The Session was drawing to its end. The Paddenham deal--which Gowle,
in that fanatical sheet of his, called “The Paddenham Scandal”--had
gone through. Many had thought of putting up some opposition against
it in the Commons, and all had given way at last--for the sake of the
children, Mrs. Fossilton assures me.
At the Branch Bank more than a million pounds sat looking foolish,
still on current account, and its guardians were living in a perilous
Paradise.
July had not long to live (nor the Home Secretary either for that
matter, though he was in crude health, for he was destined to fall
off the Matterhorn that very coming August--but I digress), when the
Dæmon played a trump and presented to Mr. Charlbury’s patient but
ingenious fancy one more good, great and thumping Petre deal. For
John K. Petre was the master of American Rotors--and the opportunity
lay patent. Mr. Charlbury long wondered why he hadn’t thought of it
before. But the Dæmon knew why.
* * * * *
The Rotor has come to enter into nearly everything that a man sees,
and does, to-day. The last generation, that of the Great War, never
dreamt of it. Ours will remember how it came, first in the modest
form of a toy with an outlandish name, and put upon the market in
London and Paris by the Japanese. Then there were two or three
years of experiment, with occasional newspaper paragraphs, and Lord
Winnipeg’s unfortunate venture in which Saillant and his crowd were
mixed up--I am afraid the Frenchman got the better of it. But,
anyhow, it was wound up within eighteen months. Then there were two
years in which the only advertisement the new thing got was a crop of
popular jeers.
The Rotor was already driving our heavy vehicles and pretty well
all our large merchant vessels. The Navy had taken it up before
anybody else. It was beginning to do part of the domestic work,
especially in the new underground flats, where it could be fitted in
the first digging without the change over that is necessary in the
old-fashioned over-ground houses. It was beginning to be used for
private cars, though no one had yet started a fleet of taxis with it
in those days. I am speaking of 1948.
Somehow or other none of the many companies connected with the new
discovery could make good. The work was there all right; it was the
profit that seemed to misfire.
For one thing the theorists and the busybodies had tinkered with
it. Those people (prominent everywhere in local government) who
have read too many books and have not seen enough of life, talked
of “reserving for the community” the “future possibilities of the
Rotor.” That frightened off investors. Then the London County Council
made most absurd regulations, hampering the commercial development of
what already ought to have been a universal form of power.
The provincial towns were hopeless. Birmingham coolly went into the
Rotor business on the rates, and even hall-marked a particular type
of Rotor which it thrust upon all domestic users and manufacturers
in the town. It did worse. It let out the smaller machines at a
price which barely earned 4 per cent. on the cost and quite killed
commercial competition. Manchester was nearly as bad. Glasgow and
Liverpool were not far behind in their half-socialist absurdities.
The only northern community of any size which acted with common sense
in the matter was Pudsey, which had the distinction of being the
first English town to leave private enterprise completely free in
this matter. But the southern residential towns, and especially the
watering-places, are, as every one knows, in a much better tradition;
and the Rotor companies paid fair dividends in these sections:
especially Brighton, where Sir Charles Waldschwein was the presiding
genius of the enterprise.
But every one surveying the figures for the whole group of connected
ventures would have shared the gloom of that great scientist, in his
way an eminent business man, Lavino (an Englishman, in spite of his
name, or rather a Welshman) who prophesied openly at the Cardiff
inaugural that the Rotor would never pay, and yet had the patriotism
to join the board of the youngest of the linked companies.
It seemed as though some odd fate prevented the chief new instrument
of our new time from reaping its due commercial reward.
What changed all this was the taking of the whole thing in hand by
two men of genius, Henry Trefusis and his brother, both of them sons
of a Hamburg merchant who had come to this country in early youth,
married here and established the great firm which is known under
his name. The brothers had chosen different paths in life, the one
had preferred Public Service, the other, affairs. But when Henry
first began to set in order the finance of Rotors Charles, though
not neglecting his political duties, could not but take a certain
interest in the boundless opportunities offered.
It was but three years before Mr. Petre’s unfortunate and
inexplicable accident that the first amalgamation took place.
Everything had been straightened out by the amazing organizing power
of the younger Trefusis, and though the new enterprise, taking in
the whole British field, had not yet turned the corner by the end of
1952, there were already being prepared the last two necessary steps
without which no great modern public service can function properly: a
public charter and a concealed, but effective, monopoly.
The small and hopelessly mismanaged competing interest which the
Saillant French group still controlled in this country were bought
out on very favorable terms about ten days before the shocking
suicide of Saillant himself, which, as the Frenchman had chosen to
commit it in the middle of St. Paul’s Cathedral at the most solemn
moment of the Memorial Service for Lord Winnipeg, could not be kept
out of the papers, and is fresh in the minds of the public.
