THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque

by Robert Stephen Parry

  How peculiar, he thinks - as he waits, seated in his private lair of opulence and luxury overlooking the dark waters of the loch, a glass of cognac in hand and listening in solitude to the sounds of festivities, of dancing and singing and also a piano tinkling away in the drawing room nearby, a space transformed for a few days into a ballroom. The sound of that piano … it’s just a little disturbing, he thinks, because it is probably the first time it has been opened and played since his daughter’s final departure for her studies overseas. Not that he has ever been all that fond of music himself, but Penny’s ambitions in that respect had at least always been something that he and his ex-wife could agree upon; that their daughter might one day become a professional in the field; able to command the highest fees. Unlikely as it ever was, they did try their best to make it a reality for her. The lessons, the journeys to music teachers in London and Paris. And the acquisition of that very same instrument, as well, he recalls, purchased for her when she was barely old enough for her feet to touch the floor from the stool. They had fetched it especially from France. And no expense spared. ‘Ha! Bad investment, that,’ he reflects, dejection darkening his brow. And how life has a way of kicking you in the teeth - the irony of it. His treasured daughter Penny is no more; and an almost invaluable instrument of quality, a French Pleyel concert piano from the saloons of Paris, and said to have once been graced by the hands of Chopin himself, becomes enlisted here this evening for a rendition of music-hall songs at a party in the countryside of Scotland.

  But no matter, there are more pressing matters upon Peters’s immediate horizon - namely those two important gentlemen who, he detects, have already returned downstairs, so that within seconds there comes the anticipated rapping of knuckles at his study door that signals a re-acquaintance with the world of business and a good bit of old-fashioned wheeling and dealing once again - something that, as he gets to his feet in anticipation, he realises to his surprise, is not such a disagreeable way to pass the time, after all.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ he declares, greeting his visitors with hearty handshakes as Beezley shows the two distinguished European gentlemen in. ‘I take it your rooms are to your satisfaction?’ he adds, turning a discreet eye to Beezley to make sure that this is indeed the case.

  ‘Thank you, yes, most agreeable,’ answers the baron - German and somebody big in armaments, apparently, according to the briefing Peters has received.

  ‘Yes. Excellent,’ concurs the other.

  In the presence still of Beezley, nothing beyond the usual pleasantries are exchanged, of course. Instead, all three men tarry by the French windows of the study for a moment, admiring the reflected lights of the building dancing on the waters outside.

  ‘We are indebted to our mutual friend Sir William for this opportunity,’ the baron declares as soon as Beezley has left the room and softly closed the door behind him. ‘Allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Walter - Walter von Spiegler,’ he adds crisply, and there is an almost imperceptible clicking of the heels as he stands there. The taller of the two, he has a suitably impressive duelling scar, visible along his right cheek and which has rendered the corner of his mouth slightly lopsided, an inconvenience he conceals to some degree with the cultivation of large, old-fashioned mutton-chop sideburns.

  ‘And you must call me Klaus,’ says the other, pointing to his breast, a rounded barrel shape beneath his white waistcoat and in a voice that sounds almost English with his studied accent.

  There is no need for him to supply his full name. Peters knows who he is already, and he can hardly believe the honour as he proffers cigars and indicates with an outstretched hand any number of seats to choose from - so that everything is very cosy all of a sudden - though as they take their repose, the banker on the settee, the baron on a comfortable ottoman, Peters restricts himself merely to the side of his armchair, the better to spring to attention at any time in order to minister to the needs of the others.

  By the customs and formalities of their greeting, he already recognises them as brothers, albeit from some distant and unfamiliar European branch, but there seems more to them than that: a certain superiority of manners; an intriguing dimension of self-confidence that he has rarely encountered elsewhere, except maybe among royalty - their sombre though immaculately tailored attire, studded with little items of opulence, cufflinks, watch chains of gold and silver, all so reassuring, Peters concludes as he supplies them further, each with a welcoming glass of claret. Then, following a few pleasantries exchanged in regard to the provenance and the vintage, the baron clears his throat and getting down to business declares: ‘We have been keeping an admiring eye on the growth of your empire, Mr Peters and ...’

  ‘Hugh - call me Hugh, please,’ their host insists.

  ‘Thank you,’ says the baron. ‘We were also wondering whether you apply some element of foreign exchange dealing to your business, Hugh. Would that be the case?’

  ‘Why, yes, of course,’ Peters replies. ‘Not every day, but ...’

  ‘Do let me explain,’ the banker continues, taking up the thread of conversation, and entirely at ease now on the settee as he stretches out his legs. ‘We represent, how would you say, a small gentleman’s club, a discreet grouping of powerful players in the international currency and bond markets, yes?’

  ‘Small in number, you understand,’ Walter adds, ‘but not in capital. Only transactions in excess of several thousands of Swiss Francs are ever contemplated. Naturally, we do not present any unified face to the financial world, but collectively, among ourselves, we oversee movements usually amounting to several millions over a period of days.’

  ‘I see,’ Peters remarks, endeavouring not to sound too overwhelmed by the numbers - which, to his limited knowledge, seem to be on a par with the annual economies of many a small European nation. ‘I’ve never been much of a gambler, gentlemen, to tell you the truth,’ he continues, trying to provide himself with more time to assess the situation. He can only wish that his companion and intermediary in all of this, Sir William, might have been present to lend support, as arranged. Unfortunately, he has been delayed, and is not due back until much later tonight. ‘Speculation in the markets - it’s always just seemed a variety of gambling in my view.’

  But Klaus the banker merely laughs. ‘I can assure you there is no gamble, Hugh,’ he declares. ‘With the leverage and momentum we are able to apply to the markets there is no element of uncertainty, and the resulting shifts in currency and bond prices are unstoppable.’

  ‘The money markets are, as I’m sure you are aware, Hugh, moved by trends,’ Walter continues, taking up the explanation and smiling with continued appreciation as Peters replenishes his glass. ‘The strategy of most investors, the smaller players, stock brokers, pension funds and so on, is to identify and to predict these trends. We, however, are the ones who set the trends. A small indication of economic weakness is all we need especially among any of the smaller economies. Or it might be a sector of the stock market or perhaps a minor currency. We attack it mercilessly. Then panic takes over - all the small fishes joining in, always swimming the same way: the way we dictate. And naturally we can just as easily reverse the trend at our discretion, whenever most advantageous to our purpose. That is the measure of our collective power. And the subsequent profits are therefore all the more satisfactory. You understand, yes?’

  ‘I think so,’ Peters replies, retaking his seat, more comfortably this time within the chair itself. He is not normally overawed by anybody in the business world beyond the realm of newspapers or publishing - but these men are different. They do, in fact, as his friend Sir William had intimated, seem to be in a league all of their own, and one, moreover, that he had until now only half-suspected really existed. He feels just a little diffident now, almost inferior in the presence of such a commanding force - a rare sensation for him.

  ‘As you will no doubt have gathered by this stage, Hugh,’ the baron begins again, ‘the purpose of our visit is
simple. We wish to extend to you a special invitation, and to ask whether you should like to join us?’

  ‘I see,’ Peters responds.

  Surprised by the abruptness of the offer, he endeavours to remain composed, his face impassive - but he knows that a gilt-edged opportunity is being presented to him here. Extraordinary. ‘But, gentlemen, naturally I’m curious,’ he continues, ‘I mean, what kind of people belong to your - er - club? Politicians, royalty? What sort of company am I to be among ... if I do agree, that is?’

  ‘Ha! Certainly not politicians, Hugh,’ the banker laughs. ‘We are talking here of the big players, remember, the ones who shape what happens in the world; the men who draw up the menu, not just the servants at the table.’

  ‘Yes,’ Peters concurs, though without much conviction. ‘But surely we all rely on a strong political system, to ensure stability?’

  But this only engenders robust laughter from his two companions who exchange glances of complicity.

