As for the appearance of an alternative, there was no sign of it, and he did not see how, as knowledge stood, there could be one in the near future. These discoveries are haphazard, but they always come following upon a certain known set of conditions; they are led up to. There was no set of conditions yet known which could produce anything not now covered by Dow’s Patent.
Then Arthur Lawson asked again, a question which showed how completely he was of his own world, and how little in that of his learned brother, whom for that very reason he looked upon with admiring awe. For the question Arthur Lawson asked was this: “Do you think Dow’s are bound to Reynier’s, Jackey?”
“Good heavens, Aaron—Arthur I mean!” (and he smiled), “I’m sorry. That’s more your line of country than mine. People went about saying Reynier’s had it, but I never saw any proof, or heard from anyone that there was any proof. It’s got an independent office—not that that means anything.”
Arthur Lawson mused.
“All right, Jackey,” he said at last. “That’s all I wanted. Anyhow, if Durrant’s have got the contract —and everybody now knows they have—there’s nothing left but the vote, and that’s a matter of course. As Durrant’s have got the contract, there is no other market now, even for Reynier’s to go to. If Reynier’s control Dow’s—Reynier’s will have to sell to Durrant’s or amalgamate. They’ll want their price.”
“I suppose so,” said Jacob, shrugging his shoulders and turning again to his beloved work. “It’s not the kind of thing I understand.”
Arthur Lawson looked at his watch. It was not yet seven, he could catch the man he wanted. The man he wanted dressed carefully, and dressed every night. But he did not dress before seven. Arthur Lawson rang the bell, gave the number to the servant and waited.
. . . . . . .
The man whom Arthur Lawson wanted, the man whom he wanted immediately, because time was everything, the man who must be set to work now because to-morrow morning was Monday and the work of the world would begin, was a certain dull and rather large, well-set-up young gentleman called Guy des Cuoyes (to rhyme, as is only right, with sepoy).
The des Cuoyes were Channel Islanders, and very proud of their lineage. You might guess that from their insistence upon the little “d” in the des; and Cuoyes, let me tell you, is a real place, or rather two real places, Cuoye le Grand and Cuoye le Petit, in a wild part of the Cotentin. But property in these villages the des Cuoyes had had none for generations past. They had left France for Jersey in the religious troubles of two and a half centuries ago.
Young Guy des Cuoyes’ father, the General, had done the right thing by him. He had put him into his own old school, and sent him to the University. As his only income was the recognition of his services made to him by his grateful country for special work in India, it died with him. And as he had died just after Guy had come down from Oxford, more than seven years before, the young man found himself in London with all those excellent habits which the University teaches its more successful sons, but without the income which such habits demand.
He had fallen on his feet more or less, and the better for having no close relatives. It was the father of a friend of his, a friend whom he had made at Oxford, who gave him his chance—an odd chance but sufficient. He was given a place in that father’s large business, the main purpose of which was the buying and selling of houses, and as a side line, advice on refitting or the laying out of grounds, and the rest of it.
But young des Cuoyes’ special branch of activity had nothing to do with that. It was yet another side line, in which only two other men were employed with him, and for which he was particularly well paid. It was his business to find things out. He had just enough brains; what is more important in such things than brains, he had, hidden under his conventional Public School mark—industry. He had no acting power, but he had what comes next to it, and that is (a thing not at all incompatible with industry), a partly assumed but much more real perpetual boredom, or, let us say, a lack of enthusiasm; and further, what is more important still, no excess of affection. Further, he had what is almost the most important thing of all in that trade, a large and good acquaintance. Lastly, he had what is most important of all, a presence; a presence big, blonde, up-standing, accompanied by a slow voice and eyes as slow as his tones—and he dressed beautifully.
Guy de Cuoyes had not been two years in this general employment, and doing fairly well at it, when he had come across Arthur Lawson. Arthur Lawson had occasion to make certain inquiries. He knew where to make them. The firm had sent de Cuoyes. On finding, as Lawson did at once, what the lad’s talents were, he had, I am sorry to say (but Arthur Lawson had no scruples in such things) bought him over his employer’s head.
