THE ULTIMATUM.
“Le plus grand, le plus fort et le plus adroit surtout, est celui qui
sait attendre.”
“If you think that Herr von Holzen is a philanthropist, my dear,” said
Marguerite Wade, sententiously, “that is exactly where your toes turn
in.”
She addressed this remark to Joan Ferriby, whose eyes were certainly
veiled by that cloak of charity which the kind-hearted are ever ready
to throw over the sins of others. The two girls were sitting in the
quiet old-world garden of the hotel, beneath the shade of tall trees,
within the peaceful sound of the cooing doves on the tiled roof. Major
White was sitting within earshot, looking bulky and solemn in his light
tweed suit and felt hat. The major had given up appearances long ago,
but no man surpassed him in cleanliness and that well-groomed air which
distinguishes men of his cloth. He was reading a newspaper, and from
time to time glanced at his companions, more especially, perhaps, at
Joan.
“Major White,” said Marguerite.
“Yes.”
“Greengage, please.”
The greengages were on a table at the major's elbow, having been placed
there at Marguerite's command by the waiter who attended them at
breakfast. White made ready to pass the dish.
“Fingers,” said Marguerite. “Heave one over.”
White selected one with an air of solemn resignation. Marguerite caught
the greengage as neatly as it was thrown.
“What do you think of Herr von Holzen?” she asked.
“To think,” replied the Major, “certain requisites are necessary.”
“Um--m.”
“I do not know Herr von Holzen, and I have nothing to think with,” he
explained gravely.
“Well, you soon will know him, and I dare say if you tried you would
find that you are not so stupid as you pretend to be. You are going
down to the works this morning with Papa and Tony Cornish. I know that,
because papa told me.”
The Major looked at her with his air of philosophic surprise. She held
up her hand for a catch, and with resignation he threw her another
greengage.
“Tony is going to call for you in a carriage at ten o'clock, and you
three old gentlemen are going to drive in an open barouche with cigars,
like a bean feast, to the malgamite works.”
“The description is fairly accurate,” admitted Major White, without
looking up from his paper.
“And I imagine you are going to raise--Hail Columbia!”
He looked at her severely through his glass, and said nothing. She
nodded in a friendly and encouraging manner, as if to intimate that he
had her entire approval.
“Take my word for it,” she continued, turning to Joan, “Herr von Holzen
is a shady customer. I know a shady customer when I see him. I never
thought much of the malgamite business, you know, but unfortunately
nobody asked my opinion on the matter. I wonder----” She paused,
looking thoughtfully at Major White, who presently met her glance with
a stolid stare. “Of course!” she said, in a final voice. “I forgot.
You never think. You can't. Oh no!”
“It is so easy to misjudge people,” pleaded Joan, earnestly.
“It is much easier to see right through them, straight off, in the
twinkling of a bedpost,” asserted Marguerite. “You will see, Herr von
Holzen is wrong and Tony is right. And Tony will smash him up.
You will see. Tony”--she paused, and looked up at the roof where the
doves were cooing--“Tony knows his way about.”
Major White rose and laid aside his paper. Mr. Wade was coming down the
iron steps that led from the verandah to the garden. The banker was
cutting a cigar, and wore a placid, comfortable look, as if he had
breakfasted well. Even as regards kidneys and bacon in a foreign hotel,
where there is a will there is a way, and Marguerite possessed tongues.
“I'll turn this place inside out,” she had said, “to get the old thing
what he wants.” Then she attacked the waiter in fluent German.
Marguerite noted his approach with a protecting eye. “It's all solid
common sense,” she said in an undertone to Joan, referring, it would
appear, to his bulk.
In only one respect was she misinformed as to the arrangements for the
morning. Tony Cornish was not coming to the hotel to fetch Mr. Wade and
White, but was to meet them in the shadiest of all thoroughfares and
green canals, the Koninginne Gracht, where at midday the shadows cast
by the great trees are so deep that daylight scarcely penetrates, and
the boats creep to and fro like shadows. This amendment had been made
in view of the fact that Lord Ferriby was in the hotel, and was,
indeed, at this moment partaking of a solemn breakfast in his private
sitting-room overlooking the Toornoifeld.
His lordship did not, therefore, see these two solid pillars of the
British constitution walk across the corner of the Korte Voorhout,
cigar in lip, in a placid silence begotten, perhaps, of the knowledge
that, should an emergency arise, they were of a material that would
arise to meet it.
