"Your contentment with our bank is assured," Mr. Stanton ventured as a parting shot, and suddenly Edwin and Austin were walking down the long counter past the queuing customers at various grilles, then out through the great doors and, with a salutation to the guard, into the street. Edwin took a deep breath, slowly responding to Austin's scrutiny.
"Easier than I thought," he said.
"So far," replied Austin.
§
As at the Continental so at Jay Cooke, McCulloch and Company, the U.S. Bond brokers in St. Swithin's Lane:
Austin and Edwin emerged "content." Both men realized the importance of the paper Mr. Alfred Joseph Baker sold —paper that Edwin would buy in increasing quantities when the time came, once their scheme was under way. U.S. Bonds were international currency: payment upon presentation was to bearer, who, should it be his wish, could of course remain anonymous.
Edwin shook his head in wonder at the ease with which Austin had introduced his confidential clerk—"who," Mr. Horton had continued, "will of course conduct my business should I be absent abroad for any length of time."
Baker, who indeed had a touch of the traditional British pompous reserve about him, agreed without question. He extricated his plump frame from behind the desk and ushered both client and clerk to the door, where he bade them good day.
Outside in the busy street, Austin took out two Havanas; he handed one to Edwin. "Have a cigar," he said with a grin.
§
Good bills, hard currency. George and Austin, with their increased resources (Brazilian gold—as the three Americans referred to their capital, privately), procured bills upon first-rate financial houses so that these could be examined and copied by Mac. The flow of genuine bills bought, presented and discounted would eventually end with the batch of forged copies being submitted; but first the confidence of the Bank of England must be ensured absolutely, so—good bills, hard currency.
Mr. Stanton, at the Continental, was extremely happy to have such a good customer as Mr. Horton. Checks were paid in regularly to his account from a Mr. Warren, who in turn was a customer at the Bank of England. Mr: Stanton was doubly pleased—good business with excellent connections. Mr. Noyes now drew the money on behalf of Mr. Horton, as it appeared the latter was mostly abroad on some business errand or other.
CONTENT WITH THE CONTINENTAL was the sign that had begun to confront Edwin as several times a week he approached the teller at that bank to deposit and withdraw. Two Warren checks were to go in and one thousand pounds was to be withdrawn to buy bills, once more to be submitted at the Bank of England, thereby increasing the balance from which Mr. Horton would again benefit.
"Do you wish to see your employer's account, Mr. Noyes?" the teller would ask occasionally.
"There is within it sufficient funds, I hope?" Edwin Noyes would reply.
"Oh, indeed, sir," the bank teller affirmed each time. "Then, good morning," Edwin would finish, tipping his hat and going.
September became November. Austin continued to show himself at the Bank of England, presenting his bills and buying foreign currency for his several trips abroad to purchase on foreign houses. All the while, as each new bill arrived Mac would study it well and copy it to perfection, leaving out only the date and the amount for which it was valued. The ground-floor front room of 7 St. James's Place became a hive of almost silent industry as Mac, with the gaslight turned to full and the shutters drawn even during the day, examined the paper, scrutinized scroll and lettering and tested the inks, color and consistency of each bill of exchange George or Austin brought round.
It was not an easy time for Mac. But Edwin Noyes had relaxed and begun to absorb the confidence of his friends. He also began to enjoy London. Austin maintained his quite separate roles superbly. Now a decidedly infrequent visitor at the Continental and no longer at all in the offices of Jay Cooke, McCulloch and Company, Austin did maintain a relationship with Fenwick at "the Old Lady."
"Afternoon, Mr. Warren" might well begin one of several opening gambits from Fenwick. "Brisk trading of late, I see."
"Indeed, Mr. Fenwick," Austin would reply. "My regards to Colonel Francis."
"I shall convey them, sir," answered Fenwick.
Thus Austin had the best possible ambassador, who, seeing the large bills and knowing the regular flow of money to be consistent in both directions (a happy event for any manager), would keep his superior informed on the odd occasions conversation was struck up regarding valued clients.
