The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  A silence gripped the men in the room as Mac's words went home. Two million dollars! The gas burners hissed loudly; the fire crackled. St. James's traffic passed by in the distance.

  Four hundred thousand pounds. George sat down slowly on a chair at the table. He looked from Edwin to Mac.

  "For a man who's talking in millions, he's very calm—eh, Ed?" Edwin merely smiled at George's rhetorical question.

  "I'm tired, George," said Mac.

  George nodded and saw in Mac the tension in them all. It was finished. The sixty days they had prescribed were over. They would have the thirty days remaining (until the first bills were due to be presented at their issuing house) to disappear. George pointed at the Bank of England checkbook on the table.

  "Write the checks, Mac," he said. "One for Jay Cooke, an' we'll take bonds direct; Horton's to endorse it on the back." He paused. "Ed"—George turned to Edwin Noyes—"you order for one hundred thousand dollars' worth tomorrow."

  Mac began to write.

  "The other check make out from Warren to Horton again—that will be the final one to be credited at the Continental." A thought occurred to George as he looked at Edwin. "Your rent all paid up, Ed?"

  "Yeah," said Edwin, still counting sovereigns, "by Mr. Horton."

  George looked at the checkbook in front of Mac, who caught his eye.

  "One more blank," Mac said, indicating the last unused check.

  "We'll leave it," said George, and began counting the bonds again. Edwin Noyes looked up a moment, saw Mac writing, then continued counting sovereigns. It was so hot now, all three men were sweating.

  Mac finished the two checks as George came around the table; he looked at the six bills, still incomplete.

  "I'll finish 'em this evening," said Mac. "Pick them up at

  Holborn on the way to Euston Station.''

  "Okay," agreed George, after a pause. He looked at the roaring fire, Edwin's now expectant face and the pile of wood blocks, seals and reject paper they had accumulated in a heap at the fire grate. He nodded to Edwin Noyes.

  "Let's get rid of all that will burn," he said. "The rest goes into the River Thames—tonight." He looked at Mac, who smiled at the words and began moving toward the fire to throw into the consuming flames the instruments of fraud. George's relief was obvious.

  "It's over," he said.

  §

  In May's lodgings, above the Red Lion at Holborn, Mac was seated at a small table near the window, and May was where Mac could see her, through the open partition doors to the other room—in bed.

  "Mr. MacDonald," she said slowly. The name was allure in itself, for she spoke it with love. Mac moved the oil lamp nearer his pen, then turned briefly to see the outline of his woman beneath the covers, her head against a pillow at the headboard. Mac looked again at the six bills laid out on the blotting pad. A letter he'd written to the Manager of the Bank of England was already folded, put to one side.

  The small table was a pull-out extension of a chest of drawers, with a corrugated roll top. A metal arm that swung on a hinge allowed Mac to insert an oil lamp and guide its light to the precise spot he needed to see the signatures he was putting on each bill.

  It was more the feel of the hand and the preparation than was actual writing of the name that took time: a confident flourish was achieved only when the hand rested in the correct position and the pen had the right angle, the arm dictating the exact pressure. Mac concentrated, then wrote, Alphonse de Rothschild and the date.

  The bedclothes rustled in the other room, and soft footsteps crossed the space between bed and table. May kissed Mac on the cheek. He looked at his pocket watch, open on the table.

  "He's late," said Mac.

  "I left the door unlocked," answered May, and kissed Mac again.

  "Good," replied Mac, and absently kissed May in return, indicating in the kindest possible manner that he, as yet, was not finished and wanted no interruption. As May moved away, a knock sounded out below. Mac swore. "Damn!" The pen was poised again.

  May quickly took her robe from the bedroom, wrapped it around herself and crossed back to the hall door, which was ajar. Footsteps could be heard clearly as she opened the door wide and looked out. Mac wrote again, a signature and the date. On the landing outside, George saw May. He shook her hand formally. "Mr. Wilson," she greeted. "May," George rejoined, then entered the room. He was wet.

  "It's raining," he said. Mac only grunted.

  "Would you like something to drink?" asked May.

  "I've got a cab waiting," replied George. He stood a moment, surveyed the cozy rooms, then walked the few paces to Mac. He stood by the window and looked into the wet night.

