“Just one thing before we get down to it. I want your word of honour that you’ll keep all this confidential.”
“I promise,” Morrison returned without hesitation.
“Very well. What I want is this: a statement of the cost of running a big ship. I want it divided into two items: first, interest on the cost of the ship with depreciation, and, second, the actual running. This latter would include fuel, food, stores, wages and so on. Then lastly I want the probable daily rate we should have to charge to make the thing pay. Can you get these out, approximately?”
Morrison was not sure. The charges his firm paid for big liners were not divided under the required headings. However, he knew clerks in the shipping offices and he might be able to get the information. The fares he could work out for himself.
But he was not sure whether he ought. It would mean a lot of work, and if it were a thank-you job, it would not be worth his while. Then some of the information might be confidential. Bristow looked all right, but, for all Morrison knew to the contrary, he might be acting for some other tourist firm and merely want to learn some of the Boscombe’s secrets. There was no proof even that he was a solicitor. Morrison felt that until he knew more, he should not commit himself.
“We would, of course, want a proper agreement before you did anything,” Bristow chimed in, having apparently read his thoughts. “You would want to be sure, first, of my bona fides, and, second, that you yourself would be paid for your trouble. Now, on the first item I shall tell you my idea, trusting you to keep it to yourself. That should meet that difficulty. On the second, I’ll offer you alternatives. Either I’ll pay for your labour at an agreed rate, or else I’ll offer you nothing now, but a much larger sum if the idea should come to anything.”
This sounded reassuring, and Morrison decided to go a step further. “If you care to tell me your idea,” he said, “I repeat my promise to keep it to myself.”
“Good enough,” Bristow nodded. “I’ll tell you.”
Like a skilled narrator, he paused to whet his listener’s interest and enhance the value of what was coming. In spite of the speed of the train, it was comparatively silent in the compartment. The roar of the wheels on the rails, with the underlying rhythm of the passing joints, was muffled in the well-sprung coach with its sound-insulated walls and floor. For a moment none of the three occupants moved. Bristow sat with an eager expression in his eyes; Morrison awaited developments with a certain doubt, while the man in the further corner still slept unconcernedly. Bristow glanced at him searchingly; then, satisfied, he leant still further forward and resumed.
“My tentative estimates – which I am not sure are correct – tell me that the cost of the ship itself is a heavy item in the cruising balance sheet. Take a great liner of, say, fifty thousand tons, and put her present day cost down at two and a half millions. Say, she has a life of twenty years. That would mean about three hundred and seventy-five thousand a year for interest and sinking fund alone. Suppose we cruised for six months in the year and carried an average of two thousand passengers. Then each passenger would have to pay a hundred and eighty-seven pounds towards the cost of the ship, or over seven pounds a week. Am I correct so far?”
Morrison calculated on the margin of a newspaper. “I think so,” he agreed.
“Now here’s my idea. I happened to be in Southampton recently and I saw the Berengaria leaving for the Tyne to be broken up. The papers said that she was sold for a hundred thousand. There’s another big ship, the Hellenic lying there waiting to be sold for the same purpose. Now, why not buy her and fit her up for cruising?”
Morrison almost gasped. “But, good Lord, you couldn’t!” he exclaimed. “They’re done, those ships: worn out: finished. Their plates are thin. Isn’t that the reason for them being broken up?”
“No,” Bristow returned, “more frequently it’s because they’re out of date. But don’t worry about that. Suppose they are done for the Atlantic traffic. Remember that thrashing at full speed through winter storms in the Western Ocean is one thing, and summer cruising at half speed in sheltered waters not more than thirty miles from land is quite another.”
“Would you get a certificate?” Morrison asked dubiously. “I doubt if the Board of Trade would grant it, or Lloyd’s either.”
“I’ve enquired into that. I’m told they would: for that limited work. But leave that for the moment and consider costs. The ship is bought, say, for a hundred thousand. Another hundred thousand is spent in overhaul and decorations. That is, she costs two hundred thousand instead of two and a half million.”
Morrison shook his head. “That sounds right enough, but there’s one thing you’ve forgotten.”
“What’s that?”
“The two and a half million ship will last twenty years. Yours at two hundred thousand won’t last five.”
“I think she’d last twenty under the conditions I’ve named – always in sheltered waters and never at more than half speed. There are plenty of steamers forty years old and more still plying under such conditions. However, let’s take ten for argument’s sake. I make interest and sinking fund forty thousand a year, or say, fifteen shillings a week per passenger. That’s a saving of nearly six pound ten per passenger per week.”
Morrison figured again. “That’s correct, so far as it goes.”
“Then there’s fuel. I don’t know what the oil would cost for running her at full speed, but I’m told about fourteen thousand pounds per week. Now I estimate my scheme would save sixty-six percent of this. First, if you run her at half speed, you save a lot more than half the fuel, and then on this cruising she’d lie a lot at anchor. There’d be stops during the day for shore excursions, and at night where beauty spots lay close together. Say, however, you only saved nine thousand a week: that would be four pounds ten per week per passenger.”
“Good God!” Morrison exclaimed, overawed by these figures.
