Kitabı oku: «The Voice from the Void: The Great Wireless Mystery», sayfa 11
Chapter Twenty One
The Blow
Purcell Sandys was seated at his writing-table in his fine spacious library in Park Lane engrossed in the intricacies of some formidable-looking accounts.
Hughes, the grave-faced old butler, opened the door softly, and asked:
“Shall you be wanting anything more to-night, sir?”
His master raised his head wearily, and Hughes at once noticed how very pale and changed he seemed.
“No, nothing, Hughes,” he replied in an unusual voice. “But leave word that when Miss Elma comes in I wish to see her here at once. She’s at Lady Whitchurch’s dance, but she ought to be back very soon.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the old servant. “But – excuse me, sir, you don’t look very well. Can’t I get you something? A little brandy – perhaps?”
“Well, yes, Hughes. Just a liqueur-glass full,” was his master’s reply; and then he turned again to his accounts.
Hughes, a moment later, placed the thin little Venetian liqueur-glass upon a silver salver at his elbow, and retired noiselessly.
Mr Sandys had not heard him. He was far too engrossed in his work of examination of the accounts and three bankers’ pass-books.
Now and then he drew long breaths and snapped his fingers in fierce impatience.
“To think of this! Only to think of it!” escaped his pale, thin lips.
Then he rose, and with his hand on the edge of the table he slowly surveyed his room.
“And I trusted Hornton! He was so sound that I would have entrusted to him Elma’s life and future. And she is all I have in the world. And he’s let me down!”
He reseated himself at the table, and, taking up a telegram, re-read it, as he had done a dozen times before.
It was dated from Stowmarket, and said:
“Much regret to tell you that poor Charles has been found dead. Very distressed. – Lady Hornton.”
His partner was dead! Upon his table lay a letter he had received by the last post that evening. A letter of apology it was. On the previous night at eight o’clock the two partners had met alone in Lombard Street, and Sir Charles had confessed that he had been gambling heavily in Paris, at Deauville, at Aix, at Madeira, at the Jockey Club, at Buenos Ayres, as well as at a private gambling-hell called Evans’ in West Kensington, and that the result had been that he had lost everything. He could not face the music.
So he had made his bow to the world and ended his life. Purcell Sandys was left to bear the brunt of the whole of the gigantic liabilities of them both!
The great financier left the little glass of brandy untouched. He was never addicted to spirits. A man of strong and outstanding personality, he had studied, as so many of our greatest Englishmen have done, the practically unknown philosophy of Yogi – that science of “I am” – of the “Great Ego,” which by our modern world is so little understood.
Purcell Sandys, at that moment when he knew that ruin had befallen him, stood erect, and presently a curious smile crossed his lips. He had studied the old Indian science of “Raja Yogi” thoroughly and well. He knew the nature of Real Self, as every strong man does. He knew the power of the Will, which power underlies the entire teachings of Raja Yogi, and he was master of his Real Self. The great strong men through all the ages have studied the Yogi science perhaps unconsciously. Even as Purcell Sandys stood there, a ruined man in that millionaire’s palace in Park Lane, he spoke aloud and repeated the mantrams or affirmations of the candidates presenting themselves to the Yogi masters for their first lesson.
“I am a Centre,” he said in a low, distinct voice. “Around me revolves the world. ‘I’ am a Centre of Influence and Power. ‘I’ am a Centre of Thought and Consciousness. ‘I’ am independent of the Body. ‘I’ am Immortal and cannot be destroyed. ‘I’ am Invincible and cannot be injured. Mastery is with me.”
Then he returned to his chair and fell to studying and adding up his liabilities. They were colossal. He had known that Hornton was very fond of games of chance and often played for high stakes at a certain gaming-club in Paris, but he had never dreamed he was gambling away the firm’s securities. The blow had staggered him, for it had brought him in a day from luxury to ruin. The financial operations they had in progress throughout the world were now simply bubbles. There was nothing behind them. The Paris house had been depleted, and yet so high was the standing of the firm that nobody had expected such a crisis.
The failure would inevitably bring down with it other smaller houses, and hundreds of small investors, war widows, clergymen, artisans, and people who earned weekly wages, both in England and in France, would lose their all.