As August had been, so was November Lord Kimberley's month. A grand banquet was given at the Cannon Street Hotel to celebrate the opening of telegraphic communications with Australia on the fifteenth of the month. The telegraph wires were brought into the room and placed in connection with the wires to Australia. During the speech at dinner from Lord Kimberley, replies were received from Adelaide, New South Wales and Victoria.
Six retransmissions were necessary to further the message either way. "The Company," Lord Kimberley had stated, "on the occasion of the telegraphic dinner, join me in drinking prosperity to the Colonies, and in rejoicing at this great bond of union between different members of the Empire."
Amongst distinguished guests were the Manager of the Bank of England and Mr. J. Stanton, one of the financiers of the project. Directly after the Lord's speech, the latter went downstairs to relieve himself of a half pint of claret. Had Colonel Francis, who was at that time unacquainted with Mr. Stanton, decided also to walk down the stairs to the gentlemen's toilet, the two men would have been shoulder to shoulder with Austin Bidwell and Edwin Noyes, who had taken a quick supper together in the Cannon Street Hotel dining room, paid for by Mr. Horton.
Had Mr. Stanton seen them, coincidence would have been named and smiles have resulted from the meeting; had only Colonel Francis seen them, the same would probably have happened as perhaps Mr. Warren would have introduced his friend in some fictitious name or other; but had both Mr. Stanton and Colonel Francis entered the gentlemen's "cloakroom" and encountered the two, Austin and Edwin, who now buttoned up and turned to leave—what might have been the story thereafter?
As it was, Mr. Stanton paused at the foot of the stairs to greet a colleague. Taking their overcoats, unaware of imminent possibilities, Austin and Edwin were out the main door before the conversation finished. That night, absentlychecking his overcoat pockets at the Grosvenor, Austin came across the guest list of the grand dinner, which he'd idly picked up while awaiting the cloakroom attendant.
Outside his hotel, November-night rain spattered the windows, and even a large gas fire in the grate of his bedroom was inadequate against the cold. As things were going so well, Austin had decided to go to Germany and rendezvous with the Countess, with whom he had remained in contact. So far so good, he said to himself. Then he saw the two names on the guest list. It aged him considerably.
Intimate Relations
MISS Agnes B. Green kept a private hotel at 7 St. James's Place. Captain MacDonald had become a valued tenant. Her manager, Franz Anton Herold, was, to a degree, jealous of Miss Green's affections for the admittedly handsome young American, but he did his duties with the panache he had perfected, a charm that was matched only by the young Captain's.
As the weather worsened, the young American appeared to remain in his rooms far more. Herold was asked, on several occasions, to build up the fires, as the young Captain obviously seemed to feel the cold. The gas lamps on the wall appeared to the Manager always to be in use; the globes were cracked from the pressure of the gas, and the ceiling above the burners had become very black.
The man's health began to suffer toward the end of November, and Miss Green invited the young gentleman one night to her rooms to advise him to rest. Whatever he was doing, writing or illustrating, he must be careful not to neglect himself: that was the drift of her conversation. All else was in reference to his friends and, of course, herself. Here she dwelt some while, so that the candlelight, wine and pale green dress she wore, provocatively l
ow-cut, mesmerized the exhausted Mac, who was saved only by the timely arrival of Franz Anton declaring that Captain MacDonald's acquaintance was at the door, despite the late hour.
Mac descended with Franz and greeted George, who was waiting in the hallway. Flakes of snow lay on his shoulders, and his pale face seemed even whiter with cold.
"Come in. I've a good fire burning still, George," said Mac. "Thank you, Franz," he finished.
The Manager took the finely made topcoat from the visitor and watched the two men go into Captain MacDonald's rooms. The label of the coat was Savile Row. Franz Anton hung it up to dry.
"Is it snowing?" Mac asked.
