For a moment he stood motionless, while he looked at each one in turn. Then he stepped forward…
“Good evening, gentlemen”—he still spoke in French—“I am honoured at your presence.” He turned to the head waiter. “Let dinner be served in five minutes exactly.”
With a bow the man left the room, and the door closed. “During that five minutes, gentlemen, I propose to introduce myself to you, and you to one another.” As he spoke he divested himself of his coat and hat. “The business which I wish to discuss we will postpone, with your permission, till after coffee, when we shall be undisturbed.”
In silence the three guests waited while he unwound the thick white muffler; then, with undisguised curiosity, they studied their host. In appearance he was striking. He had a short dark beard, and in profile his face was aquiline and stern. The eyes, which had so impressed the manager, seemed now to be a cold grey-blue; the thick brown hair, flecked slightly with grey, was brushed back from a broad forehead. His hands were large and white; not effeminate, but capable and determined: the hands of a man who knew what he wanted, knew how to get it and got it. To even the most superficial observer the giver of the feast was a man of power: a man capable of forming instant decisions and of carrying them through…
And if so much was obvious to the superficial observer, it was more than obvious to the three men who stood by the fire watching him. They were what they were simply owing to the fact that they were not superficial servers of humanity; and each one of them, as he watched his host, realised that he was in the presence of a great man. It was enough: great men do not send fool invitations to dinner to men of international repute. It mattered not what form his greatness took—there was money in greatness, big money. And money was their life…
The Count advanced first to the American.
“Mr. Hocking, I believe,” he remarked in English, holding out his hand. “I am glad you managed to come.”
The American shook the proffered hand, while the two Germans looked at him with sudden interest. As the man at the head of the great American cotton trust, worth more in millions than he could count, he was entitled to their respect…
“That’s me, Count,” returned the millionaire in his nasal twang.
“I am interested to know to what I am indebted for this invitation.”
“All in good time, Mr. Hocking,” smiled the host. “I have hopes that the dinner will fill in that time satisfactorily.”
He turned to the taller of the two Germans, who without his coat seemed more like a cod-fish than ever.
“Herr Steinemann, is it not?” This time he spoke in German. The man whose interest in German coal was hardly less well known than Hocking’s in cotton, bowed stiffly.
“And Herr von Gratz?” The Count turned to the last member of the party and shook hands. Though less well known than either of the other two in the realms of international finance, von Gratz’s name in the steel trade in Central Europe was one to conjure with.
“Well, gentlemen,” said the Count, “before we sit down to dinner, I may perhaps be permitted to say a few words of introduction. The nations of the world have recently been engaged in a performance of unrivalled stupidity. As far as one can tell that performance is now over. The last thing I wish to do is to discuss the war—except in so far as it concerns our meeting here tonight. Mr. Hocking is an American, you two gentlemen are Germans. I”—the Count smiled slightly—“have no nationality. Or rather, shall I say, I have every nationality. Completely cosmopolitan… Gentlemen, the war was waged by idiots, and when idiots get busy on a large scale, it is time for clever men to step in… That is the raison d’être for this little dinner… I claim that we four men are sufficiently international to be able to disregard any stupid and petty feelings about this country and that country, and to regard the world outlook at the present moment from one point of view and one point of view only—our own.”
The gaunt American gave a hoarse chuckle.
“It will be my object after dinner,” continued the Count, “to try and prove to you that we have a common point of view. Until then—shall we merely concentrate on a pious hope that the Hotel Nationale will not poison us with their food?”
“I guess,” remarked the American, “that you’ve got a pretty healthy command of languages, Count.”
“I speak four fluently—French, German, English, and Spanish,” returned the other. “In addition I can make myself understood in Russia, Japan, China, the Balkan States, and—America.”
His smile, as he spoke, robbed the words of any suspicion of offence. The next moment the head waiter opened the door, and the four men sat down to dine.
It must be admitted that the average hostess, desirous of making a dinner a success, would have been filled with secret dismay at the general atmosphere in the room. The American, in accumulating his millions, had also accumulated a digestion of such an exotic and tender character that dry rusks and Vichy water were the limit of his capacity.
Herr Steinemann was of the common order of German, to whom food was sacred. He ate and drank enormously, and evidently considered that nothing further was required of him.
Von Gratz did his best to keep his end up, but as he was apparently in a chronic condition of fear that the gaunt American would assault him with violence, he cannot be said to have contributed much to the gaiety of the meal.
And so to the host must be given the credit that the dinner was a success. Without appearing to monopolise the conversation he talked ceaselessly and well. More—he talked brilliantly. There seemed to be no corner of the globe with which he had not a nodding acquaintance at least; while with most places he was as familiar as a Londoner with Piccadilly Circus. But to even the most brilliant of conversationalists the strain of talking to a hypochondriacal American and two Germans—one greedy and the other frightened—is considerable; and the Count heaved an inward sigh of relief when the coffee had been handed round and the door closed behind the waiter. From now on the topic was an easy one—one where no effort on his part would be necessary to hold his audience. It was the topic of money—the common bond of his three guests. And yet, as he carefully cut the end of his cigar, and realised that the eyes of the other three were fixed on him expectantly, he knew that the hardest part of the evening was in front of him. Big financiers, in common with all other people, are fonder of having money put into their pockets than of taking it out. And that was the very thing the Count proposed they should do—in large quantities…
“Gentlemen,” he remarked, when his cigar was going to his satisfaction, “we are all men of business. I do not propose therefore to beat about the bush over the matter which I have to put before you, but to come to the point at once. I said before dinner that I considered we were sufficiently big to exclude any small arbitrary national distinctions from our minds. As men whose interests are international, such things are beneath us. I wish now to slightly qualify that remark.” He turned to the American on his right, who with his eyes half closed was thoughtfully picking his teeth. “At this stage, sir, I address myself particularly to you.”