The thing was done in gentlemanly fashion, at least as far as des Cuoyes was concerned. The young man informed his employer that he had come into a considerable private income, and happily could live henceforward as a gentleman; for which trade, indeed, he felt himself to be born. He need do no more work. The excuse had the added advantage that it covered his tracks. He could do the findings out under better camouflage than ever; for was he not now a young gentleman of large private means with nothing to do but shed his glory upon the town? The terms that Arthur Lawson had given were satisfactory to both, and characteristic of the senior of the pair. He gave young Guy a good permanent salary, under contract, and he also paid extra by the job. He had reasons for that, as may be guessed; they were satisfactory reasons, and they worked.
In consideration for so much Guy had to be constantly at the beck and call of his employer. His time was mapped out, he knew his leisure as a soldier knows his leave: outside those gaps of leisure, which were carefully arranged for, he must be within reach of the telephone at all hours; and leave word of every movement, so that he could be found at a moment’s notice. Men in Arthur Lawson’s position can afford themselves such luxuries, and they are well worth the price paid.
Now on this occasion the job was very particular, for Guy des Cuoyes had not only to find out things, but he had to bring them off: and to bring them off at full speed. Within a quarter of an hour of receiving the call on that Sunday evening he was in the little room at the back of the house where Arthur Lawson went through such rare private affairs as he chose to do under his own roof, and talking with his employer so easily that anyone looking on would have thought them equals. It was a relation in which Arthur Lawson delighted; for in truth, of the many things he despised, he despised most that alien habit around him of making rank dependent upon wealth. And among all the things he admired, efficiency at a job, and particularly at this kind of job, stood very high. Highest of all stood the arts and learning.
There was a battle impending, and time, time, time—time and exactitude, were the conditions of victory. So Lawson was brief, and very much to the point.
“Guy,” he said, “have you ever heard of Dow’s Patent?”
“The Television people?” said Guy. “Yes.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“No.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter. What you have got to get on to is this. Have you got a note-book? Don’t put it down en clair—use whatever code you’re using just now.”
Guy des Cuoyes faintly smiled, as young employed men will when they are told by their employers something which they were taking for granted anyhow. He pulled out his little book and his pencil. Lawson continued.
“First: find out who really is Dow’s. Some say it’s independent, some say Reynier’s have got it. It may be something between the two. Find out exactly how it stands. Secondly: buy it.”
Guy des Cuoyes, lounging back in the deep chair, slightly raised his eyebrows, as though he might want to ask a question.
“Buy it,” went on Lawson emphatically. “And on any terms. Offer anything you like.”
Guy began to speak.
“No,” interrupted Lawson. “Don’t let’s waste any time over that. If they name a price, pay it. If the
y want you to name a price, use your judgement, and clap fifteen per cent. on top of what you think they are expecting. Get the thing in writing, and bring it back to me. … But listen here, Guy”—and Arthur Lawson leant forward, half frowning—”I’ve got to have the thing in writing by to-morrow, Monday, night. Here. Before dinner—at about this hour. There’s not a moment to be lost. You’d better set to work to-night, and be at it first thing to-morrow. Wait a minute; then there’s something else quite different. Do it after, but do it as soon as ever you can. Find out as much as possible about Durrant’s Television and the contract. How far they’ve gone. That’s all. … No, that’s not all,” he said, relaxing again. “I’ll tell you where you come in. There’s five hundred for you, in notes, when you bring me the bit of paper from Dow’s, and five hundred more when all my plan is completed—so now you know.”
It was four times more than Guy had ever had before, even for the biggest job, and if he had ever allowed himself to show the least sign of surprise, he would have done so then. But he did not. He took it as calmly as he took all things. For he met all this with his superb indifference. They passed apparently unheeded over that large blonde head, with its dull, contented expression, so empty to the onlooker and so full within.
