The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder (7 page)

He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he would imagine dark caves stumbled upon by accident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Monte Carlo Casino, with immense piles of
mille
notes before him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians – in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him for the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer – this was his considered view.

When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sitting-room, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.

Mr Staffen took off his light overcoat and, walking to the table, inspected the ore with sober interest.

‘I’ve had the assay,’ he said. ‘The Johnny who did it is a friend of mine and didn’t charge a penny; his report is promising – very promising.’

‘The company–’ began Art, but Mr Staffen raised a warning finger.

‘I think you know, and it is unnecessary for me to remind you, that I do not intend speculating a dollar in this mine. I’m putting up no money. What I’m prepared to do is to use my influence in the promotion for a
quid pro quo
. You know what that means?’

‘Something for nothing!’ said Art, and in this instance was not entirely wide of the mark.

‘Well, no – stock in the company. Maybe I’ll take a directorship later, when the money is up and everything is plain sailing. I can’t lend my name to a – well, unknown quantity.’

Art agreed.

‘My friend has put up the money,’ he said easily. ‘If that guy had another hundred dollars he’d have all the money in the world – he’s that rich. Stands to reason, Mr Staffen, that I wouldn’t come over here tryin’ to get money from a gentleman who is practically a stranger. We met in Canada – sure we did! But what do you know about me? I might be one large crook – I might be a con man or anything!’

Some such idea had occurred to Bertie Claude, but the very frankness of his friend dispelled something of his suspicions.

‘I’ve often wondered since what you must have thought of me, sittin’ in a game with that bunch of thugs,’ Art went on, puffing a reflective cigar. ‘But I guess you said to yourself, “This guy is a man of the world – he’s
gotta
mix.” An’ that’s true. In these Canadian mining camps you horn in with some real tough boys – yes, sir. They’re sump’n’ fierce.’

‘I quite understood the position,’ said Bertie Claude, who hadn’t. ‘I flatter myself I know men. If I haven’t shown that in
Homo Sum
then I’ve failed in expression.’

‘Sure,’ said Mr Lomer lazily, and added another ‘Sure!’ to ram home the first. ‘That’s a pretty good book. When you give it to me at King Edward Hotel I thought it was sump’n’ about arithmetic. But ’tis mighty good poetry, every line startin’ with big letters an’ the end of every line sounding like the end word in the line before. I said to my secretary, “That Mr Staffen must have a brain.” How you get the ideas beats me. That one about the princess who comes out of a clam–’

‘An oyster – she was the embodiment of the pearl,’ Bertie hastened to explain. ‘You mean The White Maiden?’

Lomer nodded lazily.

‘That was great. I never read poetry till I read that; it just made me want to cry like a great big fool! If I had your gifts I wouldn’t be loafin’ round Ontario prospecting. No, sir.’

‘It
is
a gift,’ said Mr Staffen after thought. ‘You say you have the money for the company?’

‘Every cent. I’m not in a position to offer a single share – that’s true. Not that you need worry about that. I’ve reserved a few from promotion. No, sir, I never had any intention of allowing you to pay a cent.’

He knocked off the ash of his cigar and frowned.

‘You’ve been mighty nice to me, Mr Staffen,’ he said slowly, ‘and though I don’t feel called upon to tell every man my business, you’re such an honest fellow that I feel sort of confident about you. This mine means nothing.’

Bertie Claude’s eyebrows rose.

‘I don’t quite get you,’ he said.

Art’s smile was slow and a little sad.

‘Doesn’t it occur to you that if I’ve got the capital for that property, it was foolish of me to take a trip to Europe?’

Bertie had certainly wondered why.

‘Selling that mine was like selling bars of gold. It didn’t want any doing; I could have sold it if I’d been living in the Amaganni Forest. No, sir, I’m here on business that would make your hair stand up if you knew.’

He rose abruptly and paced the room with quick, nervous strides, his brow furrowed in thought.

‘You’re a whale of a poet,’ he said suddenly. ‘Maybe you’ve got more imagination than most people. What does the mine mean for me? A few hundred thousand dollars’ profit.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What are you doing on Wednesday?’

The brusqueness of the question took Bertie Claude aback.

‘On Wednesday? Well, I don’t know that I’m doing anything.’

Mr Lomer bit his lip thoughtfully.

‘I’ve got a little house on the river. Come down and spend a night with me, and I’ll let you into a secret that the newspapers would give a million dollars to know. If you read it in a book you wouldn’t believe it. Maybe one day you can write it. It would take a man with your imagination to put it over. Say, I’ll tell you now.’

And then, with some hesitation, Mr Lomer told his story.

‘Politics, and all that, I know nothing about. But I do know that some of the royalty that’ve been kicked out have been feeling the pinch and there’s one from one country – no names. My interest in the place was about the same as yours in Piketown, Saskatchewan, but about six months ago I met up with a couple of these people. They came out of the United States in a hurry, with a sheriff’s posse behind them, and I happened to be staying on a farm near the border when they turned up. And what do you think they’d been doing?’

