The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "Yet," finished Mac for his friend.

  George, a powerful man, concealing his strength with graceful movement, lifted Edwin Noyes (who weighed all of one hundred and fifty pounds) effortlessly off his feet.

  "Thirty days more on English tripe and onions," George laughed, "and he'll be about it, Mac."

  "Put me down!" shouted Edwin. He was more astonished at George's ability to sweep him from the ground so easily than he was at the obvious obstacle so much gold presented.

  "Okay, Ed—okay," said George, and with a quick bone-breaking squeeze dropped Edwin to the floor.

  "Leave him be, George," said Mac quietly. Edwin made a mental note to engage a trusty porter when the time came to move greater sums than those he had handled to date. As he adjusted his clothes, he looked at Mac.

  "Are you that strong, Mac?" he asked. Mac, a tall man with a formidable eye, only winked at Edwin, then looked steadily at George.

  " 'With a mind and muscle'—isn't that correct George?"

  George smiled slowly. " . . a man will go far,' " he replied, then looked at Edwin and indicated the table. "Let's finish," he said. And they did, counting out the sovereigns into small sacks, which George then placed in his large black brief case.

  He arranged a rendezvous the following day with Edwin, bade Mac farewell, then stepped into the corridor. Franz Anton Herold let him out the main entrance door with the information that Miss Green was still "holidaying" on the coast at Eastbourne with "relations." There were implications in the way he said it that spoke of more, but George ignored them and stepped out into the cold sunlight.

  Through Mac's windows that fronted onto St. James's Place Edwin watched George walk down the street. He said nothing, but grunted to himself. Mac looked up from the papers on the table.

  "What is it?" he asked, for a moment concerned.

  Edwin turned around, obviously still cold. "I don't like tripe and onions," he grinned.

  The two men burst into laughter. Outside, Franz Anton Herold sniffed haughtily at the hilarity coming from the Captain's rooms, certain that if the laughter was the result of a joke, it was at his expense.

  §

  January moved steadily toward February. Some days passed quickly; others (especially for Mac, scrutinizing details, concerned always with the bills) seemed to contain more hours than a month.

  All the while, the Birmingham run was being done now by either George or Mac. No longer traveling together, they alternately stayed one night at the Queens Hotel; sent from the post office more bills and a letter, ostensibly from Mr. Warren, hoping Colonel Francis was... and the "plant" was coming . . . et cetera; then collected from Poste Restante the reply and accredited accounting of the previously posted bills. Mr. Warren's credit at the Bank of England was growing to enormous proportions, and it seemed that "the Old Lady" was quite happy about it.

  The bills obviously looked good—especially the repeated Rothschild "blues." Mac's continuing industry created in him a tension and fatigue. George's journeying to Birmingham and sense of responsibility, now, for the "project" added daily pressure to his own constant fear of the unexpected. Only Edwin became relaxed. He was growing into his role.

  For him, it was all exhilarating. Edwin's confidence increased with every transaction successfully concluded at the Continental, the Bank of the U.S. Bond brokers. It was as if each week he exorcised the nightmare of his past betrayal and incarceration in America. Thus he entered the offices of Jay Cooke and McCulloch without a qualm—bent on trying what, he had finally convinced his friends, would work. It could be, as he put it, His contribution to the scheme. Besides, as he'd successfully argued, time was getting short, and the more they could get... ? George and Mac had agreed.

  Alfred Joseph Baker looked first at the check, then slowly up at Mr. Noyes. He spoke slowly—eventually. "Twenty thousand pounds?"

  Edwin replied tersely, "A Mr. Warren of the Bank of England, it seems, has done excellent business with Mr. Horton, and the latter, who, although you have yet to ask, is in good health, wishes me to order U.S. Bonds with it—direct."

  Baker chewed his lips and mused, still observing Edwin Noyes. "The check will have to be cleared first before we can part with so large a number, Mr. Noyes," he said.

  "Oh, come, sir," said Edwin. "The City deals with over seventy-five million pounds of bonds each year. That"—he pointed at the check, almost with contempt—"is only twenty thousand." This, on the part of Edwin, was sheer bravado.