“There,” said Lawson, getting up; and Guy got up, more slowly, with him. “That’s really all. Now you know, and we needn’t talk any more.”
“That’s all right,” said Guy, in the tone of a man conferring a favour, and shaking hands as warmly as self-respect and the Public School tradition would admit. He sauntered out, waiting for the man in livery to come and open the front door for him, and then proceeded with magnificent leisure down the slopes of Mayfair.
On the next day, Monday, there came at the expected hour the expected message, and immediately afterwards the expected man, to Lawson House—for I am sorry to say that Lawson had changed its old name; but after all, he had twenty times the wealth of the old owner.
Des Cuoyes brought with him, loose in his pocket, with proper nonchalance, a scrap of paper in another man’s hand-writing, and clipped on to it a full page of typewritten statement which was signed. He sank down again into that familiar low chair, and Arthur Lawson, standing up on the rug, read both the documents which he had been given. The first, in the unknown hand-writing, he glanced at to see that it was what he wanted, and nodded with a firm satisfaction upon his thin-pressed lips.
Then he read carefully the typewritten statement. Then he pulled back a small Meissonier to the left of the mantelpiece (Meissoniers had come into fashion again). It covered the door of a small cupboard, such as those in which careful men keep their cigars for warmth and for dryness. Therein also Arthur Lawson kept a supply of cigars going—and occasionally other things. Thence he took an envelope, opened it, verified the notes, handed them over to Guy des Cuoyes, and Guy des Cuoyes, not to be outdone in courtesy, actually got up from his chair and as he took the envelope said: “Thank you.”
“You’ve done that job well,” said Arthur Lawson.
“Thank you,” said Guy, sinking back into his chair.
“What is he like?” said Arthur Lawson.
“He’s one of those funny men one never hears of —what? He lives in a huge big house in Bayswater, and he’s always buying things. He’s got a sort of collection, a sort of Zoo. I heard all about him. He was the man who got stung for the Hegguy Gyroscope, but he got home again on the Bailen Deep-Sea apparatus. That did well, you know. And then he was three screens behind the Palatine Group Hotels for a short time. I don’t know what he got out of that. He’s always got about a thousand irons in the fire.”
“I mean, what does he look like?” said Lawson. “Oh, just fat,” drawled Guy. “Like a pig—what?”
“There was no question of Reynier’s?”
Guy wagged his head slowly in negation. “Never had been,” he said. “He knew his market, he was waiting for the top of it. Durrant’s thought they were sure of it, they were in no hurry.”
“We were,” said Arthur Lawson quietly.
“Yes,” said Guy.
“I heard another thing,” said Guy. “Durrant’s are going to approach Reynier’s to-morrow, and make them an offer for this Dow’s Patent. … Great sport —what?”
Lawson screwed his eye-brows together, trying to make out the signature on the written memorandum before him.
“He writes an impossible fist,” he said.
“Yes—you might almost think he was an educated man, but he isn’t.”
“I can’t make out the name.”
“Not what you’d expect,” said Guy. “The name’s Murphy. F. X. Murphy.”
“What’s X for?”
“Xavier,” said Guy shortly.
“Odd,” frowned Lawson.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Guy.
“You’re right,” said Lawson. He folded what did matter, the memorandum, and put it in his pocket-book.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Guy, getting up to go, with the ease that had already made him well to do and would at last make him rich.
“Not quite,” said Lawson. “Wait a minute. What about completion of Dow’s sale?”
“He’ll complete at once,” said des Cuoyes. “He said any time before the end of the week. Shall we say Thursday?”
“I’d like it the day after to-morrow,” said Lawson. “Can you bring it me here at this time on the day after to-morrow?”
“Certainly,” said Guy. “It’s only a matter of money. And it’s your money. Even a lawyer will hurry for money.”
