He might ruminate5 in vain to find one attractive feature of his programme. Parliament wearied him, and the ordinary practices of the law no longer gave him pleasure.
There was an interest in the work he was doing for the Government, and if he had the faintest hint of pleasure in his immediate6 prospects7, the cause was to be found in the vexed8 problems centring about this new, and loosely drawn9, shipping law. It was a measure which had been passed in a hurry, and when the acid test of litigation had been applied10, some of its weak points had been discovered.
The weakest of these points was one affecting the load-line. In an action heard before a High Court Judge, the doubtful clause had been interpreted so as to render the Act a dead letter; and there were particular and especial Governmental reasons why the appeal which the Government had made from the verdict of the lower Court should upset that decision.
There is no need to give the particulars of the great dispute, which arose over the three words “or otherwise loaded,” and it is only necessary to say that, before he had reached London, Mr. Maxell had discovered a way for the Government out of their difficulty.
It was this opinion which he delivered to a relieved Attorney-General, and, with the new argument, the Government were able to present so strong a case to the Court of Appeal, that a month after his return the verdict of the lower Court was reversed.
“And,” said the Attorney-General, “the devils can take it to the House of Lords now and still lose—thanks to your brain wave, Maxell!”
They were smoking in the Crown Room at the Law Courts after the decision had been delivered.
“Where have you been for your holiday, by the way?” asked the Attorney suddenly.
“Morocco,” replied the other.
“Morocco?” The Attorney nodded thoughtfully. “Did you hear anything of friend Cartwright?” he asked.
“We were staying at the same hotel,” replied Maxell.
“A weird11 person,” said the thoughtful Attorney. “A very curious man—what a Chancellor12 that fellow would make!”
“He never struck me that way,” smiled Maxell.
“Do you know him well—I mean, are you a particular friend of his?” demanded the Attorney.
“No,” said Maxell indifferently. “I know him—so many men in the law know him.”
“You’re not by any chance associating with him in business now, are you?”
It was a lie and he knew it was a lie. It was told deliberately14 from the desire to stand well in the eyes of his friends. He knew Cartwright’s reputation well enough, and just how he was regarded by the party whom he had served for three years. Cartwright had been Member for a London borough15, but had resigned. “Pressure of business” was the excuse he gave, but there were people who said that it was owing to the pressure of the Party Whips, who smelt16 a somewhat unsavoury case coming into Court with Cartwright figuring prominently.
There is no way of proving or disproving the statement, because the case in which Cartwright most decidedly was interested was withdrawn17 from the list at the last moment. The uncharitable say that it cost Cartwright a small fortune to bring about this withdrawal18, and certainly one of the ladies interested (she was a small-part actress at the Hippoceus) gave up her stage work and had been living in affluence19 ever since. Cartwright pooh-poohed the suggestion that the case held anything sensational—but he did not enter political life again.
“I am glad you’re not associated with him,” said the Attorney simply. “He’s an awfully20 nice fellow and I suppose he is as straight and as sound as the best man in the City. But he’s a shifty fellow—just a little bit”—he hesitated—“a little wrong. You understand, Maxell—or shall we say slightly shop-soiled?”
“He is certainly a brilliant man,” said Maxell, not desirous of defending his friend too vigorously.
“Yes, I suppose he is,” admitted the Attorney. “All men like that are brilliant. What a pity his genius does not run in a smooth channel, but must follow the course of a burning cracker21, here, there and everywhere, exploding at every turn!”
He slipped down from the table, on the edge of which he had been sitting and pulled off his robe.
“I’m glad to know you’re not associated with Cartwright, anyway,” he said.
Maxell did not attempt to probe beneath the surface of his twice-repeated remark.
He went back to Cavendish Square to his flat and to a tiny, solemn-eyed little girl who had been brought up from Hindhead that day on her monthly visit to “Uncle Max.”
