The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "Are you going far, Mr. Williams?" asked George.

  "Berlin, sir—at midnight," he said.

  George had smoothly, seemingly with no concern whatsoever, pocketed the Rothschild bill. He looked at his brother and merely nodded.

  "Then," said Austin, "we shall drink to your success, Mr. Williams."

  "And to yours too, sir—I mean you both, sirs," said Williams, and remained immobile in the doorway.

  "Then run along, Mr. Williams," said Austin firmly, in the character of Mr. Warren, F. A. He indicated the black ebony clutched in the young man's hand. "And take your fine cane with you."

  "Thank you, sir," said Williams, touching his hat.

  "My rooms upstairs," said Austin, "are at your disposal, to ..." He looked at Williams, obviously overheated—overdressed in the hotel, which was gas-fired throughout and, as warmth was synonymous with wealth, extremely hot. "The Countess," Austin continued, "will provide you with whatever you need."

  "Only ablutions, sir," said Williams, helpfully. He had at least begun to back out of the door—if slowly.

  George was exasperated now; he had much to talk about with Austin. "Then go, Mr. Williams," said George through bared teeth, "and ablute!"

  Williams went. George and Austin waited in silence for the young man to remember the open door; return quickly; apologize profusely; then slam it. They waited until he must surely be gone before truly relaxing. Still they said nothing.

  From the bathroom, noise continued as Ellen, heedless that the sound carried, was busy proving to all who could hear that she would never be a singer.

  Outside and below, the distant clatter, rattle and rumble of horse carriages to-ing and fro-ing faintly carried into the room, now dimly lit from a fading late-afternoon sun. It was a sanctuary, in which to review the many events they had encountered which had brought them this far. Sitting together, staring at nothing, alone with thoughts and premonitions, George and Austin were becoming aware of what they were now ready to undertake.

  Austin's head was resting on the back of the chaise longue, George's on a corner pillow.

  "Explanations," he breathed quietly. It was both question and statement. Austin began. When George understood for whom Williams worked, he went pale.

  "He recognized the portmanteau from his shop and—until he saw you—thought you to be 'Mr. F.A.' original." Austin paused. George was staring at him wide-eyed.

  "Yes," he continued grimly, seeing the message sink home.

  "Did you say anything—anything to him?"

  "No," answered George with a long sigh, "thank God."

  "For many things," nodded Austin.

  George lolled back, shaking his head at the now fully understood second near miss, then began to describe the rail crash and his coup at Rothschilds'.

  That evening the three men had a fairly pleasant two hours, with exceptions. George, once, almost forgot that he was supposed to be Mr. Warren, the barman having to address him twice. Austin, alerted by this, realized with a start that he was registered at the hotel in the name of Horton. This fact immediately precluded further drinking.

  "I'm afraid we'll have to leave you, Mr. Williams."

  "Of course, Mr. F.A., sir," said the tailor's assistant drunkenly, and stood up. "Mr. G., sir," he went on, shakily extending a hand to George. With slurred farewells, Williams left the hotel at nine thirty, almost blind drunk, and was put into a cab, which Austin instructed, in passable French, to "take His Honor to the Berlin train!"

  The two brothers returned to their respective women, now pampered and prepared for public viewing. Austin swore Elizabeth to secrecy in regard to his brother's adopted name.

  "Warren and Wilson!" Elizabeth laughed delightedly. "Oh, how intriguing it all is!" She kissed Austin and (when he had explained the English expression to her) agreed to "keep mum."

  Thus the several references Ellen made later to "my Mr. Wilson" (in a whisper privately to Elizabeth) passed uncontested. George impressed upon his "Mrs. Wilson" the need to accept the name Warren whilst in France.

  "There is a measure of danger in the business in which I am at the moment engaged," he announced quietly.

  Astonished and not a little excited, Ellen became (precariously, in George's mind) Mrs. Warren for the duration of their journey; but it was, as Ellen complained, all very complicated.

  The quartet went out on the town.

