Grey Timothy/Chapter 10

Lord Pinlow came in to breakfast in a cheerful frame of mind. He had told himself as he lay back in his chair under the hands of his skilful valet that he had never been so rich in his life, which was probably true.

Beitjesfonteins had served him well—so had Callander. He smiled cheerfully as he thought of that astute man of business. He had other reasons to be pleased with himself. It was the Friday before Goodwood, and the week ahead held wondrous possibilities. He walked into his cheery dining-room and stood for a moment, his hands in his pockets, surveying, through the big window of his flat, the sun-bathed stretch of Pall Mall.

Then he turned to his table, where a light breakfast was laid. On the plate by his side were two or three letters and a telegram.

He opened the latter first and swore softly. “Mildam is coughing.”

It was from his trainer and had been handed in at nine o’clock the previous night at Salisbury.

He rang the bell furiously, and his man appeared.

“When did this telegram arrive?” he asked.

“This morning, m’lord,” said the man; “it had been delayed, so the boy said, owing to misdirection.”

“That will do,” said his lordship curtly.

Mildam coughing! That was a supreme catastrophe. Still his trainer was a close man, he would delay scratching the beast, and lay the money off. He opened his Sporting Chronicle and turned to the betting news. The headlines that met his eyes were startling:

With livid face he read the introductory article that followed.

“The feature of last night’s betting,” it said, “was the sensational attack made on Mildam, who receded from five to one to one hundred to seven (offered). It is reported that the filly, whose chance was highly esteemed, is coughing. Simultaneously there was a rush to get on Grey Timothy, who hardened from eight to one, to five to two. This was due to the investments of a well-known sporting owner, who has recently come amongst us. This gentleman, it is reported, laid Mildam to lose five thousand pounds.”

Pinlow read the article again.

“Pallard!” he muttered; “but, by heaven! he shall lose his money.”

He left his breakfast untouched. His servant called him a taxi-cab, and he drove to the City. He found Mr Callander looking tired and ill. With him was Horace, an uneasy young man, twirling his moustache nervously.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Pinlow,” said the elder man.

He was obviously ill at ease.

Pinlow took the chair which was offered to him.

“I think I will dispense with you for a few moments, my dear,” said the old man, and Horace obediently departed.

“I got your message last night,” said Pinlow. “What is the trouble?”

The old man—and old he looked that morning—cleared his throat before speaking.

“It is this—these wretched shares,” he said. “Do you know, Pinlow, I have lost a great deal more money than I can afford? I didn’t realize, you know, what a speculation they were, and your friend told me—and you yourself supported him—that they would go to twelve.”

Pinlow concealed a smile at the almost pathetic entreaty in the other’s voice.

“These things happen,” he said suavely; “one can never foretell. How much have you lost?”

It was a superfluous question, for he knew almost to a penny.

“Over forty thousand,” said Mr Callander.

He put up his hand to hide a trembling lip. He knew that it was well over forty thousand; he knew too well how unprepared he was to stand such a loss.

“I’ve always dabbled in stock a little,” he said; “but never anything like this.”

Pinlow shrugged his shoulders.

“It is very unfortunate. What can I do?”

“I was wondering,” said the old man, “if—I’ve never done such a thing before, but I’ve some heavy calls and I hardly know which way to turn—do you think you could lend me twenty thousand?”

“My dear good chap,” said the other impatiently, “I couldn’t and wouldn’t lend you twenty thousand shillings. It’s ridiculous your troubling about such a sum. Surely you can raise money on this business? I’ll float it for you, if you like.” ` The old man shook his head.

“You cannot float a business on a falling balance sheet,” he said. “This business is declining rapidly. It was the recognition of the fact that made me take the risk I did.”

Pinlow whistled softly.

“Then if the business isn’t worth £20,000, how the devil can you ask me to lend you money?”

“I thought a friend …” said Mr Callander, his voice broken.

Pinlow laughed brutally.

“One has no friends in business hours,” he said briefly. “It is unfair to expect such a loan. Why, I thought you were a rich man.”

He said this in such a tone as to suggest that Mr Callander would never have been honoured with his acquaintance if he had thought otherwise. Perhaps the old man recognized the scorn in his voice, for of a sudden he gathered together the straggling threads of his dignity.

“I am sorry to have bothered you,” he said quietly; “but seeing that you were in the syndicate which has inflated Beitjesfonteins, I”

“Who said I was in it?”

Mr Callander picked up a paper that lay open on his desk and handed it to his visitor. It was the new issue of the Market Review.

Pinlow skimmed the article which bore the heading “The Swindle in ‘Bits’,” and the farther he progressed the more purple became his face.

“It’s a lie—a lie!” he muttered as he read. “Dang this fellow! I will have him for this!”

Then he came to a passage which made him go white.

“The remarkable thing about the rig is that quite a number of the shares on the market are issued without authority. They are as spurious as forged Bank of England notes. The truth is, that a large block of shares came into the possession of a wealthy Australian gentleman, a Mr Pallard, who regarded them as valueless and never bothered to apply for registration. The share capital of the company is £250,000—a very small sum for a mining concern. Of these 200,000 are held by Mr Brian Pallard, whose exploits in another field of speculation are fairly well known. How comes it in these circumstances that share certificates to the extent of over 100,000 can be traced in the City of London alone?

The explanation is, of course, that trusting that in some mysterious way the big block of shares held by Mr Pallard was swept off the face of the earth, the rascals behind ‘Bits’ have issued new certificates.

Mr Pallard will be glad to hear from any unfortunate shareholder who holds certificates numbered 5,001 to 205,000.”

Pinlow rose unsteadily.

“All this is false,” he said hoarsely, “and I’ll make the man pay who has mixed my name in this; by the way, what have you done with your shares?”

“I have handed them to a broker to sell,” said Mr Callander wearily.

“Your own broker?”

“No, to a Mr Burton who came to see me about their disposal.”

“What is his address?”

Mr Callander drew a card from his writing-case and handed it to the other.

“I’ll see what I can do about these shares,” said Pinlow. He made an unceremonious exit. In the corridor outside he met Horace disconsolately walking up and down.

“One moment, Pinlow,” said the youth. “I wanted to see you I’m in rather a hole”

“Hang you and your hole!” snarled his angry lordship. “Everybody is in a hole, and I’m in the biggest!”

Burton’s office was little more than a stone’s throw, and Lord Pinlow sent in his card and was ushered into the office of the great broker.

“I’ve come to see you about some ‘Bits’ you’re holding for Callander,” he said, as soon as he was seated.

The broker nodded.

“I’ve got a few,” he said; “about five thousand he bought at three pound ten; one thousand he bought at six pounds; and another five thousand he bought at five pounds.”

“The purchase price doesn’t interest me,” said Pinlow. “I’ve come to make you an offer for them.”

“I shall be interested to hear what it is.” said Mr Burton politely.

“They stood at thirty shillings last night,” said Pinlow; “I will give you a flat thirty-five shillings for the lot.”

The broker laughed.

“You have heard the price Mr Callander paid,” he said. “That is the price at which I sell.”

Pinlow glowered at him.

“Are you mad?” he snapped; “do you expect me to buy at four times the market value?”

“I expect nothing,” said the broker. “I didn’t even expect you. I did not ask you to buy them.”

A light suddenly flashed on Pinlow’s mind.

“You’re Pallard’s broker, I suppose.”

“You are at liberty to suppose anything you like,” said the other comfortably; “but there is no harm in my telling you that I am Mr Pallard’s adviser in matters of this kind.”

“I see.”

Pinlow got up.

“It is blackmail,” he said, “blackmail, pure and simple.”

“You can put it just as you like,” said Mr Burton, unperturbed; “blackmail, whitemail or pinkmail; here is the fact. I have some twenty thousand shares to sell, numbered, ah! from 100,001 up 105,001, and so on and so forth. I did not invite you to tender for these, and I set my own price on them. I attempt to squeeze nobody. I ask a fair price, a price which will enable Mr Callander to sell without a loss. It is for you to buy or to leave.”