Cartwright had not accompanied his friend to England, and with good reasons. A great deal of his work was carried out in Paris, where he had an important financial backing. He occupied a flat overlooking the imposing22, but none too convenient, Avenue of the Grand Army. His home was at the unfashionable end of this interminable thoroughfare, which meant that his rooms were larger and his rent cheaper, and that he was freer from observation than he would have been had he lived according to his means or station in a luxurious23 flat nearer the Etoil.
He had a board meeting to attend, an informal board meeting, it is true, but none the less important.
Cartwright was the chairman and managing director of the London and Paris Gold Syndicate, a flourishing concern which held big blocks of shares in various land and gold-mining companies, and controlled three mines of its own on the West Rand. Though a Company drawing a modest revenue from its Johannesburg property, its operations were not confined to gold development pure and simple. It was, in fact, an outside broker’s on a grand scale. It gambled heavily and gambled wisely. The shareholders24 seldom received less than a twelve and a half per cent. dividend25, and there were years when in addition it paid a bonus equal to its own share capital.
It numbered its clients at one hundred and fifty thousand, the majority being small people who preferred speculation26 to investment—country parsons, doctors and the small gamblers who lived fearfully on the fringe of high finance. The shares were at a premium27 and Cartwright’s interest brought him a considerable sum annually28. What probably attracted the little speculator was the knowledge of the Company’s reserve, which stood in the balance-sheet at a respectable figure. It was the question of these reserves that occupied the attention of the four quiet men who met informally in the room of a Paris hotel.
There were three to one against Cartwright, because none of his companions could see eye to eye with him.
“It is too dangerous, M. Cartwright,” said Gribber, whose nationality was suspect; “our risks are already high and we cannot afford, in my judgment29, to extend them. The money would be subscribed30 over and over again if you went to the English public.”
Cartwright frowned.
“Why shouldn’t we make the profit?” he asked; “we could borrow from our reserve.”
“That we can’t touch!” interrupted the cautious Gribber, shaking his head violently. “My faith, no, we cannot touch that! For it is certain that the lean years will come when our clients will require their dividends31.”
The Benson Syndicate, for example.
He spoke33 eloquently34 of this new venture, which was to have its headquarters in Paris, and would be under the eye of his sceptical co-directors. He mentioned names glibly35 and easily—names that carried weight in the financial world. The three men agreed that the Benson Syndicate had the appearance of a safe investment.
More important was the business which brought Alfred Cartwright to the St. Lazaire Station to meet a passenger a week later.
She sprang from the train and looked round with doubting face, which lighted the moment she saw the saturnine36 Cartwright.
“My! I am relieved,” she said. “I was scared to think you wouldn’t be here to meet me, and I’d only got a few pounds left.”
“You got my wire?” he asked, and she smiled, showing two rows of pearly teeth.
“I’m still mystified,” she said. “What is it you want me to do in Paris?”
“Let us eat first and talk afterwards,” he said. “You must be hungry.”
“I’m starving!” she laughed.
He had a car waiting for her, and whisked her off to a little street leading from the Boulevard des Italiens, where one of the best restaurants in Paris is situated37. The girl looked about her with an approving air. The gaiety and luxury of the place appealed to her.
“Do you know this place?” he asked.
“I’ve seen it,” she admitted, “but a three-franc dinner at Duval’s has been my limit so far.”
She told him how she had come to the Continent as a dancer, and had “starred” in a tiny little cabaret in Montmartre as one of the “dashing Sisters Jones,” before she had been seen by the impresario39 who was recruiting material for his tour through the Levant.
Cartwright judged her to be nineteen, knew her to be extremely pretty, and guessed that, under certain conditions, she would be presentable even to the best of the circles in which he moved. He wondered, with a grim smile, what Maxell, that austere40 and fastidious man, would say if he knew that the girl was with him in Paris. Would Maxell accept her? He thought not. Maxell was a thought straitlaced and in some ways was a bore. But Maxell was necessary. He was a brilliant lawyer, and moreover stood well with the Government, and there might come a time when Maxell would be immensely useful. He could well afford to give the lawyer a slice of the pickings he intended making, because Maxell’s wants were few and his ambitions on the modest side.