“Then, of course, the working of the ship would cost less. With the easier conditions, I should hope for a small saving in both deck and engineering staffs. I’d carry only about half her complement of passengers and that would mean a big saving in food and stewards. Then, again, the food would be simpler and cheaper. I don’t know what these would come to, but say another pound per passenger per week.”
“You mean a total saving of some twelve pounds per passenger per week?”
“Yes, but it’s not quite so good as it looks. There are items on the other side. Harbour dues, for instance, or, alternatively, the hire of tenders. I’m only speaking very approximately.”
Morrison felt that Bristow was wrong to limit the number of passengers to be carried, but before he could say so, there came an interruption. A little group of people appeared moving along the corridor, an early contingent from the first lunch. One of these, a flamboyant-looking woman, was talking vivaciously. “Ach, no!” she said in English as she passed the compartment, “I must have the monkey!” She moved on and her further words were lost.
The incongruous phrase, thrust into the serious discussion on marine transport costs, struck Morrison. Involuntarily, he stopped to listen. Evidently their fellow traveller was similarly affected. Morrison, glancing across the compartment, happened to notice him open an interested eye, look at the speaker, close it again, and remain motionless as if still asleep.
A little qualm of doubt passed through Morrison’s mind. Had the man been awake long? Had he heard Bristow’s scheme?
Morrison did not think he could. Bristow had not spoken loudly and the man was the whole length of the seat from him. The coach, admittedly, was running silently, yet even the best coach makes a fair noise at seventy miles an hour. No, it was all right. Nothing could have been heard.
All the same, Morrison noted again the label hanging from the suitcase above the man’s head: A N Malthus, 777 Jordan Square. London, W8. He wondered if they should continue their talk, but as it happened the decision was taken from him. The man whose place he occupied arrive
d from the first lunch and he had to move.
“You taking the second lunch?” Bristow asked. “Then let’s carry on there.”
But the restaurant car was crowded, and though they sat together, they could no longer speak in private. And after lunch Morrison’s duties claimed him. It was not till an hour later, on the deck of the Canterbury that they were able to talk again, and then there was only time to fix a meeting in London for the following weekend.
2
WANTED, A BACKER
It was on a Monday that the Greek Islands cruising party returned to London, and at intervals all through that week Morrison thought over the strange interview the journey had included.
He was impressed with the case Bristow had made. While remaining pessimistic about the ship’s certificate, he had no doubts as to the tourist side of the affair. The popularity of the piers at seaside places – the nearest approach to large ship cruising that the average man could achieve – proved that the scheme would meet a real need. If Bristow could produce his ship, he, Morrison, could fill her.
The more, indeed, he thought over it, the more profitable the scheme began to appear. It was overheads that killed the great steamship lines, and here there would be comparatively little. Only the ship herself would be needed. No great sets of offices would have to be maintained. The existing tourist agencies would do the booking, and the purser’s rooms on board would accommodate the clerical staff.
On the other hand, the scheme had obvious drawbacks. It was hard to believe that, if it contained no snag, someone wouldn’t have already tried it. Then existing tourist concerns and seaside resorts would see in it a rival and do all in their power to damn it. It would, moreover, be extraordinarily vulnerable. Tom would say to Dick or Harry: “I thought of going on her, but I can’t forget she was sold for breaking up. Tell me in confidence, old man, do you think she’s safe?” A hint of that kind would grow like a snowball. Or someone might be put up to state baldly that the ship was dangerous, knowing that a slander action, even if unsuccessfully defended, would in itself achieve the aim.
But during this week Morrison had not only ruminated; he had acted. First he had enquired about Bristow. He had found a clerk in the office of his firm’s solicitors who knew a member of the staff of Bristow, Emerson and Bristow, and at the cost of a film and supper he was able to put his questions direct. From these it emerged that the man he had met in the train really was the firm’s junior partner, and that he bore very much the character Morrison had imagined. Bristow, as seen through his subordinate’s eyes, was clever and efficient, good at his job, determined and decent up to a point. “He’s alright if everything goes his way,” the young man explained, “but if he gets crossed, he’s the very devil. But he’s straight enough, if that’s what you want to know.”
This being the point at immediate issue, Morrison decided to go ahead with the costs, trusting Bristow to pay him a reasonable sum for the work. He also determined to make a few enquiries about Malthus, the man who had been asleep – or awake – in the train. He could check him up in the various books of reference, and perhaps might find someone who knew him.
Getting out the costs proved a bigger job than he had expected, and he had to bribe with theatres and dinners certain other acquaintances – this time from shipping offices – before he could get his information. However, what with this and the figures he found in his own firm’s books, he was able to prepare what he believed was a reasonable statement.
The figures were impressive. If they were correct, there was a fortune in the scheme. Morrison began to wonder whether chance had not brought him his great opportunity, and he determined to make himself so useful to Bristow that he couldn’t be done without.
It was therefore with something of excitement that on Sunday afternoon he presented himself at Bristow’s rooms in Hampstead.
