager, true, false or indifferent, would have ended the conversation there and then. He was saying, "Well... I actually . . ." when Austin entered the hotel with all the brashness of a young blood, bored with life and late for another rendezvous.

  "You, I take it, are staff?" Austin lazily addressed the Manager as he crossed to reception.

  "I, sir, am the Manager," said the Manager, verifying that Austin was indeed "money."

  "My sympathies," said Austin, taking off his gloves. "Do you have an E. Noyer staying here with you?"

  The Manager had the man next to him, and the difference of one letter was an easy mistake.

  "Ah, this is Mr. Noyes, sir," said the Manager, looking at Edwin.

  Austin betrayed not the slightest hint of recognition. "Mm," he mused, "you must be the one—advertisement—yes?"

  "Yes," answered Edwin—flustered. "Let's look at you," said Austin. "Tall, eh? Are you honest?"

  "Are you Horton?" asked Edwin, looking askance a moment at the Manager.

  "I am Mr. Horton"—Austin emphasized the term of respect—4 'if you are Noyer."

  "I am Noyes, sir—with an S."

  "I see," said Austin. "Well, sir"—he indicated some armchairs around a small table—"let us sit."

  Speaking to the Manager over his shoulder, Austin began to usher Edwin toward the table.

  "Bring us some coffee, my good man. I can't conduct an interview without beverage, and I am not used to being in a hotel without being asked." Austin made his point; the Manager became immediately a willing servant.

  "Coffee for myself—and you, Mr. Noyes?" Austin pronounced the word as if for the first time. "Or would you prefer alcohol?"

  Edwin would have liked nothing better than a stiff brandy, but he said, "Oh, no, sir."

  "Good," said Austin. "I like abstinence in my employ."

  The manager continued to hover as if awaiting dismissal.

  "Well, off with you, sir," Austin said; "coffee it's to be."

  "At once, sir," said the Manager, and walked quickly into the dining room, where waiters were preparing the table for luncheon.

  One of them would be dispatched to the kitchen with a snap of the fingers and a curt command. He would receive coffee from a boy at the huge brass urn, who in turn would be snapped at by the "stillroom chef as he emerged from the steam to pour the hot beverage into silver-plated pots. Later in the day, the boy might kick a cat. Authority was like passing ice: somebody ended up with none.

  The two men in the foyer sat down in armchairs. Austin whispered to Edwin Noyes, "The Times spelled your damn name wrong."

  "Is all this necessary?" asked Edwin, referring to the subterfuge of the public roles they were now playing. Austin knew exactly how necessary. If things did go wrong later, Edwin would need all the details that could be mustered to establish him as the innocent dupe.

  "For you, Ed—only for you," whispered Austin. "It's your cast-iron alibi." He saw the Manager out of the corner of his eye emerge between the dining-room doors. "Now play up," said Austin.

  As the Manager of Durrant's was to recall, the interview between a Mr. Horton and Mr. Noyes lasted perhaps half an hour, after which time, by what he observed—handshaking and a general respectful ambience between the two men—Mr. Noyes had, it appeared, been accepted in the employ of the gentleman who had arrived. This was later corroborated, after the meeting, when the first money was received for Mr. Noyes's room. It was paid by Mr. Horton on a check made out from the Continental Bank.

  The public meeting between Austin Bidwell, alias Charles Johnson Horton, and Edwin Noyes finished some moments after midday. The two men rose, left a substantial tip for the waiter, then went out into the street. The sky clear, the day cold, but a fresh wind blowing, the two men decided to stroll before taking a cab into the City. They walked down George Street, paused on the corner of Baker Street to allow the many passing carriages time to thin out from the stream going both north and south, then, walking to Gloucester Place, turned into Portman Square.

  Austin remembered a pub he preferred above those they had already seen (too full of jostling drinkers to be pleasant), so he took Edwin's arm and directed him along Wigmore Street to Mandeville Place, across Hinde Street to Thayer, then into Marylebone High Street, until at the top, near the Euston Road, they entered the fashionable Prince Regent.

  In August 1872, Lord Kimberley had caused great excitement throughout the country with the introduction of his Licensing Bill. It was directed at the repression of excess, of disorder and of adulteration—a preventive measure against abuses of the public- and beer-house system. The various descriptions of license, as they then stood, were complicated, difficult to understand and reluctantly enforced.

  The bill regulated new licenses and, more importantly, apart from doubling the penalty for drunkenness from five shillings to ten shillings, restricted the hours of opening. Within four miles of Charing Cross, public houses would not be allowed to open before seven A.M., the bill stated, and must close at midnight. Elsewhere in the metropolitan district, and in towns of not less than ten thousand, they must close an hour earlier. In other towns and districts the same opening time applied, but closing was at ten P.M. Special police inspectors were to enforce these laws.

  Riots in Exeter, Taunton and Leicester proved the initial unpopularity of the bill; but eventually, as the British do always, the population became accustomed to regulation. Their drinking hours, in company with the weather, became a springboard of all conver
sation.

  Mr. Horton and his new employee engaged in far more consequential talk as they shouldered their way from the bar toward a space in the lounge of the Prince Regent.

  "Ed, you just got to relax," said Austin as the two men each grasped a pint of ale. "I've been to the Continental before—they know me well. I opened an account with a check on the Bank of England, paid to Mr. Horton from a Mr. Warren." Austin smiled and sipped his beer.

  "Are they expecting me?" asked Edwin.

  "Us both," said Austin.

  Edwin sipped his beer.

  "The Continental Bank," said Austin, "has an excellent reputation, as I have with them. More than a thousand pounds in Bank of England notes silenced any discussion about references thereafter, together with my pleasure at their attractive interest rates. Mr. Stanton, whom you'll meet, will know you as my confidential clerk to whom all my business may be entrusted." Edwin nodded. "Then," continued Austin, "we go to Jay Cooke, McCulloch and Company, where you'll meet Alfred Joseph Baker."

  "For what purpose?" questioned Edwin.

  "He's a pompous little clerk from whom you will buy U.S. Bonds, when the time comes."

  Edwin shivered involuntarily.

  "Ed?" said Austin, anxious at his friend's suddenly pale face.

  "I'm right as can be," said Edwin; "just thinking of all the money, that's all." He looked about him in the pub at the ordinary mortals; many of the women were gin-drunk already, and the men, talking loudly at each other, had no interest in these two Americans. Edwin spoke the figure out: "One hundred thousand."

  Austin had downed his beer. "Each,!' he said. The two men left the Prince Regent quite unhurriedly.

  §

  The meeting between Austin, Mr. Stanton and Edwin Noyes -went well. Austin smiled a great deal. Stanton continually smoothed his thinning hair, was excessively polite and respectful; Edwin responded with confidence but stuttered occasionally.

  Finally they all emerged from the Manager's office into the area "behind the gate," as Stanton had referred to the Bank proper. Where the work was actually done, filing cabinets were crowded together amidst the staff. Beyond the counter and the hinged half door—locked from within—was the public area. Stanton stood on his toes a. moment, leaning against an open file drawer for balance. He sought the teller to whom he referred. He pointed him out to both Austin and Edwin: Mr. Richard Amery—the man with whom he had decided the Continental's esteemed client Mr. Horton, and now of course his confidential clerk Mr. Noyes, should conduct business. Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged.