by Sapper
“Not a bit,” she cried. “The person I’m sorry for is you. But I really think Algy is right, and that this film is perfectly genuine. After all, Sir Edward is a multi-millionaire, and he can afford to pay for his hobbies.”
“That’s true,” agreed Drummond. “Well, so long: we’ll meet again in the old village. At any rate I propose to touch these blighters for my pay.”
With a grin, Henry Johnson moved off and joined a group of stage-hands.
“’Ullo, mate!” said one of them, “’ow’s yer toothache?”
“Orl right. ’Ad the perisher out.”
“Dodged a job o’ work yesterday, you did.”
“’Ow’s that?”
“’Is nib’s best girl come along. And may you hor I look at ’er? Ho no. So we ’as to rig hup a partition be’ind which ’er royal ’ighness may sit hunobserved. Not ’arf a peach she wasn’t: could ’ave done with a bit like ’er meself.”
For a moment or two Drummond stared at the speaker; then he remembered his role.
“Where did you put the partition?” he asked.
“Cross there. So as hevery time ’e went off ’e could walk right hinto ’er lovely harms. And when they bunged ’im hinto the cupboard, she could massage ’is bruises hunseen.”
“Wot did she look like?”
“Dark: furriner, I should say. Natalie – or some name like that – ’e called ’er.”
Drummond turned away. So Irma had been watching. There seemed no reason why she shouldn’t, but why the secrecy? Was it merely to prevent the risk of Algy seeing her? And with yet another unexplained riddle to puzzle him, Henry Johnson finished his work, drew his pay, and ceased to exist.
He found a wire from Ted Jerningham, who had returned to Merridale Hall, awaiting him at his flat.
“Penton arrived Glensham. Any further developments?”
He rolled it into a ball and flung it savagely into the paper basket. No, confound it! there were no further developments. Nor did he see the slightest chance of there ever being any further developments. The whole thing was a frost of the worst order. And yet, strive as he would, the thought kept coming back to his mind that there was something he had missed – some clue that had eluded him.
It was the following morning that a paragraph in the society page of one of the illustrated dailies caught his eye.
“Sir Edward Greatorex, the well-known financier, has left the Ritz Carlton for a cruise in the steam yacht Firefly. The Firefly, which belongs to Lord Derringham, has been hired for two months by Mr Hardcastle, a well-known American, and it is as his guest that Sir Edward is travelling. Though the secret has been well kept, it is now more or less common property that the millionaire has recently added yet a further activity to his many others, and that he has been playing the principal part in a film entitled ‘High Finance.’ The idea of getting Sir Edward to play the same role on the screen as he habitually plays in real life is ingenious, and should assist in making the film, which I am told is very good already, a still greater success. It is understood that some further scenes will be taken on board the yacht.”
So that was where Hardcastle had got the yacht from. He knew Sandy Derringham quite well – one of those cheery individuals with an enormous income who, in spite of it, still managed to be permanently semi-broke. Not that it mattered much: once again on the face of it the whole thing seemed perfectly genuine. And he had almost succeeded in dismissing the affair from his mind when yet another announcement in the morning papers some four days later brought it all back again. For this time it was not in the society columns, but in the financial.
“SENSATION IN THE CITY.
“Extraordinary scenes occurred on the Stock Exchange yesterday in connection with Peruvian Eagles. This concern is largely under the control of Sir Edward Greatorex, the well-known financier, who is at present on a yachting trip. A complete panic set in, which resulted in the shares dropping to the unprecedentedly low price of 21/4. It will be recalled that ten days ago they were standing at over 7. It is understood that Sir Edward is in close touch with the situation by wireless.”
He read on, but the details soon became technical, and he threw the paper aside. His knowledge of stocks and shares was microscopic: on the rare occasions that he had any money to invest he rang up his broker and resigned himself to fate. But the first part of the paragraph required no expert knowledge to understand. An upheaval had taken place in the City which was closely connected with Sir Edward, and that was quite enough to make Drummond desire to know more. And so, having finished his breakfast, he chartered a taxi and drove off to see his stockbroker, one Bill Templeton.
“Great Scott! old lad,” cried that worthy as he entered the office, “what brings you down these parts at this ungodly hour? Are you selling the war-saving certificate?”
“I would hold converse with you, Bill,” he remarked, depositing himself in a chair. “Being what you are, you presumably know something about stocks and shares.”
“You flatter me, dear boy. Do you want to invest some money?”
“God forbid! Whenever I do so the only sum that isn’t irretrievably lost in a week is your commission. No, Bill: I want you to tell me all that is in your heart concerning Peruvian Eagles.”
The other stared at him.
“You don’t hold any, do you?”
“Not so far as I know. But what I want to get at is the cause of the excitement amongst your brother robbers concerning them. For God’s sake don’t talk to me about bulls and bears or selling short, because I shan’t have an idea what you mean. Just plain simple language.”
Templeton lit a cigarette and pushed the box over the table.
“I can tell you in a few sentences, Hugh,” he said. “Peruvian Eagles are a big oil concern. Up to a few days ago they were regarded in the City as being one of the finest investments – a little speculative, of course – obtainable. Then rumours began to circulate that all was not too well with the child. At first it was nothing more than that; then suddenly it began to come out that Sir Edward Greatorex, a man you may have heard of, and who holds far more than fifty per cent of the shares, was selling them as fast as he could. That started the rot.”
A clerk entered the office.
“What are Perus at now?” asked Templeton.
“11/8 to 11/4, sir.”
“You see, Hugh: they’ve dropped another point this morning.”
“And is that all there is to it?” demanded Drummond.
“All!” echoed the other. “A good many people are going to be ruined over it. And incidentally Sir Edward must have dropped a packet himself.”
“Why did he sell?”
“He must have got inside information that something is very wrong,” explained the other, “so he’s cutting his losses. Up to a week ago he was buying the whole time: now he sells. It can only mean that. I should say it’s the first time for many years that that gentleman has burnt his fingers,” he added, with a short laugh. “Hullo! Jerry, you seem excited. What’s stung you?”
A man, his top hat on the back of his head, had dashed into the office.
“Bill,” he shouted, “have you heard the latest about Perus? Rawlings has just got the report, and it exceeds anything that one could have hoped for in one’s wildest dreams. Buy, man, buy, and go on buying.”
Templeton leapt to his feet.
“Good God! Has Greatorex gone mad?”
He gave some orders down the telephone, and reached for his hat.
“Come and lunch with me at Sherry’s, Hugh. I must dash. I’ll get a thousand for you if you like.”
“Right oh! old boy. I can’t pay, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”
He strolled out, and even to his eye, unused though he was to the City, he could see that the activity was unusual. Men, some bareheaded, s
ome in toppers, were either running hard or else were standing about in little groups talking excitedly. And Perus was the one word he heard on everyone’s lips.
It was the same at Sherry’s, where Bill Templeton joined him at one o’clock.
“Gosh! boy,” he cried, mopping his forehead, “what a morning! I’ve bought you a thousand.”
“Splendid, old lad! you shall have the postal order in due course. But what I’m even more interested in is what all the song and dance is about.”
“It’s this way,” explained the other, spearing an oyster. “As I told you this morning, when Sir Edward started to sell, we all assumed that there was something wrong. Then out came the report, and, far from there being anything wrong, it’s righter than anyone could have possibly hoped for. In short, either Greatorex is playing some astoundingly deep game – so deep, in fact, that none of us can understand it – or he’s gone mad. In either case he’s dropped about half a million. I gather he’s been acting in a film called ‘High Finance’: better for him if he’d stuck to the genuine thing in real life.”
“When did he start selling?” asked Drummond thoughtfully.
“Can’t tell you exactly. But it was after he started on a yachting cruise.”
“So instructions came by wireless?”
“They must have. Wait a moment” – he lowered his voice – “that’s one of his brokers who has just come in. He’s coming over here: I’ll see if I can draw him. Morning, Lionel.”
“Morning,” snapped the other, and Templeton nudged Drummond. “Does every man who acts in a film go off his rocker?” he added savagely.
“You see, Hugh,” said Templeton, as the other moved away,” he has been let down: they all have. I don’t wonder: it’s the most amazing thing of modern times. I mean, Greatorex may be a swine, but he’s a genius. And for him to make such a colossal mistake as this is simply unbelievable.”
And for a space Drummond was silent: an idea was beginning to dawn in his mind which almost staggered him with its possibilities.
“Listen, Bill,” he said at length. “How do you know the instructions to sell came from Greatorex?”
“Because he uses a secret code, old boy, which only he knows. And it varies with each broker he deals with.”
“But his secretary knows it.”
“Naturally his secretary would know it also. What of it?”
Once again Drummond fell silent: a glimpse of light was there, but the rest was still in darkness.
“Tell me, Bill,” he said at length, “am I right in supposing that because he has lost this money somebody else has made it?”
“Not quite, old boy,” answered the broker. “But you would be perfectly right in supposing that anyone who bought shares yesterday or early this morning is going to net a very handsome profit. What’s worrying you, Hugh? You’re going to make a nice little packet yourself, you know.”
But the other was too intent on his line of reasoning to think about that.
“You’re sure that no one but Greatorex or his secretary could have sent those instructions?”
“Certain. And you may take it from me that with a man like Greatorex such a thing is not left to his secretary. Have you got some suspicion of dark villainy in your mind?” Templeton added, with a laugh. “It might do for the film he was making, but it doesn’t wash in real life.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Bill. Well, so long: we might have a round at Walton Heath one day.”
He left the restaurant still deep in thought. Was it possible that Hardcastle and his crowd were holding the millionaire a prisoner on board the yacht, and issuing false instructions which purported to come from him? That would presuppose that the secretary Gardini was in league with them – an assumption which was quite feasible when he recalled their first meeting in South Audley Street.
He hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Junior Sports Club. Sandy Derringham was usually to be found there round about that hour, and there were one or two things over which he might prove helpful. He found him at lunch, and came to the point at once.