Cornish was awaiting them by the bank of the canal. He was watching a
boat slowly work its way past him. It was one of the large boats built
for traffic on the greater canals and the open waters of the Scheldt
estuary. It was laden from end to end with little square boxes bearing
only a number and a port mark in black stencil. A pleasant odor of
sealing-wax dominated the weedy smell of the canal.
“Wherever you turn you meet the stuff,” was Cornish's greeting to the
two Englishmen.
Major White, with his delicate sense of smell, sniffed the breeze. Mr.
Wade looked at the canal-boat with a nod. Commercial enterprise, and,
above all, commercial success, commanded his honest respect.
They entered the carriage awaiting them beneath the trees. Cornish was,
as usual, quick and eager, a different type from his companions, who
were not brilliant as he was, nor polished.
They found the gates of the malgamite works shut, but the door-keeper,
knowing Cornish to be a person of authority, threw them open and
directed the driver to wait outside till the gentlemen should return.
The works were quiet and every door was closed.
“Is it mixing-day?” asked Cornish.
“Every day is mixing-day now, mein Herr, and there are some who work
all night as well. If the gentlemen will wait a moment, I will seek
Herr Roden.”
And he left them standing beneath the brilliant sun in the open space
between the gate and the cottage where Von Holzen lived. In a few
moments he returned, accompanied by Percy Roden, who emerged from the
office in his shirt-sleeves, pen in hand. He shook hands with Cornish
and White, glanced at Mr. Wade, and half bowed. He did not seem glad to
see them.
“We want to look at your books,” said Cornish. “I suppose you will make
no objection?” Roden bit his moustache and looked at the point of his
pen.
“You and Major White?” he suggested.
“And this gentleman, who comes as our financial advisor.”
Roden raised his eyebrows rather insolently. “Ah--may I ask who this
gentleman is?” he said.
“My name is Wade,” answered the banker, characteristically for himself.
Roden's face changed, and he glanced at the great financier with a keen
interest.
“I have no objection,” he said after a moment's hesitation. “If Von
Holzen will agree. I will go and ask him.”
And they were left alone in the sunshine once more. Mr. Wade watched
Roden as he walked towards the factory.
“Not the sort of man I expected,” he commented. “But he has the right
shaped head for figures. He is shrewd enough to know that he cannot
refuse, so gives in with a good grace.”
In a few minutes Von Holzen approached them, emerging from the factory
alone. He bowed politely, but did not offer to shake hands. He had not
seen Cornish since the evening when he had offered to make malgamite
before him, and the experiment had taken such a deadly turn. He looked
at him now and found his glance returned by an illegible smile. The
question flashed through his mind and showed itself on his face as to
why Roden had made such a mistake as to introduce a man like this into
the Malgamite scheme. Von Holzen invited the gentlemen into the office.
“It is small, but it will accommodate us,” he said, with a smile.
He drew forward chairs, and offered one to Cornish in particular, with
a grim deference. He seemed to have divined that their last meeting in
this same office had been, by tacit understanding, kept a secret.
There is for some men a certain satisfaction in antagonism, and a stern
regard for a strong foe--which reached its culmination, perhaps, in
that Saxon knight who desired to be buried in the same chapel as his
lifelong foe--between him, indeed, and the door--so that at the
resurrection day they should not miss each other.
Von Holzen seemed to have somewhat of this feeling for Cornish. He
offered him the best seat at the table. Roden was taking his books from
a safe--huge ledgers bound in green pigskin, slim cash-books,
cloth-bound journals. He named them as he laid them on the table before
Mr. Wade. Major White looked at the great tomes with solemn and silent
awe. Mr. Wade was already fingering his gold pencil-case. He eyed the
closed books with an anticipatory gleam of pleasure in his face--as a
commander may eye the arrayed squadrons of the foe.
“It is, of course, understood that this audit is strictly in
confidence?” said Von Holzen. “For your own satisfaction, and not in
any sense for publication. It is a trade secret.”
“Of course,” answered Cornish, to whom the question had been addressed.
“We trust to the honor of these gentlemen.”
Cornish looked up and met the speaker's grave eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
Roden, having emptied the large safe, leant his shoulder against the
iron mantelpiece and looked down at those seated at the
table--especially at Mr. Wade. His hands were in his pockets; his face
wore a careless smile. He had not resumed his coat, and the cleanliness
of the books testified to the fact that he always worked in
shirt-sleeves. It was a trick of the trade, which exonerated him from
the necessity of apologizing.