He bit his lip to the blood. An hour before he had spoken on the telephone to Lady Hornton, but the line was very bad to Stowmarket, and he could scarcely hear her. But he understood her to say that her husband, who had been out motoring in the morning, had lunched and then, as usual, gone to his room to have a nap. But when his man went to call him at half-past five he found him dead.
Such news was, indeed, calculated to upset any man. But Purcell Sandys, on account of his Yogi knowledge, knew of his own subconscious mentality. He relaxed every muscle, he took the tension from every nerve, threw aside all mental strain, and waited for a few moments. Then he placed his position firmly and fixedly before his mental vision by means of concentration. Afterwards he murmured to his subconscious mentality – which all of us possess if we know how to use it aright:
“I wish my position to be thoroughly analysed, arranged, classified, and directed, and the result handed back to me. Attend to this?”
Thus the ruined financier spoke to his subconscious mentality just as though it were a separate entity which had been employed to do the work.
Confident expectation was, he knew, an important part of the process, and that the degree of success depended upon the degree of his confident expectation. He was not a slave to the subconscious, but its master.
Returning again to his table, he sat for a long time pondering until suddenly the door opened and Elma burst in, bright and radiant in a filmy dance frock of emerald with shoes and stockings to match. In her hair she wore a large golden butterfly, and in her hand she carried her long gloves.
“Do you want to see me, dad?” she asked. “I know I’m rather late, but I’ve had such a topping time. Only one thing spoiled it. That Mr Rutherford was there and pestered me to dance with him.”
Her father was silent for a few seconds. Mention of the name of Rutherford caused him to reflect.
“Yes, dear, I want to see you. Sit down for a moment. I have something to tell you.”
“You look very anxious, dad,” exclaimed the girl. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“A very serious one, my dear – most serious. A heavy blow has fallen upon me. Sir Charles has killed himself!”
“What?” gasped the girl, rising from her chair.
“Yes, and, moreover, before doing so he ruined us both by gambling. Elma, I cannot conceal the bitter truth from you, dear. I am ruined!”
The girl was too astounded to utter a word. Her countenance had blanched.
“But, dad!” she cried at last. “You can’t mean that you are actually ruined – you, the rich man that you are.”
“I thought I was until last night,” he replied huskily. “I have enemies, as well as friends. What man has not? The truth cannot be concealed from them very long, and then they will exult over my ruin,” he remarked very gravely.
“But, dad, what are we to do? Surely Sir Charles hasn’t actually ruined you?”
“Unfortunately he has, my child. I trusted him, but the curse of gambling was in his blood and he flung away my money as well as his own. But he is dead – he has paid the penalty of his folly, and left me to face our creditors.”
“And the future, dad?” asked the young girl, gazing aimlessly about her and not yet realising what ruin meant.
Purcell Sandys, the man whose credit was at that moment so high in Lombard Street – for the truth was not yet out – sighed and shook his head.
“I must face the music, my dear,” he said. “Face defeat, as others have done. Napoleon was compelled to bow to the inevitable; I must do so. Farncombe must be sold, and this house also. I must realise as much as possible to pay my creditors. But I cannot pay them all even though I sell everything.”
“And then?” asked his pretty daughter, so slim and girlish. “And then, dad?”
“Then we must both go into obscurity. Perhaps we can live over in Brittany, in some out-of-the-way place, and learn to forget. But I said ‘we.’ No, dear, you could never forget. You are young and have your life before you – you must marry, child, and be a happy wife. I could never take you over to France to one of those deadly-dull little towns where life is only existence, and thoughts of the past become an obsession. No.”
“But I want to help you, dad,” she said, crossing to him and stroking his grey brow with her hand.
“I know, darling. I know,” he muttered. “You may be able to – one day. But – but to-night don’t let us discuss this painful subject further. I feel – well, I can’t bear it. Good-night!” And raising his bearded face, he kissed her, patting her upon the shoulder as he did so.
Reluctantly she withdrew, for he was insistent that she should retire.
Then, when she had gone, he drew several long, deep breaths – part of his Yogi training – and locking up the sheaf of accounts and the pass-books, he switched off the light and ascended the wide, handsome stairs to his room.
By the irony of fate the man who had built that magnificent town mansion in Park Lane, and had sold it to Purcell Sandys, had afterwards stood in the dock at the Old Bailey and had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for a gigantic fraud.