“This is for your ears only, Sandy,” he said. “You hired your yacht to one Hardcastle, didn’t you?”
“That’s the bally fellow’s name, old boy.”
“Is your own crew on board?”
“Yes, every one of them.”
“And your own skipper?”
“Sure thing. Why?”
Briefly Drummond told him his suspicions, and Lord Derringham’s eyes grew rounder and rounder as he listened.
“Impossible, Hugh,” he said.“Old man Wilkinson, the skipper, would never allow it for an instant. He’s the most reliable man I know, and the hell of a martinet. And you can’t keep a man a prisoner in a small yacht without the Captain finding out.”
“Perhaps he’s ill, Sandy: or they’ve doped him.”
The other shook his head.
“If he was so ill that he couldn’t attend to business,” he said shrewdly, “they’d put back to port. And if he can attend to business your idea goes bust.”
“Never mind,” persisted Drummond. “I want you to do something for me. Send a private marconigram to Wilkinson, couched more or less like this – ‘Is passenger with fair beard well?’ and sign it with your name.”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“All right, old lad, I will if you like: though it seems pretty fair bilge to me. I’ll send it at once. Let’s go and have a spot of coffee and I’ll get a form. Now then,” he said, as they went into the smoking-room, “what is it you want me to say? ‘Is Greatorex well?’
“No, don’t mention him by name. Marconigrams can be read by other people, and I may be up the pole. Say what I told you, and then put – ‘Do not mention this cable to anyone.’”
“Right oh!” said Derringham resignedly. “Old Wilkinson will probably think I’ve gone bughouse, but it can’t be helped.”
He signed the message, and gave it to a waiter to send.
“Do you want to wait for the answer?” he asked. “If so, we can probably get a rubber.”
And it was perhaps as well that they were not in the middle of a hand when the reply came – a reply which caused Drummond to scratch his head in hopeless bewilderment. For it ran as follows.
“Cannot understand question. Only passenger on board clean-shaven dark man who is quite well. Wilkinson.”
Where, then, was Sir Edward Greatorex? Clearly Gardini was manipulating the market from the yacht, but what had happened to the millionaire? Was he in London doing some super-cunning financial wangle?
“Don’t say anything about it, Sandy,” said Drummond, as he left the club. “There’s something deuced rum somewhere, but at the moment it’s beyond me.”
He decided to walk across the Park, and it was as he was passing the Ritz Carlton that, acting on a sudden impulse, he stopped and spoke to the commissionaire at the door.
“You didn’t happen to be here the day Sir Edward Greatorex left, did you?”
The man, who knew him well, grinned.
“As a matter of fact, I was, sir,” he said, “though Sir Edward didn’t seem to notice it. He very rarely does notice people when he’s leaving. Why, if I may ask, sir, do you want to know?”
“He’s on a cruise now, isn’t he?”
“That’s right, sir. He was going straight to Plymouth when he left. Seemed to have a bit of a chill: he was all muffled up.”
Drummond nodded and walked on. What had happened between leaving the hotel and reaching Plymouth to make him change his mind? Or had he never intended to go? He could well understand that for a man in his position it might frequently be an advantage if people believed he was somewhere when in reality he was nothing of the sort. But in this case, if what Bill Templeton had said was correct,
it was a little difficult to see where the advantage came in. And yet, why had he even gone to the extent of having it advertised in the morning papers unless he had some very good reason for doing so?
“Hugh! Wait a moment.”
He swung round: Algy Longworth and Peter Darrell were behind him.
“Hullo! chaps,” he said. “How goes it?”
“Extraordinary thing, this Peruvian Eagle business,” said Longworth. “I’ve just been talking to Peter about it. It might be the film in real life.”
“How do you mean?” demanded Drummond.
“It’s exactly the same story, only this time it’s actually happened.”
“I don’t get you, Algy. To be candid, I’m not very clear as to what the end of the film was.”
“Don’t you remember they abducted the millionaire in a lorry, and kidnapped him on board a yacht. Then, by rigging the market in his absence, they nearly ruined him, and made a pot of money themselves.”
“The only difference is,” said Drummond, “that in this case he doesn’t happen to be on board the yacht.”
He told them about Derringham’s marconigram and the captain’s answer.
“So the analogy fails a bit, old boy,” he concluded. “What his game is I can’t guess, but I gather he’s lost money all right.”
“I saw Ted yesterday,” said Darrell. “They’re hard at work filming down at Glensham House.”
“I suppose Sir Edward isn’t there by any chance?”
“No,” said Longworth. “I beetled down to have a look see the other day. Travers is doing it. Well, we must push on, Peter. So long, Hugh. It sure has been a frost this show.”
Drummond continued his walk gloomily: Algy was right. And not the least frozen part of the performance was that the only person who had really been in the ice-chest was he himself. To give it up and try and forget about it seemed the only thing, but it was easier said than done. And even after he had turned in that night he still found his thoughts running on it ceaselessly. Surely there must be a clue somewhere that he’d missed.