Mr. Wade took the great ledgers, opened them, fluttered the pages with
his fingers, and set them aside one after the other. Then Roden seemed
to recollect something. He went to a drawer and took from it a packet
of neatly folded papers held together by elastic rings. The top one he
unfolded and laid on the table before Mr. Wade.
“Trial balance-sheet of 31st of March,” he said.
Mr. Wade glanced up and down the closely written columns, which were
like copper-plate--an astounding mass of figures. The additions in the
final column ran to six numerals. The banker folded the paper and laid
it aside. Then, he turned to the slim cash-books, which he glanced at
casually. The journals he set aside without opening. He handled the
books with a sort of skill showing that he knew how to lift them with
the least exertion, how to open them and close them and turn their
stiff pages. The enormous mass of figures did not seem to appal him;
the maze was straight enough beneath such skillful eyes. Finally, he
turned to a small locked ledger, of which the key was attached to
Roden's watch-chain, who came forward and unlocked the book. Mr. Wade
turned to the index at the beginning of the volume, found a certain
account, and opened the book there. At the sight of the figures he
raised his eyebrow and glanced up at Roden.
“Whew!” he exclaimed, beneath his breath. He had arrived at his
destination--had torn the heart out of these great books. All in the
room were watching his placid, shrewd old face. He studied the books
for some time and then took a sheet of blank paper from a number of
such attached by a string to a corner of the table. He reflected for
some minutes, pushing the movable part of his gold pencil in and out
pensively as he did so. Then he wrote a number of figures on the sheet
of paper and handed it to Cornish. He closed the locked ledger with a
snap. The audit of the malgamite books was over.
“It is a wonderful piece of single-handed bookkeeping,” he said to
Roden.
Cornish was studying the paper set before him by the banker. The
proceedings seemed to have been prearranged, for no word was exchanged.
There was no consultation on either side. Finally, Cornish folded the
paper and tore it into a hundred pieces in scrupulous adherence to Von
Holzen's conditions. Mr. Wade was sitting back in his chair
thoughtfully amusing himself with his gold pencil-case. Cornish looked
at him for a moment, and then spoke, addressing Von Holzen.
“We came here to make a final proposal to you,” he said; “to place
before you, in fact, our ultimatum. We do not pretend to conceal from
you the fact that we are anxious to avoid all publicity, all scandal.
But if you drive us to it, we shall unhesitatingly face both in order
to close these works. We do not want the Malgamite scheme to be dragged
as a charity in the mud, because it will inevitably drag other
charities with it. There are certain names connected with the scheme
which we should prefer; moreover, to keep from the clutches of the
cheaper democratic newspapers. We know the weakness of our position.
“And we know the strength of ours,” put in Von Holzen, quietly.
“Yes. We recognize that also. You have hitherto slipped in between
international laws, and between the laws of men. Legally, we should
have difficulty in getting at you, but it can be done. Financially----”
He paused, and looked at Mr. Wade.
“Financially,” said the banker, without lifting his eyes from his
pencil case, “we shall in the long run inevitably smash you--though the
books are all right.”
Roden smiled, with his long white fingers at his moustache.
“From the figures supplied to me by Mr. Wade,” continued Cornish, “I
see that there is an enormous profit lying idle--so large a profit that
even between ourselves it is better not mentioned. There are, or there
were yesterday, two hundred and ninety-two malgamite makers in active
work.”
Von Holzen made an involuntary movement, and Cornish looked at him over
the pile of books. “Oh!” he said, “I know that. And I know the number
of deaths. Perhaps you have not kept count, but I have. From the
figures supplied by Mr. Wade, I see, therefore, that we have sufficient
to pension off these two hundred and ninety-two men and their
families--giving each man one hundred and twenty pounds a year. We can
also make provision for the widows and orphans out of the sum I propose
to withdraw from the profits. There will then be left a sum
representing two large fortunes--of say between three and four thousand
a year each. Will you and Mr. Roden accept this sum, dividing it as you
think fit, and hand over the works to me? We ask, you to take it--no
questions asked, and go.”
“And Lord Ferriby?” suggested Von Holzen.
Major White made a sudden movement, but Cornish laid his hand quickly
upon the soldier's arm.
“I will manage Lord Ferriby. What is your answer?”
“No,” replied Von Holzen, instantly, as if he had long known what the
ultimatum would be.
Cornish turned interrogatively to Roden. His eyes urged Roden to
accept.
“No,” was the reply.
Mr. Wade took out his large gold watch and looked at it.
“Then there is no need,” he said composedly, “to detain these gentlemen
any longer.”