  Both men knew it was a very large sum. Edwin had been meeting this pompous little clerk (as Austin had described him) since "Mr. Horton" had gone abroad. Now, in February, the two men were accustomed to each other. Edwin had suggested to George and Mac that he could buy direct from Jay Cooke with a check for Mr. Horton from Warren. The accompanying letter, written by Mac (as Edwin's employer), was composed convincingly, and no problem was anticipated other than the normal formalities. With these Edwin was prepared to cope. This, after all, as he had stated, was his particular part of the scheme.

  "Twenty thousand," said Mr. Baker in his high-pitched, affected, English "gent" voice, "is one hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Noyes—a not inconsiderable sum."

  " 's all numbers to me," said Edwin, seeing that humble pie might bring this prig off his high horse. "I'm only a three-hundred-a-year clerk—even though I assist Mr. Horton in every way," Edwin could not help adding.

  "That's a good salary, I'd say," answered Mr. Baker.

  "As I do myself," said Edwin brashly.

  "There will, of course, be no problem if this Mr. Warren"—Baker almost spelled it out—"is good for it."

  Edwin had anticipated all this. He stood up and brusquely indicated the check.

  "Then clear it first. I'll be back tomorrow."

  He was about to stride out, maintaining his image and hoping that what be believed of the Bank of England would come to pass, when the obvious improper tone of Baker's remark settled on him. He turned quickly as he buttoned his coat against the cold outside. Good for it? he thought, as he looked at the podgy face before him. The man was all merely "assumed" confidence. In his "position." Baker would never have "money"—he'd never know it as he, Edwin Noyes, would, inside twenty days now.

  The bonds/gold and notes already deposited at Durrant's, at the Cannon Street Hotel and in a trunk at Mac's lodgings (all this due to "Mr. Warren") amounted to over . . . Edwin stopped himself and the figure appeared in his mind. He waved an admonishing finger at Alfred Joseph. "If Mr. Warren's good for it!" he exclaimed. "I don't know the man myself, but there's one other thing I would say. My Mr. Horton's a gentleman, and I'm bettin' this Mr. Warren's much the same as him." He softened his voice as if confiding privileged advice: "Aspersions don't make for promotion."

  After Mr. Alfred Joseph Baker discovered the reaction of the Bank of England in providing, with great speed, a personal guarantee for its substantial customer Mr. Warren, he was, the following day, almost a simpering wreck as he asked Edwin (who had arrived to "ascertain Warren's credit") all kinds of nonsense about trivialities the young American might have encountered in London, inquired of Mr. Horton's health several times and spoke of his hopes for more future business—direct—from Mr. Warren.

  The impression Edwin felt he had left behind as he walked out of the company offices on that second occasion, with a bundle of U.S. Bonds in his leather bag, was one befitting his role. As with the Continental, so with Jay Cooke, McCulloch. Edwin was, for the moment, "content." Nineteen days to go, he remembered. His head lifted, his stride quickened and Garraway's approached faster with every step.

  What exactly he would do with the money when they'd all got out Edwin did not yet know, but it would not be the squandering life of New York that had almost destroyed him. Edwin had decided one thing, at least: apart from a few friends, even in some faraway place he would become a very private person.

  Private Lives

  THE success of the concept was now clear. As fast as the bills were pr
epared by Mac and taken to, then posted from, Birmingham by George, they were accepted and credited by the Bank of England with solicitous well wishes that Mr. Warren would continue to prosper. It seemed inconceivable, as the letters of receipt arrived, that it could all be so easy; but the preparation had been long, arduous and thorough.

  George Bidwell constantly explored their situation in his mind, looking for a mistake and finding none.

  Austin was gone; Noyes with an alibi (the Times advertisement and the public interview at Durrant's); Mac and himself unknown. The three men now remaining in London attempted, when they could, to relax in their own way.

  Mac with May; George had Ellen; Edwin Noyes, less successful than his friends with women, cursed with a shyness' from upbringing, found solace in drink. Never so much as to impair his daily duties or affect his role as Horton's clerk; but George had cause to notice, more than once, on the few occasions they all dined together, that Edwin "enjoyed his tipple."