The house was of a good type in a good neighbourhood and Bristow’s sitting room, a large, front, bow-windowed chamber on the first floor, was charmingly furnished. “Oozing with money,” Morrison thought, as his host waved him to an armchair and offered cigarettes and whisky. Bristow was civil, though not effusive. “Glad to see you,” in somewhat dry tones was his highest flight of cordiality, and he went on at once to business as if he considered time spent on social amenities was wasted.
“Well,” he began, “you’ve thought over what I said in the train? Do you feel like helping me – for an agreed consideration?”
Morrison restrained his urge to reply, “Such is my desire,” and instead answered that he had already got out some figures.
Bristow seemed pleased. “Good!” he pronounced. “Then before we go into them, let’s fix up an agreement. I’ve drafted two: I said I was going to give you an alternative.” He crossed to a desk and picked up a couple of papers. “Both start with a secrecy clause, and by this” – he held up the first – “I agree to pay you for your time at whatever rate you consider fair.”
“And the other?”
“By the other,” Bristow returned, “you agree to put in whatever time you can without any direct payment. If the scheme proves a failure, you get nothing. If it succeeds I promise you twenty percent of my net profits up to a figure to be agreed on: I suggest five hundred pounds. I may add that if the thing really clicks, there’d be a job for you if you cared to take it, though this wouldn’t be guaranteed.”
“I’ll take the second,” said Morrison.
For the first time a trace of enthusiasm showed in Bristow’s manner. “That’s fine,” he declared warmly. “I’m delighted. Very well: read this, and if you’re satisfied, we’ll sign.”
Morrison read the second paper carefully. He was no lawyer, but his job had brought him some knowledge of agreements. In spite of its legal language, the document was clear.
“I’ll sign,” he decided.
“Fine!” Bristow repeated, rising and ringing the bell. “I have it in duplicate and we’ll go straight through with it.”
The maids being out, the landlady was impressed as a witness, and in five minutes the delighted Morrison had in his pocket a document which under favourable circumstances would give him a legal claim to £500.
“Now let’s go ahead,” went on Bristow. “What figures have you got out?”
“Very encouraging they are,” Morrison returned, opening his notebook. “If your figure for the ship is correct, I think the scheme would be a good proposition. In fact, I think it would pay extremely well.”
“You do?” exclaimed Bristow with evident satisfaction.
“I’m sure of it. First, take your figure of two thousand passengers for six months of the year.” And he plunged into the details of his statement. These agreed largely with the figures Bristow had put up in the train. They discussed each point from every angle, then at last Morrison straightened himself tip. “Very well,” he said, “that leads me to fares.”
Bristow took a deep breath. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Now you’re getting to it. What about fares?”
Morrison was keenly enjoying himself. “I think,” he pronounced, “that you could offer a fare that would keep her filled. I make it about nine pounds a week and” – he raised his hand as Bristow would have spoken – “if you increase the number of your passengers to three thousand, as I should advise, that nine pounds would come down to about seven.”
“Seven pounds a week!” Bristow repeated excitedly. “Good Lord! If we could do that we’re millionaires. What does that include?”
“Everything but shore excursions.”
“Everything!” Bristow’s eyes goggled. “Why man alive, we could easily get eight pounds a week or more – much more, I should think. If you’re right that would mean a pound a week per passenger profit: say” – he figured rapidly – “nearly eighty thousand a year!”
Morrison grinned. “That’s what I made it,” he agreed.
Bristow got up and began to pace the room. “I thought there was money in it,” he declared, “but I never thought it ran
to anything like that. Say it was only fifty thousand a year! I can’t get over it!”
“It mightn’t work out quite so well in practice,” went on the less exuberant Morrison. After all, he didn’t hope to get fifty thousand, but five hundred at most. “There might be unexpected repairs wanted, and the ship mightn’t last as long as you think.”
“But, damn it, man, if she lasted four years we’d get our money back. And if she lasted five we’d make a pile. We needn’t worry about her lasting.” He gave a whistle, and picking up the whisky, poured a couple of fingers into each glass. “We need a drink after that,” he declared. “I feel all bowled over.”
They had their whisky, and then for a couple of hours they worked, checking calculations, weighing probabilities, estimating unknowns. They made some slight amendments, but in the main Morrison’s conclusions stood.
“Bless my soul, I can’t get over it,” Bristow said as at last he threw down his pencil and sank back in his chair. “How is it the thing hasn’t been done before?”
Morrison shrugged. “Makes you feel there must be a snag somewhere.”
Bristow nodded. “That’s what’s bothering me. It’s too good!”
He seemed frightened by the vastness of the promise. He sat staring before him for some seconds, then with a little gasp went on: “It’s easy enough to see our next step. We must get the two hundred thousand to start the thing. How are we going to do it?”
What they wanted, Bristow considered, was a rich man who would put in the whole sum in return for a fifty-fifty share in the profits. He preferred an individual to a syndicate for many reasons. Negotiations would be easier, less formal, more elastic. But he had already approached without success all the rich men whom he knew.
“It’s not so easy as it sounds,” Morrison pointed out. “No one could be expected to consider the scheme without examining all these figures, but if we showed them to the wrong man he might easily buy the ship for himself and leave us out in the cold.”
Fatal Venture Page 2