“Go right ahead,” drawled Mr. Hocking.
“I do not wish to touch on the war—or its result; but though the Central Powers have been beaten by America and France and England, I think I can speak for you two gentlemen”—he bowed to the two Germans—“when I say that it is neither France nor America with whom they desire another round. England is Germany’s main enemy; she always has been, she always will be.”
Both Germans grunted assent, and the American’s eyes closed a little more.
“I have reason to believe, Mr. Hocking, that you personally do not love the English?”
“I guess I don’t see what my private feelings have got to do with it. But if it’s of any interest to the company, you are correct in your belief.”
“Good.” The Count nodded his head as if satisfied. “I take it, then, that you would not be averse to seeing England down and out.”
> “Wal,” remarked the American, “you can assume anything you feel like. Let’s get to the show-down.”
Once again the Count nodded his head; then he turned to the two Germans.
“Now you two gentlemen must admit that your plans have miscarried somewhat. It was no part of your original programme that a British Army should occupy Cologne…”
“The war was the act of a fool,” snarled Herr Steinemann. “In a few years more of peace we should have beaten those swine…”
“And now—they have beaten you.” The Count smiled slightly. “Let us admit that the war was the act of a fool if you like, but as men of business we can only deal with the result…the result, gentlemen, as it concerns us. Both you gentlemen are sufficiently patriotic to resent the presence of that army at Cologne I have no doubt. And you, Mr. Hocking, have no love on personal grounds for the English… But I am not proposing to appeal to financiers of your reputation on such grounds as those to support my scheme… It is enough that your personal predilections run with and not against what I am about to put before you—the defeat of England…a defeat more utter and complete than if she had lost the war.”
His voice sank a little, and instinctively his three listeners drew closer.
“Don’t think that I am proposing this through motives of revenge merely. We are business men, and revenge is only worth our while if it pays. This will pay. I can give you no figures, but we are not of the type who deal in thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. There is a force in England which, if it be harnessed and led properly, will result in millions coming to you… It is present now in every nation—fettered, inarticulate, uncoordinated… It is partly the result of the war—the war that the idiots have waged… Harness that force, gentlemen, co-ordinate it, and use it for your own ends… That is my proposal. Not only will you humble that cursed country to the dirt, but you will taste of power such as few men have tasted before…” The Count stood up, his eves blazing. “And I—I will do it for you.”
He resumed his seat, and his left hand, slipping off the table, beat a tattoo on his knee.
“This is our opportunity—the opportunity of clever men. I have not got the money necessary: you have…” He leaned forward in his chair, and glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak…
Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.
“There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected. What is your answer?”
He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut, rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down—his hands behind his back—whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life… What matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his personality to rely on.
Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and stretched out his legs.
“There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money is with you. Wal—who are you?”
Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing, and nodded his head in agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the Count’s face as he turned and faced them…
“A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the fictitious address of—a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr. Hocking, it is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will be a flea-bite… Do I look—and you are all of you used to judging men—do I look the type who would steal the baby’s money-box which lay on the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe?… You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you… You will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as working expenses into my own pocket… I shall have to trust you to pay me when the job is finished…”
“And that payment will be—how much?” Steinemann’s guttural voice broke the silence.
“One million pounds sterling—to be split up between you in any proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands…and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty…” His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another a the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or beating about the bush anathema.
“Take them or leave them.” So much had he said in effect, if not in actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in whose hands lay the decision…
“Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few minutes.” Von Gratz was speaking. “The decision is a big one, and…”
“Why, certainly, gentlemen.” The Count moved towards the door. “I will return in ten minutes. By that time you will, have decided—one way or the other.”
Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’ deliberation… And then… What then?… In his imagination he saw his plans growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every corner of a great people—until, at last, everything was ready. He saw himself supreme in power, glutted with it—a king, an autocrat, who had only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and annihilation… And when he had done it, and the country he hated was in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man should enjoy a great reward… Thus for the space of ten minutes did the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking…and… With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes…the matter was settled, the die was cast…
He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously.
It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte…the wines all that he could wish…that he had been comfortable and would return again…
“That is improbable.” The Count took out his pocket-book. “But one never knows; perhaps I shall.” He gave the waiter a note. “Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall.”
Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed
down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.
For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room…
The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fire-place…
“Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “what have you decided?”
It was the American who answered.
“It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each.” The Count bowed.
“Yep,” said the American shortly. “These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C. Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s off.”
The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.
“I know of Mr. Potts,” he answered quietly. “Your big shipping man, isn’t he? I agree to your reservation.”
“Good!” said the American. “Let’s discuss some details.” Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand.
* * * *
Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hotel Magnificent.
A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.
He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.
“Successful…on our own terms. Tomorrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and his daughter leave for England. A country gentleman, I think, is Carl Peterson. He might keep hens and possibly pigs.”
The Bulldog Drummond Megapack Page 2