  ‘On the contrary, Hugh,’ Walter replies once he has regained his composure and taken a long draw of his cigar and appearing for the first time this evening entirely at ease now the formalities and purpose of the visit has been revealed. ‘Instability is precisely what we thrive on - the cycles of war, debt, economic restructuring, and so on. Until the next time around; the next war. It is precisely these episodes of volatility upon the world stage that help to keep the process alive and … well, we can anticipate many of those also. We can do this because we assist a number of small political organisations and groupings beneficial to our purpose. And while these bodies are not really aware of who we are, and would not always be sympathetic to the capitalism that, as they see it, we represent, they do co-operate with us when we ask and they do keep us abreast of their plans - the odd scandal in high office, for example, the odd riot here or there, or anarchist outrage. I should also tell you that even the occasional assassination is not entirely beyond our powers of - er - precognition. Thus we are privy to the news before it becomes news, if you take my meaning, and can profit accordingly.’

  Stunned, Peters can only stare at his guests in silence now. The fortuitous business of gathering and disseminating news has been his profession for most of his adult life. The idea that news could be created at will, however, is more than a little unsettling. If any of what he has heard this evening were at all plausible he would need to re-calibrate his view of reality - and this to no small degree.

  ‘So you see, Hugh … ours is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy,’ the banker remarks, filling the silence with a little contrived merriment. ‘We are the infallible soothsayers of our times.’

  Peters feels his heart racing with a certain inevitability to what is taking place. He particularly approves of that last statement, a clincher for him. It reminds him for a moment of all the fools like his ex-wife who dabble in the occult and who even have the audacity, some of them, to claim to be able to predict political trends from things like astrology. This, however, sounds like the real deal - far more dependable.

  ‘How much would someone in my position be expected to contribute?’ he inquires, trying not to respond too readily in the affirmative.

  ‘Entirely up to you, old boy,’ Klaus the banker replies, still taking excruciating pains to match his idiom to the demands of some bygone ideal of Oxford perfection - though this largely without success. ‘Naturally we would expect you to be ready to commit a six figure sum in pounds sterling at short notice, and this repeated in increments during the course of a campaign. I should point out that no actual cash would need to change hands. The brokerage firms - we will supply you with some suitable contacts - would simply require you to put up security or collateral for these amounts. You have a not inconsiderable capacity in this respect, we understand: your publishing house, the newspapers, even those funds set aside for payment of your shareholders, one would presume.’

  ‘I suppose it is possible,’ Hugh responds, thinking on his feet. ‘Everything is possible - though naturally I would need to check the legality of your last suggestion.’

  ‘Legality?’ Walter repeats, surprised - or feigning as much, at any rate, as if he had already anticipated the query.

  ‘Why, yes,’ Peters responds. ‘Forgive me for mentioning it gentlemen, but this kind of thing - it is lawful, I take it?’

  ‘Cartels are always frowned upon in any walk of life,’ the banker replies with a shrug of the shoulders and a fleeting glance to his friend at his side. ‘But they continue to exist, of course, in every walk of life. Technically yes, it is not strictly legal. But ...’

  And both men leave the silence to speak for itself - a silence that seems to last for an eternity.

  ‘All we require is your verbal agreement at this juncture,’ Walter adds, increasingly confident that he has hooked his fish, ‘and, later, your commitment to respond to our signals. You will be linked into a chain of command composed of a number of influential players. None of their names will be known to you, nor yours to them. When our message is buy, you simply buy - we all buy. When we say sell, we all sell. Like all great ideas, it is remarkably simple. You are about to move up a grade, Hugh. In ten years you could be among the world’s wealthiest individuals - not just rich: but super rich. What do you say?’

  Again Peters finds himself slowly nodding his acceptance. This really is extraordinary - an astonishing offer.