  The two brothers and their women talked only of the inconsequential and drank further quantities (nothing if not substantial) until the following dawn. It was, after all, as George said—referring to many things—by way of a celebration.

  Parting

  FOR George and Austin several days in Paris were enough. Their respective women were soon in disagreement about most things, so they decided to embark for England and, although to the same city, different destinations. The Christmas holiday was approaching, and the four Americans' plan was now almost complete. First the bill from Rothschilds' had to be dealt with by Austin.

  The day after their arrival in England, the two brothers went to St. James's Place to see their friend. Mac had returned to his lodgings from May's rooms and found Miss Green in bed with a cold, desolate that a key had been lost by the young Captain.

  Mac patiently heard the woman out, then fell in with what George had obviously invented, consoling Miss Agnes with the thought that the other key must turn up. He unlocked and entered his rooms with the key George had left him before his Continental departure, then watched the daily maid, who had now arrived, dust and clean for more than an hour. After she had gone, Mac took out his work and began, refreshed by a week with May, to scrutinize all he had done to date.

  It was in this attitude that George and Austin found their friend. Franz Anton Herold ushered them in soon after six in the evening and pointedly, it seemed to George, explained that his mistress was confined to bed. George sent his sympathies, then went in to see Mac, who had already been joined by Austin.

  Mac could hardly believe what he heard and then only when he saw the bill. Austin had taken it to St. Swithin's Lane the previous day and presented it to the English House of Rothschild; there, as all could see, was the second signature, in thin violet ink: Accepted, Antony de Rothschild.

  The three men sat around a newly stoked fire and began to talk of their future. For the moment it seemed that they were fortune's favorites, and who could deny them that—then? Austin was, like Mac, feeling the cold and had decided to travel southwest to the Caribbean (against George's advice) on completion of his part in the scheme.

  "Listen to me, Austin," George said: "do as I say and go to New York. Mac and I will hold the first bills until you arrive. After you check in to the best hotel in the city and are seen about, go upstairs at Delmonico's to 'our' table—" at this there was a flurry of reminiscences but George continued: ". . . inform Irving of your presence, all public and aboveboard. Only then will we start the bills from Birmingham."

  Austin began to argue that recognition might lead to discovery and proof positive that Warren was, quite obviously, out of Great Britain and, more especially, Birmingham. George thought recognition unlikely, especially if Austin checked in as Bidwell—this would be essential, as he was known in New York, and would therefore establish definitely his absence from the scene of the crime when the time came.

  "But it's so damn cold in New York, George,". Austin argued. "I hardly see the difference—anywhere abroad will do, surely. In any case, who is to associate me with a bank thousands of miles away when I have a house in the tropics?"

  "Extradition, boy," George said. "Not only will there be not a single particle of evidence against you, but even if there were, the British would never get you out of the U.S. with Irving behind you.*'

  Austin fell silent. Mac interrupted to convey in detail his problems with the bills, and the point slowly was lost amidst involved conversation, hot port with lemon, and cigar smoke. The fire dwindled. Mac decided to retire for a few hours before attempting t
o start work on his copy of the Rothschild bill; and the visitors quietly left 7 St. James's Place. Outside, it was pouring with a steady rain from the heavy night sky. Austin looked up at the building for the last time. His sentimental reflections were interrupted by George curtly.

  "If you want to stand in the rain—good night."

  Austin shook his head. "I'm coming," he said softly.

  The two brothers walked to the end of the street and parted. They had a dismal journey back to their separate destinations. Both were noticeably without the Christmas spirit.

  That night Austin went back to his only consolation; the Countess was already between the sheets. Even so, when he awoke in the morning, his first thought was: I shall never have to go to the Bank of England again. Then, remembering the night that had passed, Austin looked lovingly at the woman beside him. He rose from bed at the Grosvenor Hotel, London, in a suite they both now occupied, registered openly in the name of Bidwell. Austin left Elizabeth with a kiss on her cheek. She returned to sleep in blissful ignorance of what was about to take place.