  "It's cold out," he said. , "Mmm," Mac muttered, and wrote again.

  George looked down at the table top beneath the oil lamp and in the circular pool of light caught sight of the last bills—the four completed on Rothschild and two from Blydenstein.

  "Two more?'' George asked quietly.

  "I've done the Rothschilds'," said Mac, "and the letter," he finished, indicating.

  "You've done," said George warmly, "a good job, Mac."

  He looked at the four blue bills closely. They were perfect.

  "Garraway's?" asked Mac as he leaned toward the two Blydenstein bills—a different pen, different ink and shaping a different hand.

  "Saturday," said George. "I'll be back from Birmingham tomorrow, but we're going to the opera in the evening."

  4'With Ellen? "asked Mac absently.

  "I'm educating her," replied George with a smile.

  "She outside?" May smiled as she spoke, holding the robe to her. There was a draft from the stairs, so she crossed nearer to the small fireplace.

  "Ellen is all right," said George; "she's wrapped in rugs and a fur." He hesitated, then found the right words. "She doesn't like climbing stairs at night; she's afraid of her ankles,'' he finished lamely.

  Mac looked up and across at May, who smiled beautifully; then he caught George's eye. It was a weak excuse, and Mac was becoming sick of deception. May didn't understand the need to keep "private" lives separate, as George had always insisted. She thought that Ellen was too grand to enter a "slum" and, although not showing it, was obviously upset at this false pride.

  Mac looked about the rooms, putting down his pen. He was irritated now and stared long at his friend. George became uncomfortable. He swallowed.

  "Cozy, eh, George?" Mac said.

  "Yes," George replied honestly, expressing his own first reaction.

  "They belong to May," Mac indicated with a gesture. Involuntarily George took in the rooms, then smiled at the lovely woman by the fire.

  "Assigned"—May pronounced the new word in her vocabulary with real pride—"to me."

  "Look, Mac," began George, "I'll go down and bring Ellen up if you like. I just thought the bills would be . . . Besides, we don't have much time for the train; if I'm to catch tonight's mail, I..." He stopped.

  "George," said Mac softly, "you don't have to say a thing." He turned back to the table, signed both bills carefully and put the date on the top corner of one of them. He dipped his pen in the ink a final time; the metal on glass sounded quite clearly in the silence.

  May, a little embarrassed, spoke out. "True 'uns is rare," she said looking at George but speaking for Mac's benefit. The words went home and took the poison from Mac's mind, as they did the pen from his hand. He put it down on the blotter and turned to George, memories of their adventures flooding his mind, overwhelming his emotions. This was a friend, and he wished him no harm. Mac stood up and grasped George by the shoulders.

  "Nice to 'ave, 'ard to keep," said Mac, mimicking May's London accent.

  "What?" asked George, puzzled.

  "Friends, George," said Mac: "you and Austin and Ed."

  George caught the welling emotion and embraced Mac affectionately. Mac smelled rain on the coat and felt his face wet on George's shoulder.

  "Halcyon days, Mac," said Georg
e thickly.

  "And Helicon nights," Mac added with a grin. The two men remained locked together a moment longer. Then George coughed, and they parted. He looked down at the bills.

  "Finished?" he asked.

  "Yes," replied Mac, looking at May with love.

  Tears were in her eyes as Mac embraced his woman in an altogether different way than he had his comrade and friend. Here were lovers.

  George gathered up the six bills and short letter for "the Old Lady's" Manager, then put this last of Mac's work in an envelope, which he placed carefully in his pocket. Kissing May good night, and shaking Mac's hand farewell, George went. Footsteps on the stairs, a pause, a slam of the outside door; then, through the window, the sound of a whip, a rattle of wheels and the whinny of a horse. George was gone.

  Mac and May went into the bedroom. The rain outside had become heavier and spattered on the window louder. The flame in the oil lamp jumped, bringing May back to the small table a moment from the bedroom. The soft ligh,t, as she turned out the lamp, made of the pale curves of her flesh an artist's dream. The lamp out, only a shadow flitted back to the waiting arms in her bed. Of the table and its blotter, nothing at all could now be seen.