Cartwright thought in millions. Maxell was a five-figure man. If all went well with Cartwright’s scheme, undoubtedly41 he could well afford the five figures.
“What happened to your friend?” asked the girl, as though divining his thoughts: “The man you told me I was to keep away from. Why didn’t you want him to see me?”
“Does it really matter?” he asked; “he’s in England, anyway.”
“Who is he?” She was curious.
“Oh, a friend of mine.”
“And who are you?” she asked, facing him squarely. “If I’m going to see anything of you in Paris, that Smith, Brown or Robinson business isn’t quite good enough. You’ve been decent to me, but I want to know who I’m working for, and what is the kind of work you want me to do.”
Cartwright pinched his neck—a nervous little trick of his when he was thinking.
“I have business interests here,” he said.
He shook his head.
“No, I don’t want you for an office,” he replied with a smile. “And yet in a sense I want you to do office work. I have a little syndicate here, which is known as the Benson Syndicate. Benson is my name——”
“Or the name you go by,” she said quickly, and he laughed.
“How sharp you are! Well, I don’t suppose O’Grady is your name, if it comes to that.”
She made no reply and he went on:
“I want somebody in Paris I can rely upon; somebody who will receive money, transmit it to the Benson Syndicate, and re-invest that money in such concerns as I shall indicate.”
“Don’t use long words,” she said. “How do you know I’m not going to rob you? Nobody’s ever trusted me with money before.”
He might have told her that she would not be trusted with a great deal at a time and that she would be carefully watched. He preferred, however, an explanation more flattering to his new assistant. And not only was it flattering, but it contained a big grain of truth, expressing, to an extent, Alfred Cartwright’s creed44.
“Women are more honest than men,” he said. “I should think twice before I put a man—even my best friend—in the position I’m putting you. It will be a simple matter, and I shall pay you well. You can live at one of the best hotels—in fact, it is absolutely necessary that you should. You may”—he hesitated—“you may be Madam Benson, a rich Englishwoman.”
“What is the good of asking me to do that?” she said in a tone of disappointment. “I thought you were going to give me a job I could do. I’m a fool at business.”
“You can remain a fool,” he said coolly. “There’s nothing to do except carry out a certain routine, which I shall explain to you so that you can’t possibly make a mistake. Here is a job which gives you plenty of time, pays you well, gives you good clothes and an auto46. Now, are you going to be a sensible girl and take it?”
She thought a moment, then nodded.
“If it means lunching here every day, I’ll take it,” she said decidedly.
Thus was formed the remarkable47 Benson Syndicate, about which so much has been written, and so many theories evolved. For, if the truth be told, the Benson Syndicate had no existence until Cartwright called it into being in Ciro’s Restaurant. It was born of the opposition48 he had received, and its creation was hastened by certain disquieting49 telegrams which arrived almost every hour from London.
Cartwright was, as has been said, a man of many interests. The door-plate of his office in Victoria Street, London, was covered with the names of the companies which had their headquarters in the ornate suite50 which he occupied. There were two other suites51 of offices in the City of London for which Mr. Cartwright paid the rent, although he did not pay it in his own name. There were syndicates and companies innumerable, Development Syndicates, Exploitation Companies, Financial and Mining Companies, all duly registered and all keeping one solicitor52 busy; for the Companies Acts are tricky53, and Cartwright was too clever a man to contravene54 minor55 regulations.
And to all these companies there were shareholders; some of them contented56, some—the majority—wholly dissatisfied with their lot, and quite a large number who were wont57 to show their share certificates to their friends as curiosities, and tell them the sad story of how they were inveigled58 into investment.
Only a clever company lawyer can describe in detail the tortuous59 character of Cartwright’s system of finance. It involved loans from one company to another, very often on the security of shares in a third company; it involved a system of over-drafts, drawn in favour of some weakly member of his family, secured by the assets of one which could show a bold face to the world, and was even quoted in the Stock Exchange list; and divers60 other complicated transactions, which only the expert mathematician61 could follow.