  §

  It was almost ten thirty. As had been arranged, the Rothschild original was waiting in a sealed envelope, delivered by hansom cab at ten o'clock from St. James's Place to a Mr. Bidwell, Grosvenor, Victoria, London. Twenty-eight minutes later, Austin Bidwell transformed himself imperceptibly into Mr. Frederick Albert Warren, stepped from his carriage and entered the portals of the Bank of England.

  Farley met him. They went into the office of the Assistant Manager. Fenwick was glad to see his valued customer, and Mr. F.A. prepared himself for a final confrontation with

  Colonel P. M. Francis. He was ushered into the "inner sanctum" at three minutes past the hour of eleven. A handshake, a few words of greeting, an exchange of financial news and a brief discussion of the joy and sadness of the recent American elections began the meeting.

  General Grant had been re-elected, but the strain of the campaign, it seemed, had been too much for his opponent. On the twenty-ninth day of November, Horace Greeley had passed away.

  It was very sad for the entire American nation. Nevertheless, Congress had reconvened on December 2, and life, for most but Horace, went on. Austin smiled at the drift of the conversation and agreed with Colonel Francis that stability in life was an excellent goal and a satisfying achievement. He presented the Rothschild bill just as Colonel P. M. Francis was getting into his stride once more on the merits and otherwise of Great Britain's "young cousin" America and of her financial sons, one of whom, Austin decided, he himself was, in the Manager's allusion.

  Rothschilds' blue paper silenced the Colonel; a time span of ninety days surprised Peregrine; most certainly the amount in question, clearly written, shocked and delighted Madgewick, and the signature of a London acceptance gave credibility to Francis that here was an important document, let alone bill of exchange.

  "Antony de Rothschild," he whispered, and looked up at Austin.

  "I think unique, sir," he said. Then he saw the Paris treasury signature for the tax of an equivalent thirty-seven dollars, or one hundred and eight-seven francs—too large a sum for a ready-made seal stamp.

  Peregrine Madgewick sat back in his chair and gazed at the bill.

  "A Cabinet minister," he said in a hushed voice. "Mr. Warren—you are making history."

  "We Americans," said Austin, "need every bit we can get." He paused, then, as he watched the bill placed carefully on the desk, continued. "I hope that paper will be good enough for you?"

  Slightly embarrassed at the obviously sarcastic remark,

  Colonel Francis laughed, then clasped his hands and, leaning on the desk, asked earnestly, "How is the—er—'plant' is your word, I think, for ours 'the factory'?"

  "Prospering," said Austin. "Indeed, I shall be for some time in Birmingham henceforth to supervise. I would appreciate your continued co-operation in handling what may appear to be considerable sums in the next months, while I am absent, Bills of Exchange of course."

  "Oh!" began the Manager. "Then how can we—?"

  "By post, Colonel Francis," Austin cut in, "registered from me to you—direct." He smiled charmingly.

  "I see," said Colonel P.M., frowning slightly. "And where will you reside in Birmingham?" He took up a pen and reached toward his small note pad.

  "For that," Austin said, "you may write, 'of no fixed abode.' "

  The Colonel looked up immediately, disturbed.

  Austin continued smoothly: "I shall be constantly moving in the area."

  "Then how—?" Colonel Francis began again.

  "Your excellent postal system," Austin went on, "inclines me to suggest the post office there, as a firm contact. I shall, of course, correspond to keep you informed of my progress."

  "I see" was all Colonel P.M. could say, and he put down his pen.

  "I trust you find that satisfactory," said Austin, and held his breath.

  "If," said the Colonel, "it is the only way..." He paused, uncertain a moment, then thought of the excellent record of business in Mr. Warren's file. "Of course," he finished, "if you go to the trouble of sending the Bills to us, the least we can do is aid you at this obviously most important time."

  "Thank you," said Austin, and stood up.

  "As the Pullman cars I am making are completed," Austin said, walking to the door, "I am naming them after history's dignitaries—a good idea, don't you think?"

  Colonel Francis joined his valued customer. "Excellent. What will be the name of your first?" he asked, offering a hand to Austin.