"Damn near trying." George paused as he took off his gloves. "He called you Captain."
"The Civil War gave us all something," Mac replied sardonically.
"I just got wounds and busted to private," said George, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "For what?" asked Mac, genuinely inquisitive. "Which?" replied George with a grin. "Both," said Mac.
"Playing ..." George smiled. Mac didn't follow. "... hero," George went on, "and with officers' ladies." Mac shook his head and laughed.
They both crossed to the large table covered with a white sheet. Mac lifted it off and turned to George. He watched as his visitor slowly studied the paper; he was careful to touch nothing.
"Mac—you're an artist," George said eventually.
Mac walked to the open fire, stoked it noisily, then flopped into the armchair on one side of the grate. He spread out his legs and sighed.
"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything?" George began.
Mac opened one eye. George indicated the floor above.
"She's pretty," he said, smiling.
"For a landlady," said Mac flatly.
George sat down opposite his friend and took out a cheroot. He lit it from the fire with a taper. The fire roared in the grate, throwing out flames as logs crackled; outside, the wind blew against the windows. The snow made no sound, but it was there—early this year: it was not quite December. Mac looked long at George, his eyes only half open with a combination of wine and fatigue.
"We need," said Mac, "a big bill, George. On an important house."
"Like what, Mac?" questioned George.
"Rothschilds'," said Mac.
The one word fell heavily in the room.
"Now, listen, boy," George began.
"It's too much work, George," interrupted Mac.
A pause held once again between the two men. Mac shifted his feet and reached out for some of the port in a decanter on the small table beside his chair. He poured two glasses.
"Mac—look . . ." George remained calm, recognizing the strain in his friend. "We're almost ready."
"If we put in a bill to 'the Old Lady' on Rothschilds' that is real and has been accepted here first as proof, I think then we'll be ready," said Mac.
"Mac," said George, taking the proffered glass of port, "Rothschilds' is no different from Baring's or Blydenstein."
"I'll tell you just how different they are," said Mac. He took up the newspaper beside him, which he then threw at George, who caught part of it. "Read that." He pointed.
"Mac, you're tired."
"One hundred thousand pounds," said Mac, "is one hundred bills, George. You know the amount of work in only one?"
"Mac, for two months now you've . . ." George faltered; he could see Mac's mind was set.
"Sixty thousand on Rothschild could be only ten bills, George." Mac spoke it quietly, making the implication obvious. George could add up.
"A bill for six thousand pounds is not possible, Mac—you know that," he said.
"What we're doin' isn't possible," replied Mac. His eyes glittered in the firelight as he looked at George. He sipped his port slowly. George took up the copy of The Times and looked again at the picture and article Mac had referred to.
"Sir Antony de Rothschild is not only head of the London House and therefore the acceptor here—he's a director of the Bank of England," stated Mac. Then he grinned.
"You need a rest," said George. Now he was worried. Mac would not be dissuaded. He'd thought it all out.
"But in Paris on London," Mac began; "say you don't want to carry six bills—tell them anything; play the Silver King—anything; but what we have is an impression, George, that we have established 'intimate relations' with the Rothschilds."
George looked at Mac patiently. "It's never been done," he said, eventually. "Exactly," said Mac.
George could hear demand in his companion's tone of voice. A lot depended on Mac now that the setup had been created, so the question had to be asked.
"You're saying that you want this bill—a time bill of six thousand on Rothschilds'—or you are going to stop; is that it?"
Mac didn't even have to think.
"Exactly," he said.
"How's May?" asked George.
"How's Ellen?" retorted Mac, quite a match for his friend in any confrontation.
Ellen was a young woman whom George had taken up with during the past month. Obviously attractive, she seemed to Mac too shrewish to be considered for more than a night's liaison; she was the marrying kind and had little more than a sort of peasant beauty to recommend her. May too . . . Mac stopped the thought. She was altogether different. But then, so men think always—the eye and the heart. Mac smiled, then began to laugh as George answered, "She's ridin' round in the area with the cabbie.''