“I shall certainly not buy,” said Pinlow.

“Very good,” agreed the other. “If those shares are not sold by two o’clock this afternoon, there will be a rise of ten per cent. in their value.”

Pinlow banged the door behind him.

A taxi-cab carried him to the block of buildings near Liverpool Street Station, wherein were the offices of the Beitjesfontein Deep Gold Mining Company, Limited.

He found three perturbed directors waiting: Freeberg, small and fat; Holmes, tall, cadaverous, and yellow; and Mr Augustus Fanks, that Bayard of Finance.

He closed the door of the board-room behind him more gently than he had closed the door of Mr Burton’s office.

“Lock it,” said Freeberg; and he turned the key.

“Have you seen the Review?” asked the voices in unison. Pinlow sat down heavily in one of the padded chairs by the table and nodded.

“Well?”

“Well?” he snapped. “What are you going to do?”

“Can’t we square the Review?” suggested Holmes. “You know what these fellows are. A couple of thousand pounds … he can come out next week with an abject apology … ‘Very sorry, we have investigated the matter of Beitjesfonteins, and we find that there is no truth’, etc., etc.”

By the nodded heads of the other men, Pinlow gathered that this was the plan the board had adopted.

“You’ll not square the Review,” he said roughly. “Can’t you see that Pallard is behind it all?”

“I don’t see what there is to be worried about,” said the pompous Fanks. He was a stout and hairless man. “We’ve bought in all the shares at dead meat prices, except our friend Callander’s, and you can manage that, can’t you, Pinlow?”

“I cannot,” replied Pinlow shortly. “The old fool has handed them to Burton, of Burton and Freebody’s.”

“Buy ’em,” suggested Fanks.

“I can buy them,” replied Pinlow grimly, “at a price—that’s what I have come to see you about. Burton will sell at the price Callander gave.”

“What!” cried the indignant Freeberg. “Why, that’s robbery! It’s monstrous! The man ought to be prosecuted!”

“In all my life,” said Mr Augustus Fanks deliberately, “I have never heard a more disgraceful thing; why, it’s blackmail!”

Pinlow showed his teeth.

“Disgraceful or not,” he said, “we’ve got to buy those shares and the less jaw there is about it the better. Even as it is we have—to run the risk of the Director of Public Prosecutions taking up the case. We have each to subscribe according to the amount we have made out of the stock.”

“I’ll not subscribe a penny,” said Fanks.

“Then I won’t trouble you any further,” said Pinlow, making as if to rise. “I shall write to all the financial papers saying that my attention has been called to the article in the Review, and that, having gone into the facts of the case, I am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that there is some truth in the charge—I shall then offer to refund”

“But you’re in it!” protested Fanks vigorously. “You’re as much in it as any of us.”

“My name does not appear in any of the script,” said Pinlow pointedly, “and that is all that matters.”

“There is no use in wrangling,” interrupted the cadaverous Holmes. “Sit down everybody, and we’ll work out the percentage.”

That evening as Mr Callander was preparing with a heavy heart for his journey to Sevenoaks, Mr Burton was announced.

“I have sold your shares,” he said.

Mr Callander’s smile was a wry one. ‘Bits’ had closed weakly at twenty-five shillings.

“I am greatly obliged to you,” he said. “I suppose you didn’t get thirty for them?”

The broker shook his head.

“No, I didn’t get thirty,” he said dryly. He pulled from his inside pocket a fat bundle of notes, and Mr Callander, who was used to doing business on a cheque basis, wondered.

“It is all right,” laughed Burton. “I have just come from the bank. I did not trust the people I was doing business with, so I got an open cheque; you can have these notes, or my cheque in the morning.”

“How much is there?”

“A little over eighty thousand pounds,” said the unemotional broker.

Mr Callander collapsed into his chair.

“But—but how?” he asked weakly. “It is impossible—the shares were only twenty-five shillings—and”

“I don’t exactly know how it occurred,” said Mr Burton carefully, “but I strongly suspect that Pallard the Punter has punted to some purpose.”