  Mac had suggested the Gaiety to him at the turn of the year, and Edwin grew to like the atmosphere of that well-known public house, where, for the hours he spent and money he — poured down his throat, he could lose what were unmistakable signs of more than worry, and less than fear.

  They were all gambling now—and knew it. Sense spoke quietly to them all individually, cutting through the bravado of Noyes, the unquestioned experience of Mac and the pervading calm of George; for each of them, the nightmare of unforeseen disaster lay in every hour of the days that passed.

  As these days became weeks, the mood among them fluctuated wildly. To Mac, George was always late, and then ill mannered or insensitive and sardonic; Noyes became a slow fool rather than the charming country boy Mac had always thought a friend. To George, Mac had become an irritable, un-co-operative companion. Edwin thought George too smug by half, resented Mac's prima donna behavior and now, with all Mac's accomplishments and obvious education, saw his friend as an aggressive superior, constantly intimidating the young man from Hartford, until he fell into a sullen attitude. None of the three, by this time in February, could detach himself long enough from the building pressure of each day to find words to relieve the tension. Separately, they now retired into a prison of their own making. What mattered most had emerged with the initial success—endurance.

  Mr. Warren's balance at the Bank of England stood at a massive sum—six figures. Baring's, Blydenstein, Morgan, Rothschilds'—all the major financial houses were now represented on credit at "the Old Lady" to Frederick Albert's account.

  The brisk business with Mr. Horton at the Continental had increased dramatically and, now, dangerously; in the rooms of all three men were large quantities of notes, gold and bonds—hidden as yet, but soon to create a problem as the thought of imminent flight grew fast into an immediate necessity.

  The evening Edwin arrived at 7 St. James's Place with a large package, he was ushered in by Franz Anton and greeted with a smile. Now an occasional visitor, the young American had made a better impression on Herold than had George.

  "Cold, Mr. Hills?" the manservant asked.

  Edwin shivered and nodded an answer, enjoying for a moment the alias he used specifically, at George's insistence, for Herold's benefit. "Mr. Wilson is within, sir." Franz Anton indicated Mac's door.

  George was already waiting when Edwin entered Mac's rooms. Sitting beside the fire, George watched Edwin cross to the table and lay the package down. If Mr. Noyes, he began to think, became, albeit unfortunately, a cause celebre, then his association with "the young Captain" might eventually come to light; but then, if a full investigation began, how many clues existed that could trap them? George was disturbed suddenly; premonition or foolishness he did not know, but now he wished Noyes had never come to Mac's. Yet he knew that Edwin always changed his circuitous route and never came direct to St. James's Place. So even if he were caught, who could trace his movements? Edwin almost always (on George's instructions) went first to the Terminus Hotel on his way from the City, to leave a message for "Mr. Horton" in the suite to which he had access. There Edwin added the sum withdrawn from the Continental to a column of figures in the ledger predominantly displayed on Mr. Horton's desk.

  This practice served to strengthen the business association with his employer. On the occasions when he did not do this, the excuse would be that a rendezvous had been set somewhere "in town." Even then he would return to the hotel, to leave a further message to the effect that the meeting had been a good one and he hoped Mr. Horton would have a pleasant journey, et cetera.

  The reason for these notes: that they might provide further evidence corroborating Edwin's role as personal employee. This arrangement continued (in Horton's absence) with instructions to the hotel that all communications should be sent after three days to the Victoria post office. Here they were collected at the end of each week by "Mr. Horton's clerk" Edwin Noyes, presumably (only if questioned) to further them to a Continental destination.

  George censored his thoughts. It was tight as a drum; what other precautions were there? He sighed deeply, recognizing that he had become a dismal character recently, as Ellen constantly reminded him; but he could do nothing about it. In any-case, it was the immediate leads from which he, George, sought to protect Edwin in the event of... No one could connect Noyes with Mac but Herold—and to him Edwin was Mr. Hills.

  Only an identification line-up would ruin Edwin; even then he could say perhaps that the alias was an instruction of Mr. Horton's, that this particular business partner was ... In any event, how would the authorities find 7 St. James's Place? On the evidence they would have, they could never charge Edwin. Anyway, if... George screwed up his eyes tight.