The position of Purcell Sandys was certainly a very serious one. Honest, upright, and straight-spoken, he had, from small beginnings, attained greatness in the financial world, until the name of the firm was one to conjure with in the money markets of Europe. But he was ever a man of honour. During the war he saw the way open to make a profit of five millions sterling by dealing with Germany through a certain source in South America.
The proposition was put to him on the day of the air-raid on Brixton. He heard the sleek agent of the enemy, and smoked a good cigar as he listened. Then he rose from his chair, and said:
“Look here! I’m an Englishman! Get out! There’s the door. And if you don’t get out of England in twelve hours you’ll find yourself arrested. Get out!”
And even while the caller was in the room he crossed to the telephone and rang up “M.O.5” at the War Office.
Purcell Sandys was a real, honest, firm-handed Englishman. He had, by his own pluck, self-confidence and shrewd intuition, raised himself from his small office as a provincial bank manager to the position he had attained in the financial world. Mrs Sandys, who had been a great invalid for years, had died at St. Moritz two years before, and he had only Elma left to him. And naturally he doted upon her – his only child.
That night he felt himself up against a brick wall – he, whose very name was a power upon every bourse in Europe.
Alone in her room Elma, dismissing her maid Evans, sank at her bedside and prayed. She loved her father, and had never before seen him with hopelessness written plainly upon his features.
She thought of Roddy. Would that he were at her side to advise and help her!
But she was alone – alone except for her little pet, the black pom, Tweedles.
Chapter Twenty Two
By Stroke of the Pen
Next day the news of the sudden death of Sir Charles Hornton at his country house in Suffolk caused a great sensation in the City. But as the truth was never guessed, the greatest sympathy was felt on every hand for his close friend and partner Purcell Sandys. The fact that Sir Charles had committed suicide had not leaked out. He had been found dead under very mysterious circumstances. That was all.
Almost the first person to call at Park Lane and express his sorrow was the well-dressed, soft-speaking and refined Mr Rex Rutherford. It was about eleven o’clock. Elma heard a ring at the door, and afterwards asked Hughes who was the caller.
“Mr Rutherford, miss,” was the old man’s reply.
The girl said nothing, but she wondered why he should call upon her father so early in the morning.
Two days later the white-bearded old Moorish Minister Mohammed ben Mussa was seated with his secretary, a young Frenchman, in his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, in Paris, when a waiter entered, saying:
“Madame Crisp has called, Your Excellency.”
In an instant the old man’s face became illuminated, and he gave orders to show the lady in.
“It is the lady I met on the boat between Dover and Calais. Her necklet had been stolen, and she was naturally in tears. We travelled together from Calais to Paris,” he explained. “She is a very intelligent English society woman, and I asked her to call.”
The French secretary, who had been engaged at the Ministry in Fez for some years, bowed as his new master spoke.
In a few moments Freda Crisp, elegantly-dressed, swept into the luxurious room.
“Ah! So here you are!” she cried in French, which she spoke extremely well. “I promised I would call. Do you know, the French police are so much cleverer than the English! They have already arrested the thief and returned my necklet to me!”
His Excellency, after inviting his guest to be seated, expressed pleasure at the news, and then the secretary rose discreetly and left.
“I hope you are enjoying Paris,” Freda said in her low musical voice, which always charmed her dupes. “Now that the autumn is coming on everyone is returning from Deauville. I am giving a little party to-night at the Ritz. I wonder if you would honour me with your presence? I have a friend, an Englishman, who wishes very particularly to make Your Excellency’s acquaintance.”
The old Minister expressed himself as being delighted, whereupon she suggested that he should dine with her and her English friend at the hotel. The old Moor with his Eastern admiration of feminine beauty found her charming, and at eight o’clock that night when he entered the hotel, his striking figure in the ample white burnous (upon which was the glittering star of the Order of the Tower and the Sword), and turban, caused all heads to be turned in his direction.
“This is my friend, Mr Arthur Porter,” Freda said. “Will Your Excellency allow me to present him?”
The old Moor took Porter’s hand and, with an expression of pleasure, the trio sat down to dinner at a corner table in the great restaurant.