  §

  A daily postal service was a positive boon to business, reflected Mr. Fenwick as he entered his office at the Bank of England, precisely as the chimes from several of the City's clocks struck the hour of nine. Already on his desk were a number of buff and white envelopes, come from several of England's cities. The railway was making its mark on civilization in numerous ways—not the least, continued the thoughts of Mr. Fenwick as he eased off his coat, rubbed his hands by the gas fire and took the first of many glances out of the window that day; not the least, he repeated to himself, in aiding the developing sophistication and, above all, reliability of the postal system of Great Britain.

  The door opened and a head popped through.

  "Morning, Mr. Fenwick," came the bright greeting. "Tea, sir?" the voice asked.

  "One morning, Farley," Mr. Fenwick replied quickly, "I might say, 'No.' "

  "Only were the earth to turn about, an' the moon to fall into the Hatlantic Ocean, sir," Farley finished cheerfully.

  "Very graphic, Mr. Farley," went on Mr. Fenwick, sitting at his desk. "I prescribe less fantasy, more study and two spoons of sugar." Mr. Fenwick felt quite cheerful himself. It was a fresh morning, and the brisk walk from Westminster had warmed his bones; since his early rising in the dark had been to discover that his "woman who did" was ill and he had no provisions, this morning—especially—tea was most welcome.

  "Well, go along, Farley, go along," said Mr. Fenwick. "I've a deal to do, and you've to be more than tea boy today by the amount of work on your desk."

  "Yes, sir," said Farley, and went, closing the door quietly.

  "Now," said Fenwick of the Bank, to himself, "to business.'' He began to open the mail.

  §

  Some moments after ten o'clock, still with his gloves on, Colonel Francis, Manager of the Bank of England, reached out to the calendar on his desk and changed the day to Friday, February 28, 1873. February was damnably cold this year, he thought as he went directly over to the open fireplace, where flames pleasantly threw out their warmth.

  Peregrine Madgewick began to prise off the gloves from his still-frozen fingers. His face remained red from the cold air outside. The short walk he had promised his wife to take every day was becoming shorter by the month; damn his constitution and circulation, did she want his limbs to fall off? Brusquely he shouted at the timid knock that always indicated ten o'clock, or thereabouts. "Well, come in, Fenwick!"

  Fenwick entered and stood as if it were his first time in the office. Colonel Francis, still prising at his gloves, pointed, two-handed, toward his desk.

  "Well, put them down!"

  Fenwick crossed to place the already opened mail on the leather surface.

  "What have we this morning?" asked Francis.

  "Well, sir . . ." began Fenwick hesitantly. "Ah . . . well..." He began to look at his notes.

  "Well, sir!" exploded Colonel Francis. "Well?" he repeated loudly. "Must you always enter this office with the night's fog in your brain?" He pointed a now naked, admonishing finger. "Mr. Fenwick, a little less tannin in the blood and you might think clear and fast."

  "Tannin, sir?" asked Fenwick, puzzled.

  "The cocaine of the addicted tea drinker, Mr. Fenwick." Colonel Francis sat down heavily. "Come, to business. I warn you, I am in a brisk mood."

  At that moment the fire crackled, as if to corroborate the fact. Mr. Fenwick inched around the desk to offer guidance on the mail.

  "Ah, Mr. Warren, sir..." he began. "We have six further bills, posted yesterday evening."

  "And how is he?" inquired Colonel Francis.

  "Well, he assures me, sir—the... er ..." He fumbled over the word. "... the 'plant' progresses, due he says to the hardworking abilities of our British workmen."

  "Splendid," said Colonel Francis with a wide smile. "See that he receives my best regards and hope of continued success. How does his account stand at present?" he asked Fenwick.

  "Er—large, sir," said Fenwick. "At the moment." "What do you mean?" asked Francis absently, already looking at another letter.

  "A messenger from Jay Cooke came again, sir, not ten minutes ago, to request clearance on a check to this Mr. Horton, of Mr. Warren's acquaintance."

  "For what sum?'' questioned Francis.

  "Twenty thousand pounds, sir," said Fenwick.

  "Mmm," mused Peregrine Madgewick, "we have done this before, have we not?"

  "We have, sir—several times," answered Fenwick.

  "Then why ask me?" said Francis.