Mr Staffen shook his head.

‘Peddling emeralds,’ said the other soberly.

‘Emeralds? Peddling? What do you mean – trying to sell emeralds?’

Art nodded.

‘Yes, sir. One had a paper bag full of ’em, all sizes. I bought the lot for twelve thousand dollars, took ’em down to T’ronto and got them valued at something under a million dollars.’

Bertie Claude was listening open-mouthed.

‘These fellows had been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the others – I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.’

He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasize his words.

‘The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next week.’

‘Twenty million dollars!’ gasped Bertie Claude. ‘What will it cost you?’

‘A million dollars – over three hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the best emeralds you ever saw – all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for – well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like one stone you see – why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.’

Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.

As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a high bowler hat, but beyond noticing that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.

‘Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr Staffen, are you not?’

‘Yes,’ said Bertie shortly.

‘I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on – er – a matter of some moment?’

Bertie waved an impatient hand.

‘I’ve no time to see anybody,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.’

And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.

Mr Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the taxi which was waiting for them at the station dripped from every surface.

‘Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,’ he grumbled.

Mr Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.

‘It suits me,’ he said. ‘This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.’

The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered dining-room, where tea had been laid.

Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the comfort of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a pretty maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man who had helped him off with his wet raincoat.

‘No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,’ said Mr Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. ‘Jenkins, the butler, is my man, so is the valet; the maid comes from London.’

After tea he showed Bertie up to his bedroom and, opening a drawer of his bureau, took out a small steel box, fastened with two locks. These he unfastened and lifted out a shallow metal tray covered with a layer of cotton wool.

‘You can have any of these that take your eye,’ he said. ‘Make me an offer and I’ll tell you what they’re worth.’

He rolled back the cotton wool and revealed six magnificent stones.

‘That one?’ said Mr Lomer, taking the largest between his finger and thumb. ‘Why, that’s worth six thousand dollars – about two thousand pounds. And if you offered me that sum for it, I’d think you were a fool, because the only safe way of getting emeralds is to buy ’em fifty per cent under value. I reckon that cost me about’ – he made a mental calculation – ‘ninety pounds.’

Bertie’s eyes shone. On emeralds he was something of an expert, and that these stones were genuine, he knew.

‘You wouldn’t like to sell it for ninety pounds?’ he asked carelessly.

Art Lomer shook his head.

‘No, sir. I’ve gotta make some profit even from my friends! I’ll let you have it for a hundred.’

Bertie’s hand sought his inside pocket.

‘No, I don’t want paying now. What do you know about emeralds anyway? They might be a clever fake. Take it up to town, show it to an expert–’

‘I’ll give you the cheque now.’

‘Any time will do.’

Art wrapped up the stone carefully, put it in a small box and handed it to his companion.

‘That’s the only one I’m going to sell,’ he explained as he led the way back to the dining-room.

Bertie went immediately to the small secretaire, wrote the cheque, tore it out and handed it to Mr Lomer. Art looked at the paper and frowned.

‘Why, what do I do with this?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got no bank account here. All my money’s in the Associated Express Company.’

‘I’ll make it “pay bearer”,’ said Bertie obligingly.

Still Mr Lomer was dubious.

‘Just write a note telling the President, or whoever he is, to cash that little bit of paper. I hate banks anyway.’

The obliging Bertie Claude scribbled the necessary note. When this was done, Bertie came to business, for he was a business man.

‘Can I come in on this jewel deal?’

Art Lomer shook his head reluctantly.

‘Sorry, Mr Staffen, but that’s almost impossible. I’ll be quite frank with you, because I believe in straightforward dealing. When you ask to come in on that transaction, you’re just asking me for money!’

Bertie made a faint noise of protest.

‘Well, that’s a mean way of putting it, but it comes to the same thing. I’ve taken all the risk, I’ve organized the operation – and it’s cost money – I just hate to refuse you, because I like you, Mr Staffen. Maybe if there’s any little piece to which you might take a fancy, I’ll let you have it at a reasonable price.’

Bertie thought for a moment, his busy mind at work.

‘What has the deal cost you up to now?’ he asked.

Again Mr Lomer shook his head.

‘It doesn’t matter what it’s cost me – if you offered me four times the amount of money I’ve spent – and that would be a considerable sum – I couldn’t let you in on this deal. I might go so far as giving you a small interest, but I wouldn’t take money for that.’

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ said Bertie, who never lost hope.

The rain had ceased, and the setting sun flooded the river with pale gold, and Bertie was walking in the garden with his host, when from somewhere above them came the faint hum of a small plane. Presently he saw the machine circling and disappearing behind the black crown of Quarry Wood. He heard an exclamation from the man at his side and, turning, saw Art’s face puckered in a grimace of annoyance and doubt.