The Moorish Minister spent a most enjoyable evening, for though he touched no wine, he was after dinner introduced to several very elegant and charming women, both English and French, for in a certain circle in Paris Freda was well known. Porter took good care to ingratiate himself with the patriarchal-looking old fellow, declaring that he knew Morocco, was delighted with the life there, and intended in a few weeks’ time to visit Fez again. The truth, however, was that he had never been there in his life and had no intention of ever going. Freda had followed the old Minister from London and had managed to become acquainted with him with the sole object of introducing Arthur Porter, alias Bertram Harrison. To them both the death of Sir Charles was known, and Porter guessed that Mr Sandys’ financial position would be greatly affected. He had seen Sir Charles at several gaming-tables, and knew that he had been a reckless gambler. So cleverly did the pair play their cards that Mohammed ben Mussa invited Porter to call and see him next day – which he did.
As the two men sat together smoking cigarettes, Porter suddenly said in French:
“I heard the other day that the ancient emerald mines in the Wad Sus are about to be worked again.”
“That is so. I granted the concession in London only a few days ago.”
“Ah! How very unfortunate!” remarked his visitor. “I have a big financial backing, and could have exploited those mines with huge profits to all of us. Of course, I do not know how much gratification Your Excellency has received for the concession, but my friends would, I believe, have paid Your Excellency fifty thousand francs down and one-quarter of the profits of the undertaking.” The old Moor pursed his lips and pricked up his ears. From Barclay he had received nothing on account, and only one-eighth share. Porter could see that the old fellow was filled with regret and chagrin that he had granted the concession with such little gain to himself.
“His Majesty the Sultan demands a share in the profits,” old Mohammed remarked. “He has been allotted an eighth share – similar to myself.”
“I could have arranged a quarter share for you and an eighth for His Majesty,” said the crafty Englishman quickly. “But I suppose it is unfortunately too late, now that you have given the concession into another quarter.”
Mohammed ben Mussa remained silent, slowly stroking his long beard with his brown claw-like hand.
The Englishman’s offer was extremely tempting. He was reflecting.
At last he said very slowly:
“Perhaps if seventy-five thousand francs were offered me and the shares you suggest, I might find some way out,” and he smiled craftily.
“Well,” said Porter with affected hesitation, “I’m inclined to think that my friends would pay that sum – and at once if they received an unassailable concession. I mean a concession given to Mr Rex Rutherford under your hand and seal as Minister which would cancel the previous one.” Porter knew well the one power in Oriental countries was that of backsheesh, and wrote down the name Rex Rutherford.
“I will consider it,” said the old man. “There is no hurry till to-morrow. I may find it necessary to telegraph to Fez. I – I have to think it over, M’sieur Porter.”
“Of course. Then I will come here to-morrow – shall we say at eleven? And you will afterwards lunch with me at Voisin’s – eh?”
“It is agreed,” said the representative of the Moorish Sultan, and then, after another cigarette, Porter rose and left, walking back to the Place Vendôme to tell Freda the result of his morning’s negotiations.
Next day, at noon when the tall Englishman entered Mohammed’s room he saw by the expression on the old man’s face that he had triumphed.
“I have been reflecting,” His Excellency said when his visitor was seated, “and I have prepared a copy of the concession which I gave in London, with the name and terms altered as we discussed yesterday, and with the payment of seventy-five thousand francs to me direct at latest to-morrow as being the consideration. You see, it is all in order – a concession in perpetuity granted to your nominee, Mr Rutherford, and sealed by my Ministerial seal, which I hold from His Majesty, and signed by myself. Please examine it.”
Arthur Porter took the document, which was almost a replica of that handed to Barclay in London. The date was, however, different, as well as the terms.
“Yes,” he said, after carefully reading the French translation. “It all seems in order. It rescinds the previous concession granted in London.”
“Most certainly. No one will have any authority to enter the Wad Sus except yourself and those you appoint.”
With satisfaction Porter drew from his inner pocket an envelope containing seventy-five one-thousand-franc notes, which he counted out upon the table one by one.
The old Moor’s thin yellow fingers handled them gleefully, and placing them together he drew them beneath his ample burnous, saying quite coolly:
“I trust, Monsieur Porter, that you are satisfied.”
“Perfectly,” was the Englishman’s reply. “My friend will at once form a syndicate and work the mines. Of course, we may have trouble with that Mr Barclay in London.”
“He paid no consideration. Therefore you need not trouble about him. The concession you have is the only valid one, for it is dated after the one I gave in London. If they attempt to enforce it we shall instantly prevent their entering the district, or arrest them if they attempt to do so.”
And the old man chuckled to himself at the easy manner in which he had obtained seventy-five thousand francs.