“I only want the proof of transfer by Wednesday,” said Lawson. “I want it by Wednesday before the offices close. Send it round here—you need not come yourself. So long as I have the proof of transfer the formalities can wait.”
Then des Cuoyes, who was a little anxious for his dressing time, and had begun to look at his watch, really moved to go, but he was detained yet another minute.
“By the way, Guy, there’s one more thing, and it’s important, and it will save you coming again if I tell you now. You know Jack Williams, the Home Secretary? You know McAuley of Durrant’s?”
“I’ve met them both,” said Guy. “Williams has got some hold on J. But I don’t know what it is. I could find out.”
“I’m sure you could,” said Lawson.
“Get them to dinner on Thursday if you can; if not, as early as possible. By that time they will have had their disappointment over Reynier’s, so they will be mystified about Dow’s, anyhow. Keep a table for 8.30 at the Palatine. Tell them you want to see them about Dow’s. And make them understand that you are the man who can deliver the goods. You understand?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Guy leisurely.
“Very well. Now when you have got a table, there is to be one empty chair. And not a word about me, you understand? We shall see each other before then, and I’ll tell you where and when I come in.”
“Right,” said Guy. And with as near an approach to rapidity as he ever allowed himself, he moved out, only delaying by so much as was necessary to give the gilded underling time to open the outer door; then, once again, he sauntered out down the slopes of Mayfair to his bath, his glad rags, and his happy evening—what?
Chapter XVII
At the early hour appointed, ten o’clock, on the Tuesday morning, then, Arthur Lawson appeared in James McAuley’s flat, and was shown into his study. It was a great moment for J. He was a big man in his world, but Lawson was a mountain compared to him; and by the standards which to McAuley were the only standards in the universe, by the standards which Lawson counted no more than the dust, and despised as he despised all those who held them, Lawson was to McAuley a man to be worshipped, and a man necessarily possessed of almost unlimited power.
How graciously was Lawson welcomed! Almost with the deference of a courtier, though such deference is difficult to assume by men untrained to it; almost with the courtesies of a Court, though such courtesies are difficult to be assumed
by men untrained; and of course he was asked to sit down at once, and of course all had been made ready for him.
But Arthur Lawson would not even sit down. And Arthur Lawson did not relax his face. He had no special reason for courtesy, still less had he any intention of spending a moment more of his time than was necessary. He had come as an enemy, or as a judge, or as an executioner.
“I need not detain you a moment, Mr. McAuley,” he said, impassively, and standing erect. “I have come on a very simple matter. Will you be good enough to hand me the letter which some short time ago you handed to my friend Mr. Wilfrid Halterton, the Postmaster-General, and afterwards stole from his person?”
James McAuley made a very rapid calculation; and I am proud to say for the honour of British finance refused to react to the word “stole.” He did not change colour, either, at the general accusation. He did not start, he heard out Arthur Lawson’s brief sentence as he might have heard a common greeting.
What passed through the financier’s mind passed through it so rapidly that the sentence I am here writing runs sluggishly compared with the process of his thought. Yet I must put down that process to explain what followed. James McAuley was working this, then, in his own great mind, on these lines.
“This man has unlimited wealth. Therefore he has unlimited powers of doing me harm. He knows part of the truth, but not all of it. If I could stand out— and it’s a risk to stand out—but if I can stand out there is a great fortune awaiting me, though less than I had hoped for. I shall be able to have something less than half, perhaps a third, of the new flotation. I can’t give this man the letter—I haven’t got it. If I tell him where it is, it will draw the lightning off me and make it strike Williams. I should not mind that, as a piece of personal gratification. But on the top of that, Lawson might then very well, when he has saved his friend Halterton, let me in for better terms than Williams would. After all, I am Durrant’s, and I practically own Dow’s. They’ve got to come to me. Whenever I get that promise of contract back, as I certainly could if Lawson brings his full weight to bear upon Williams. … I’ll tell Lawson all.”
The Postmaster General Page 17