Cartwright was a rich man, accounted a millionaire by his friends; but he was that type of millionaire who was never at a loss for a thousand, but who was generally hard up for ten thousand. He came to London much against his will, in response to an urgent telegram, and, having cleared the difficulties which his subordinates had found insuperable, he had a few hours to attend to his private affairs before he took the train back to Paris.
His secretary produced a heap of small bills requiring settlement, and going through these, he paused before one printed slip, and frowned.
“That boy’s school fees weren’t paid last term,” he said.
“No, sir,” said the secretary. “If you remember, I mentioned the matter to you when you were in London last. I was taking upon myself the responsibility of paying the fees, if you hadn’t returned. The boy is coming up to-day, by the way, sir, to be measured for some clothes.”
“Coming here?” asked Mr. Cartwright, interested.
“Yes, sir.”
Cartwright picked up the bill.
“T. A. C. Anderson,” he read. “What does T. A. C. stand for—‘Take A Chance’?”
“I understood he was named after you—Timothy Alfred Cartwright,” said the secretary.
“Yes; of course,” Cartwright grinned. “Still, Take A Chance isn’t a bad name for a kid. When is he arriving?”
“He ought to be here now,” said the man, looking at his watch. “I’ll go out and see.”
He disappeared into the outer office, and presently returned.
“The boy is here, sir,” he said. “Would you like to see him?”
“Bring him in,” said Cartwright. “I’d like to meet this nephew, or cousin, or whatever he is.”
He wondered vaguely62 what had induced him to take upon himself the responsibility of the small child, and with remorseless judgment analysed the reason as being personal vanity.
The door opened and a child strode in. “Strode” is the only word to describe the quick, decisive movement of the bright-eyed lad who looked with unflinching eye at Cartwright. Cartwright did not look at his clothes, but at the grey, clear eyes, the firm mouth, extraordinarily63 firm for a boy of fourteen, and the capable and not over-clean hands.
“Sit down, son,” said Cartwright. “So you’re my nephew.”
“Cousin, I think,” said the boy, critically examining the contents of Cartwright’s table. “You’re Cousin Alfred, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m a cousin, am I? Yes, I suppose I am,” said Cartwright, amused.
“I say,” said the boy, “is that the school bill? The Head has been rather baity about that.”
“?‘Baity’?” said the puzzled Cartwright. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Shirty,” said the boy calmly. “Annoyed, I suppose, is the correct word.”
“What do you want to be?” he asked.
“A financier,” said T. A. C. Anderson promptly.
He seated himself, leant his elbow on the desk and his head on his hand, his eyes never leaving Cartwright.
“I think that’s a great scheme—finance,” he said. “I’m a whale at mathematics.”
“What particular branch of finance?” asked Cartwright with a smile.
“Other people’s finance,” said the boy promptly; “the same business as yours.”
Cartwright threw back his head and laughed.
“And do you think you’d be able to keep twenty companies in the air at the same time?” he said.
“In the air?” the boy frowned. “Oh, you mean going all at once? Rather! Anyway, I’d take a chance.”
The phrase struck Cartwright.
“Take a chance? That’s curious. I called you Take A Chance Anderson just before you came in.”
“Oh, they all call me that,” said the boy indifferently. “You see, they’re bound to stick a label on to a fellow with an initial like mine. Some of them call me ‘Tin and Copper65 Anderson,’ but most of them—the other name.”
“You’re a rum kid,” said his cousin. “You can come to lunch with me.”
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1
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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ruminate
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| v.反刍；沉思 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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13
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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17
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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shareholders
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| n.股东( shareholder的名词复数 ) | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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32
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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48
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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50
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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52
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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53
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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54
contravene
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| v.违反，违背，反驳，反对 | |
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55
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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56
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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57
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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58
inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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60
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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61
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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62
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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63
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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64
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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