  "Well, sir—it is procedure," replied Fenwick.

  "Quite right," said Francis after a pause. "Well, then, see to it."

  "Yes, sir," said Fenwick.

  "Next?" questioned Francis.

  "Ah, the bills, sir—Mr. Warren..." began Fenwick.

  "Well, credit them and deposit the bills as usual in the exchange vault, if they are the normal three-month—are they?" asked Francis. Fenwick replied in the affirmative.

  "Well, then, do it, Fenwick, and return my regards as instructed; must I explain procedure after sixteen years?"

  "One of the bills," said Fenwick, "is undated—sir."

  Colonel Francis rubbed his hands, thought of his wife, stood up, crossed again to the fire, wished lunch to arrive sooner than the prescribed hour, thought of mulled wine and said, "Well . . . er . . . undated?" It was unusual but not unknown.

  "Might I suggest, sir," said Fenwick, "that we return it to have the... omission... corrected?" "Whose is it?" asked Colonel Francis. "Blydenstein," said Fenwick.

  Colonel Francis put his head back as he turned around at the fire, opening the vent of his long coat to arouse chilled buttocks.

  He closed his eyes and sniffed away the beginnings of a cold.

  "We've a messenger tomorrow morning, have we not?"

  "Yes, sir; always on a Saturday we deliver bills come due—it clears the week." Fenwick was explaining common knowledge; Francis became irritable.

  "Someone of trust, I hope?" he said.

  ' Yes, sir, absolutely,'' answered Fenwick.

  "Who?" asked Francis, rocking on his heels as he opened his eyes to fix Fenwick with the look his wife said frightened children.

  "Me, sir," replied Fenwick, not a little proud.

  "Really," said Francis, genuinely interested that Fenwick himself would cross the City to add work to his load of the sixth day of the week—not realizing that Fenwick actually liked walking.

  "Then you, Mr. Fenwick, will do, as will tomorrow, to inform Blydenstein of their mistake," he said.

  "Omission, sir," said Fenwick, correcting the word for the sake of manners and the touchy temperament he knew the clerks at Blydenstein to have.

  "Can we get on?" asked the exasperated Manager with a grimace at his assistant.
/>   "Indeed, sir," said Mr. Fenwick.

  The rest of the meeting had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Frederick Albert Warren. Fate had already taken charge.

  ''Change Alley"

  SATURDAY morning the first of March 1873, in London was a day from the gods. Crisp air, clear blue sky and an unmistakable but indefinable smell of spring on the slight breeze that blew until early afternoon. It was a day when even the hopeless and desperate majority gave way to speculation—anticipation that what was to come must be an improvement on what had gone before.

  It almost never is, of course; for civilized man, existence with hope offers only the ever-distant promise seemingly fulfilled always by others.

  That morning, stepping out of the Jay Cooke, McCulloch and Company offices in St. Swithin's Lane, Edwin Noyes knew with utter certainty that he was one of "the others"—the chosen in life; he was at the threshold of all his dreams, at the portals of a New World. He could hardly suppress his spirits, which lifted with each step he took, despite the bulky black leather case he carried. He wanted to tell the world that he was one of fortune's favorites, to sing an aria to fate, to bless chance, to offer up praise for luck, to thank God for his endurance. Never to return to Jay Cooke—what a thought!

  He skipped a pace and reached the cobbles beside his waiting four-wheel, four-seater "growler"—the large cab he had taken solely because the cabbie had the hoods down and it was open to the bright morning sunlight. He climbed in; tipped his hat to Alfred Joseph Baker (still waving through the window of the Company offices), who had just given him one hundred thousand dollars' worth of U.S. Bonds; turned to the cabbie and, as he settled back in the seat, dropping the leather bag at his feet, said, with a light heart and an open smile, "Continental Bank, my man."

  If the cabbie did not, his horses caught Edwin's spirits, and the growler took off with a lurch.

  At the bank, Edwin paid in the check from Mr. Warren to Mr. Horton; signed for notes he took in a package from Mr. Amery and, bidding him good morning, left the Continental Bank—never, he hoped, to return. Outside, his spirit surged again, and one word was enough to set the cabbie in motion.

  "Garraway's," he said, and the growler moved off once more.