[Illustration: “_One had chosen Public Service, the other--Affairs._”]
What still hindered the final successful establishment of Rotors
under a National system was the network of local companies and
conflicting sectional contracts, of which nothing but an Act of
Parliament could compel the purchase and settlement.
The elder Trefusis had felt a very honorable scruple in directly
promoting such a measure; he left it in the hands of his two most
intimate associates in the Cabinet. But there was no doubt about
the Bills going through, especially as it could not, of course, be
submitted to public debate; it was quite unfitted for treatment of
that kind, dealing as it did with a mass of scientific particulars
and equally technical and difficult financial details, which a large
assembly is quite unfitted to discuss.
It is true that Lord William Mawson, who had been a director of the
old Saillant wreck, put down something on the paper which might have
led to a discussion at some impossible hour of the night towards the
last days of the session. But luckily so futile an intervention was
rendered impossible by his Lordship’s appointment to the little-known
post of Sub-Controller of the Chains and Liveries: a coincidence
worthy of the good fortunes that have latterly attended the Trefusis
scheme in all its activities.
Briefly what was proposed was this. (1) The moribund existing
companies--or such as could not see their way to amalgamation--were
to be compulsorily bought out at a price to be fixed by judicial
award. (2) The whole mass of obsolete local contracts now hampering
Rotors should be codified under rules imposed by the Government; not
only the efficient working of what is now a public interest, but the
simplification of its management, made such a new policy necessary.
Maximum charges for the use of power and for the lease of machines
and meters were set down in the same instrument. The Trefusis
brothers were pleased that Mr. Justice Honeybubble should preside
over the award. The drafting of the rules was in the hands of a loyal
committee whose chairman was Arthur Cannon. In such hands business
men could be certain that all the reasonable claims of Henry Trefusis
and his company would be safe.
All this was plain sailing: the real difficulty lay in the point of
arranging a virtual monopoly.
Old prejudices die hard; and there lingers quite a respectable body
of opinion, especially among our older public men who can remember
the last days of King Edward VII. and were born in those of Queen
Victoria, which has an unreasonable horror of monopoly unconnected
with public ownership. Of public ownership there could, of course, be
no question; that fad had, thank Heaven, been destroyed at the polls
by an overwhelming majority of votes when Mrs. Fossilton’s party had
gained its majority of thirty-six in a full House over that of her
brother-in-law, Mr. Cowl. It was as certain as anything could be that
the English people would never revive the old dead socialist formula
of nationalization. Indeed, the last stronghold of that nonsense, the
road system, was already in private hands, and the various branches
of the postal service had followed the telephones, and had been given
out to private contract half a dozen years ago. Only the northern
municipalities still played with the moribund fetish of public
control.
On the other hand, it was difficult to see how any effective
competition could be established in the particular case of the
Rotor; the nature of its transmission of power, the necessary
standardization of the instruments, the existing strength of the
Trefusis interests, all seemed to forbid it.
There were not a few upon the Board (and it included the best brain
of them all after Trefusis--I mean Mary Gallop) were for letting
things stand, with the codified B. O. T. rules as a sufficient sop to
the constitutional Puritans.
The Company was in such a strong position that no competition, they
said, was to be feared. To establish anything like a serious rival
would have meant millions, not only in the comparatively unimportant
point of buildings and plant, but on the political (and social) side
as well.
And who was likely to enter such a field with Charles Trefusis in the
Cabinet and a close group of his political friends associated with
him in the high patriotic interest of Rotor development?
But the majority of the Board, and even Henry Trefusis himself,
inclined to make things somewhat more secure. The difficulty was
turned by the suggestion that, after the present Bill had gone
through, and British Amalgamated Rotors could feel themselves
reasonably safe for the future, The Admiralty, War Office, and I.A.F.
should enter into contracts to purchase their material from the
English Company to the exclusion of all others for at least thirty
years; and as this would establish the standardized machines and
their power in the ports, in the Imperial air transport system, and
in all functions under the control of the Government, especially the
Harbor Entries and new Public Wharfage, a virtual monopoly would
follow. For it would be difficult for any hypothetical rival--and
it seemed impossible at this time of day that such a rival should
appear--to establish any permanent service; acting as he would be
under an inability to link up with the public uses of what would
soon come to be known as the official Rotor system. For instance,
how could a boat make harbor in a difficult channel at night under
a different and competing system controlling the rival patents? It
could only pick up the guiding-ray with a Rotor attuned to the shore
Rotor. Or how could the elevators (to take but one small detail, but
a detail which applied to hundreds of ports throughout the British
Empire) link up with termini in the holds unless both were on the
same system?
Certain fields, notably the recently launched Tidal Power areas and
their supply, Henry Trefusis decided not to touch. He doubted his
power to capitalize so vast a new extension. On the other hand, he
would not leave them in being as dangerous competitors. He would use
his political connection to kill them, as railways had killed canals.