  ‘Do not, please, be anxious. We have used these processes already on many occasions over a period of some years,’ Klaus the banker intervenes with renewed enthusiasm. The wine is making him more liberal. ‘But that is nothing - nothing compared to what should be achieved with the approach of the next war - which will be a world war, by the way; a war on a hitherto unprecedented scale. Everything will fall into our grasp then, because we are anticipating something so dreadful, you see, with social upheaval on a scale so extensive that it will leave nothing but utter devastation behind. Religion and the Church as we know it will collapse, along with much of the aristocracy, resulting in a vacuum of chaos and utter cynicism. It is already happening, Hugh, albeit on a modest scale - but soon our victory will be complete, with total control not only of the work force but - with help from those such as yourself - of the media that shapes their opinions, also.’

  At which the banker pauses and, catching a look of admonishment from Walter, sighs at the magnitude of his own pronouncements, as if even he realises he might have gone a bit too far in his revelations. And with a final smile of contrition towards his companion, sinking his chin into his breast, he says no more.

  ‘So, I take it we are united, Hugh, yes?’ Walter inquires. ‘We appreciate that all this might appear rather hasty. But at this stage you will not need to commit to anything. And there is, in any case, no contract to be signed at any time. That is the last thing we would ask anyone, ha ha! Simply - as you say in England - a gentlemen’s agreement, yes?’

  ‘We would, of course, always appreciate a little something up-front this evening,’ the banker interrupts with a practical air - but also, it would seem, much to the reticence of his colleague, Walter, who has become increasingly tense all of a sudden. ‘Perhaps a small donation to one of our charitable organisations? A token gesture?’

  ‘I see - why yes, of course,’ Peters concurs. ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Oh, say, a couple of thousand pounds sterling, no more. Good causes. We all donate regularly.’

  ‘Right,’ Peters agrees, swallowing a lump in his throat as he agrees to sink the kind of sum one of his printers back in Fleet Street would be lucky to earn in a lifetime into some organisation he has not yet even heard the name of. He can only hope this isn’t all some terrible hoax or fraud. But, after all, reliable people have arranged this meeting - good friends. These men have an extraordinary persuasive air about them, moreover, and already he finds himself at his desk, his personal chequebook in his hand. ‘The name and bank reference of this company, please?’ Hugh inquires.

 
‘Oh, yes, here we are,’ Klaus replies as he removes a card from the recesses of his substantial pocket book and hands it over - but again, much to the consternation of Walter who even attempts to arrest his progress with a hand upon his sleeve - though to no avail.

  ‘The Foundation for the Advancement of Culture and Environment ...’ Peters reads carefully, as if studying every syllable.

  ‘That’s correct,’ murmurs Klaus. But there is now a look of some puzzlement and even alarm upon his face now, because he has noticed a dramatic change in the demeanour of his host who seems to have clenched his jaw with immense tightness as he holds the business card in his trembling hand.

  ‘Will you excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,’ Peters states with strained cordiality as he walks to a small filing cabinet by the window and from which he withdraws the dossier that Beezley had presented him with just a few days ago concerning the lunatics behind his daughter’s suicide and where he reads to his fury and dismay, ‘funding provided by, amongst others, the Foundation for the Advancement of Culture and Environment.’

  He feels physically sick and, swallowing hard the bile in his throat, turns his gaze on his visitors with a look of blackest hatred upon his face. ‘How dare you!’ he growls at the top of his voice, almost spitting venom as he advances upon them, the two men to whom only a moment ago he was prepared to write a cheque for a small fortune.

  ‘My dear fellow, what is wrong?’ Klaus the banker demands getting to his feet quickly, shifting uneasily from side to side as if debating whether to run for it.

  ‘Do you have no idea, no knowledge whatsoever of my personal affairs?’ Peters demands, crushing the business card within his angry fist and hurling it at the face of the banker. ‘Do you not realise that you have just asked me to donate to an organisation that might well have been responsible for the death of my beloved daughter? I take it the Deutsche Mark suffered in an appropriate manner on the day one of your screwball cults burned down a chalet in Bavaria with several innocent young lives inside. Did it? Did it - you bastards!’