  "George?" Edwin asked pleasantly, genuinely worried. "You all right?"

  George opened his eyes and looked long at Edwin, who was a certain and trusted friend. His heart warmed as the young man smiled. "You want some port?" George asked.

  "I'd better not," replied Edwin, glancing at Mac, "after what you two were saying" (remembering—guiltily—their criticism of his drinking). "After all, it's only—"

  "Seventeen days," Mac interrupted. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Ink stained his fingers, and his brow was furrowed.

  "Have you finished?" asked George.

  "See for yourself," said Mac. George crossed to the table. Alphonse de Rothschild was still wet on a last bill beside the others; the buff envelope, already addressed, together with the accompanying letter wishing Colonel Francis well. George shook his head in wonder, looked at Edwin and spoke kindly.

  "Open the package, Ed."

  Noyes took off the string, unfolded the brown paper and revealed one hundred thousand dollars' worth of United States Bonds.

  Mac took the pocket watch from his waistcoat. "You've only thirty minutes to make the Birmingham train, George."

  George was about to retort harshly when the front-door bell rang. Only Mac was not startled. Silence held in the room as they heard the outside door opened and a female voice speak out clearly to Franz Anton. Edwin began quickly to gather up the U.S. Bonds.

  "Mac," George began quietly, "I thought we agreed?"

  Mac merely looked up at George, his face tired and flushed, his eyes strained, anger curling his lips. Edwin crossed to the trunk and dropped the hastily assembled package inside. Taking out a folded bed sheet, he came back to the table, then threw the sheet so that it fell over all four corners.

  "She can't read, George," said Mac.

  The door opened, and Edwin (already there in haste) let May into the "office," as she knew it to be. He closed the door. Mac stood up and indicated his friends. "May," he said, "these are business associates—er, Mr. . . ." he looked at Edwin.

  "Hills" said Edwin, and shook May's hand; she curtsied.

  "And this is . . ." Mac stopped as George crossed quickly to the woman, a smile on his face and the one wish in his mind that she should get out as quickly as possible.

  "... Wilson," said George smoothly
.

  "How beautiful she is ..." he began, then looked quickly at Mac. "Get your coat Mac; I think we should all go for a drink." Turning to May, he went on, "Mac has told me so much about you..."

  "Let me give you a lift to the station," offered Mac, reminding George of his errand.

  "I'll get a later train," George answered quickly.

  "Mr. Hills." George gestured to Edwin, who once more opened the door and ushered the bewildered May out again.

  Mac moved fast, now angry, pulling on his coat. George stopped him at the door and started to turn down the gas lamp on the wall. Shadows began to jump from the light of the-fire. Mac was straining to follow May. George was firm. "Ellen is outside, in a cab. I never allow her in, and neither will you allow May. Do you understand?" George's eyes were brilliant, aimed at what remaining sense Mac could now muster.

  "Austin's out; Ed has his alibi; I've got an alias; but you"—George paused—"you are wide open."

  "Listen, George..." Mac knew he was ineffectual.

  George grasped Mac affectionately about the neck with a strong hand. "Never both together," he said; "always separate—it's too dangerous."

  Mac pulled away, but was held.

  "Never," said George; "understand it now. Business is work, and private lives—is pleasure."

  Silence between the two men; fire roaring in the grate; a light laugh outside from May. A slight cough sounded faintly from upstairs. George looked up, then slowly back to Mac. "For us all, Mac," he said; "remember."

  "Seventeen days," nodded Mac.

  "Lock up," said George with a grin.

  Franz Anton Herold closed the door firmly after the two men. He paused, listening to young Mr. Hills bid Mr. Wilson good night, then turned round to return to the warmth downstairs. He glanced at the young Captain's door as he passed. Since Miss Agnes had lost the master key he had been unable to enter the downstairs rooms, unless they were occupied—just to check, of course. He hoped all was in order; after five years in employ, he'd become attached to number 7. He tried the handle of the door, sniffed disparagingly with the thought that the Captain wasn't a proper toff the way he used to know 'em and went belowstairs.