Then indeed his monopoly, the monopoly of the British Amalgamated
Rotors, of “B.A.R.” would be secure.
Such were the prospects of B.A.R.’s in this month of July, 1953, when
Mr. Petre, rather perhaps by good fortune than by the talent which
his contemporaries so freely ascribed to him, had just banked (and
left on current account) the ready moneys of the Paddenham purchase.
* * * * *
In “Marengo,” at breakfast, all alone, sat Mr. Charlbury. Opportunity
breeds opportunity, and discovery, discovery; and the Dæmon found a
fruitful soil.
If any one had told Mr. Charlbury three or four weeks before that he
would pull off an amazing scoop in Touaregs and then, on the top of
that, walk off with an enormous commission (come, to be accurate, two
enormous commissions) on the Paddenham Site, he would have thought
himself in fairyland.
But by this time he had already come to take such things for granted.
He used to think in three figures; he was now thinking in five: and
of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.
[Illustration: “_He used to think in three figures; he was now
thinking in five._”]
If no brilliant scheme had illumined his life before Mr. Petre had
so strangely blown into it by the really unexpected door of his
partnership with Terrard, it was not because Mr. Charlbury lacked
initiative, but because habit had put him upon a certain road
whereon to exercise his initiative, and he had never been led to
consider larger things. He had shown plenty of initiative quite early
in life in the matter of a row of cottages near his father’s shop,
and he prided himself--out of a hundred other successful ventures--in
the purchase of Mrs. Railton’s interests after the divorce, and the
subsequent sale of them to Mr. Railton. But to-day he had risen
into another sphere, and what had moved him at this moment was a
paragraph of half a dozen lines in small print coming at the end of a
column in his daily paper.
The column had dealt with the enormities of the Polish People,
and had threatened them with the vengeance of the journal if they
continued to trample upon the rights of an oppressed German-speaking
minority. Mr. Charlbury had as much patriotism as any man, and was
free to indulge in hatred of all Poles, but the little paragraph at
the foot of the column interested him in another fashion.
At a public indignation meeting of the ratepayers of Loosham a
resolution had been unanimously passed condemning the new provisional
licenses issued by the British Amalgamated Rotor Company, and
a committee had been appointed to draft an alternative, which
upon completion was to be submitted to the Board of Trade. This
resolution, he remembered, followed upon a somewhat similar
resolution passed by a considerable majority at a meeting at Paxton
the week before.
Moreover, at Loosham, as at Paxton, there had been passed a
_unanimous_ resolution against the compulsory purchase of Locals.
It was a paragraph that meant nothing to the millions that had
seen it that morning. It appeared in several papers as a piece of
unimportant general news. It meant little more than nothing to the
Directors of Amalgamated Rotors themselves, they had expected a few
such meetings--but it inspired Mr. Charlbury with a Great Thought.
He pushed his chair back from the lonely breakfast table, screwed
his little pig’s eyes closely together and gave this Great Thought
elbow-room within his mind.
A few more such meetings? Eh? A number of them? Eh? Then virtuous
indignation in the Press. And if the Press were too frightened of the
Trefusis brothers, why then the purchase of a great Daily, eh?
It would cost money. But there was a man available with limitless
money. He was called John K. Petre.
He looked at his watch. He would soon be taking the train to his
office.
Mr. Petre stood in the consciousness of Mr. Charlbury as does
revelation in the consciousness of the new convert; as does the
beloved in the consciousness of the new lover; as does the sunlight
in the consciousness of a man cured suddenly of blindness; as does
life in the consciousness of a man reprieved from immediate death. He
was flooded with one supreme conviction: that in and by and through
Mr. Petre all things were possible. Mr. Charlbury grunted to himself
and took the train to town. During all the forty-seven minutes which
it took the powerful new Rotor engines to cover the fifteen miles
between Epsom and Victoria, his Great Thought threw branches and
leaves and burgeoned amazingly.
When he reached his office he was annoyed to find that Charlie
Terrard hadn’t yet turned up. He never did turn up before the middle
of the morning; but to-day Mr. Charlbury, who was at business on
the stroke of ten o’clock every day of his life (except Sundays and
a month’s holiday at the seaside) felt an unusual irritation at so
usual an absence. For the Great Thought needed Charlie Terrard, and
it needed him at once.
When that young gentleman did come in he was not happy; he was even
less happy than he usually was in the middle of the morning, for
his night had been happier far; and Mr. Charlbury, watching him
with some inward contempt, but remembering his mundane connections
with some inward awe, wondered whether he were fit to receive the
instructions--or let us say the proposals--which were to be his task.
But he did not wait long.
“Charlie,” he said, “you know that man Petre?” It was rather a
redundant question, but Charlie nodded wearily.
“Yes,” he said.
“Well,” went on Charlbury slowly, “if he takes up Rotors....”