  "Why, Colonel Francis," said Austin, taking the plump hand. The moment was portentous; here was Austin at the very core of English, or perhaps the world's, finance. He savored the words: "where history's dignitaries begin: the first will be, of course—George Washington."

  Both men laughed politely, and Austin left the room, his reputation maintained as something of a wit.

  Seeing the bill, as he turned again to his desk, Colonel Francis lost his momentary reaction to the American side of his customer, of which he was not overfond, and extended, in his mind, all the good will in the world to this young man who in many ways was, he thought, as he resumed his seat for the next appointment, of the stuff that had made England great.

  The list of Mr. Warren's qualities after drive, ambition, shrewdness, intelligence, business sense and charm began to revert to the negative, so dispelling any further speculation, Colonel Francis pressed his buzzer to find out what Fenwick had for him next.

  Outside, Austin stepped lightly along the corridor. He looked around only once as Mr. Fenwick came out of the adjacent waiting room, poised at the Manager's door and bade his Mr. Warren "Good day."

  Austin waved cheerily, and just before Farley took him along to the foyer (where he paused only a moment, before stepping into the street and walking briskly to Garraway's), he saw the great door open and close. The Manager's name was clearly etched in Roman lettering, and the gold lion, rampant, roared in silence, frozen as a beautiful doorknob. He was never to see it again.

  §

  Garraway's was bedecked for the Christmas festival. Austin took time to absorb everything as he entered: the familiar bar to his left, and before him, down a short flight of steps, the huge dining area, behind which lay the series of alcoves. Mac saw him first and beckoned Austin across. Leaving his coat with the doorman, who spent as much time within as he was able (the cold outside being intense even though the day was now clear), Austin crossed through the crowded tables and made his way to the alcove occupied by his friends.

  He sat down as George gestured for the waiter. They ordered lunch and two bottles of claret, along with some water in a jug. They ate lamb, after fish, with fresh vegetables, mostly potatoes and some cabbage. They talked of their experiences, and slowly Austin revealed that all was as he had expected. The final piece was in place. A heavy pudding in the English style completed the meal; Noyes and Mac each ordered a brandy. The Waiter arrived with coffee for George and Austin
, closed the curtain, then left.

  Outside the alcove, the bustling restaurant was gay with the approaching holiday; inside, once more, there was silence. The four men within, although not somber, looked at each other until all eyes fell upon Austin. A pause lasted, charged with some emotion, until George spoke.

  "This will be the last time we are together like"—he faltered—"this," he finished lamely; but it was a statement all knew to mean the beginning and an end.

  "I've booked," began Austin slowly, "to leave the day after tomorrow."

  "Mac?" questioned George.

  "The first batch of bills are ready," he said.

  "Noyes?" George asked.

  "I have an appointment with the Continental Bank this afternoon to draw out most of what is now in the Warren account. I have the check with me Mac's written to Horton."

  "Good," said George. "Should anything go wrong—even at this late stage—at least we'll have what's left of our original capital." He took out his wallet. "Here are the tickets for Mac and me to travel to Birmingham"—he looked at Austin—"the day after tomorrow." George lay back in his seat against the wall. "One hundred thousand pounds, boys—each!" He spoke quietly, as if it were already theirs.

  "Two million dollars," said Edwin Noyes in a hushed voice.

  "At the end of sixty days," said Mac, in a tone that carried a warning.

  Austin fumbled with a sheet of paper in his pocket, then put it on the table before them all. It was plain white, large and, but for the creases, unmarked. He took a pen from the inside of his jacket, paused only a moment, then wrote the signature Frederick Albert Warren. He put down the pen. Mac's eyes were alight; he looked at Austin, then took up the pen and wrote the same name beneath—a perfect copy. They repeated the procedure for C. J. Horton, with the same result.

  "Money," began George, "will be sent directly to you,' Austin, as soon as it is withdrawn."

  Austin nodded. George put out his hand, and Mac took from his wallet two blue paper bills. They appeared to be from the Paris House of Rothschild. And indeed George, whilst still in France, had found a printer with a stock of the particular paper used by Rothschilds'.