"In the snow?" said Mac.
It was hardly funny to think of his woman suffering in the cold, albeit under rugs, but George laughed all the same. The atmosphere lost some of the charge that was building up.
"I want to be sure," said Mac softly.
"I am already," George stated confidently.
"We've got credit," Mac began, "but a Rothschild bill for six makes us rock-solid." "I'm sure," George said quietly. "I am not." Mac was firm.
The two men retired to private thoughts. George drew on his cheroot. Mac sipped more port. There could be no argument if Mac remained adamant—that was obvious. A knock sounded on the door. Mac looked up a moment. Franz Anton Herold's voice came through the oak:
"Miss Green has retired, sir."
He paused for a reaction. There was none. "She said to tell you, sir . . ." Franz's voice trailed off. "Good night," he finished.
Both men heard his footsteps recede in the large hallway. The fire crackled and roared still. The sash windows shook in the wind. It was late.
"Austin can't do it," said George.
"Why?" asked Mac.
"He's gone to Germany to see his woman—the Countess." George faltered.
"He told us Paris, George," said Mac harshly.
"He won't be in Paris for several days," answered George sharply.
"Where?"
"The Grand Hotel."
Mac listened to this last reply of George's, then smiled almost viciously. "Then you go," he said. "But that's not possible..." began George. "Why?" asked Mac sarcastically.
"Austin is Warren, and the bill would have to be made out to—"
"Then go as Warren," interrupted Mac. "Austin is traveling in Europe as Horton—as you well know."
This last struck home. George took several moments to answer. "It'll take time."
"One week," said Mac. He softened toward his friend, smiled, stood up, stretched and walked to the door.
"Where you goin'?" asked George, rising from the armchair.
"To bed," grinned Mac. "For a week."
"Wait, and I'll come with you," said George.
"You have to check the bills," said Mac, "and you already have a cab—remember?" Mac took his coat and put it on, hugging it to him as he reached for his hat.
"Take care of yourself," said George.
"Let yourself out," Mac smiled.
The two men shook hands warmly—comrades without a doubt.
"Give May my love," said George.
"Give Paris mine," replied Mac, and went.
George turned the
key in the lock, then pocketed it. He heard the outer door slam shut and looked across at the table and its bills. If Mac was going to be away for a week, he would need to cover them all with the sheet before he left; turn off the gas and dampen the fire; then lock the door from inquisitive eyes. Mac had assured him no one entered unless requested. He hoped Mac was right and decided to hide the made-up blocks and seals at least.
A delicate knock on the door froze George on the spot.
"George," the voice said.
George remained silent.
"George?" the voice repeated.
Silence again; then a key went into the lock and the door slowly opened. Miss Green stood against the strong hall light, lit from in front by the fire in the large room, in all her glory. A very daring nightdress concealed relatively little of her bosom and accentuated her well-kept Victorian shapeliness.
"Has he gone, George?" she asked, squinting into the comparative darkness within the room.
George realized full well, as he emerged from the shadow, that she was addressing George MacDonald, but he stood before her all the same. She knew him by sight if not name, and her passion was already aroused.
"Oh—it's you," she said—but didn't move.
"Mac has gone out," said George.
"And what do I call .you?" said Miss Green, mischievously and not a little drunk.
"George," said George.
"Well, that won't be difficult to remember," she slurred.
"Would you like a drink, George—upstairs?"
George said yes, and Miss Green giggled. She went upstairs slowly, looking back twice, coyly.
George said, "Don't catch cold," and Miss Green was out of sight through a doorway that glowed with a soft red light from within. George closed Mac's polished oak door and gathered up all the bills. He put them carefully into a small case by the sideboard, then locked it. He put all the engraved work into a trunk in Mac's bedroom and locked that too. Only pens, ink, rules and glass squares he left on the table. He looked around him, then opened the door again.
The Four Hundred Page 19