“How do you mean, ‘takes up Rotors’?” said young Terrard irritably.
“It’s not worth our while to make him lose a little packet over what
all the world knows. Rotors have seen their best. Bailey tells me he
believes Trefusis is selling privately.”
“What I mean,” began Mr. Charlbury.
“What you mean,” broke in Terrard pettishly, “is that when the Bill
is through and the damn-fool public come to hear of the Public
Services Contract Rotors will go to 5½.... Well, they won’t. They’re
over-priced now. All that’s discounted. They were 4¾-⅞, offered by
whoever it was that was selling them the last thing yesterday, and
they won’t fetch that again, so there. After all,” he added, a little
ashamed of himself for showing any heat over so small a matter,
“that’s good enough in all conscience! They were 2s. 6d. before
Trefusis and his gang came in. Thirty-five pounds odd for your quid
isn’t bad, even for Trefusis, these days: Harry Holt’s wife made
forty odd thousand, and Holt left the Government, took a directorship
in it.”
Mr. Charlbury heard him out, his contempt increasing, but his awe at
the mundane connections remaining fixed. “Nothing to do with that,
Charlie,” he snapped. “Listen to me. _If the Trefusis crowd think
they’ve got Petre up against them_ ... eh?”
Charlie Terrard opened his mouth foolishly, like a man recovering
from gas. “Up against ’em?” he repeated mechanically.
“Yes,” said Mr. Charlbury, beginning to show a little temper this
time, “up against them.”
“But he isn’t,” said Charlie Terrard simply. “Petre isn’t up against
them.”
“Of course he isn’t, idiot!” answered his partner with fine equality.
“Not yet. But you can make him, can’t you?”
“Make him what?” said Charlie, who was really too stupid this
morning: but then it wasn’t fair to tackle him before twelve; he
always thought so much better after twelve.
“Look here,” said Charlbury, folding his arms on the table, squaring
his jaws and planting two gimlets of eyes into Terrard’s own. “Don’t
you know that Petre means Rotors in the States?” Charlie nodded. He
saw light. “Well, what you’ve got to do is to put Petre up to doing
something on this side. Put him up to a _British_ scheme in Rotors
on his own. Put him up to having his name in it anyhow, and _then_
you’ll hear Trefusis sing! That’s when the Anthem will rise! They’ll
have to make it a combine; they couldn’t stand against him! He can
carry us all on his back. He can swallow us and not know he’s had
breakfast! _Now_, have you got it?”
Yes, Charlie Terrard had got it now. “They would have to get new
capital or reconstruct or something,” he began slowly.
“Oh, leave that to them,” shouted Charlbury, “leave that to them,
for God’s sake! They know their way about! All they want to know is
that Petre’s up against ’em, and they won’t be up against Petre long.
They’ll be arm in arm with the enemy before he fires.”
“It wants thinking about,” said Charlie Terrard.
“It does,” said Charlbury grimly, “I’ll do the thinking.”
And he proceeded to do so. And as he unwound the tale his young
partner stared and marveled and at last grew wise in one more chapter
of the wisdom of this world.
First came a few words on Trefusis’s false security, his certitude
that nothing could come in to touch his monopoly.
Then came suggestions for a few more meetings--they, Blake and Blake,
would find the few hundreds for that--no need to worry Petre. He
might kick at details.
Then came talk of letters in the Press, write-ups; indignation
growing--only, not overdone. Enough to frighten Trefusis; not enough
to queer B.A.R.’s.
After that Petre could strike home.
Mr. Charlbury described the John K. Petre position in American
Rotors. He described the plant and the huge works at Theocritus,
Mich. He described the ignorance of these magnates on our venerable
constitution, with its connection between public service and private
enterprise. He described with holy glee the faces of Trefusis and
his brother and young Cassleton, their skirmisher, hearing that the
vast concern had thought of crossing the Atlantic; if necessary of
starting a paper to take advantage of the growing grumble against
the new licenses. He described the effect of fifty millions acting
in opposition to the proposal for permanent Government contracts
in the coming autumn. He described the salting of the smart women
and the private secretaries and the News Agencies. He described
the necessary haste of the Trefusis crowd to come down off the
shelf, to take the robber to their arms, to arrange, to settle, to
go fifty-fifty, to save their souls alive. He described how he and
Charlie would come romping in for a touch on both deals--from the
victor in his triumph, from the vanquished whom Charlie could save.
More commissions. All good!
[Illustration: _Young Mr. Cassleton, growing acquainted with the
World of Affairs._]
Oh! It was all good!
And Charlie Terrard saw a great light and was filled with the true
doctrine and confirmed and primed for his mighty work. He set out.
* * * * *
As Charlie Terrard climbed up the old stone stairs to Mr. Petre’s
rooms in the Temple his heart misgave him. He remembered the rebuff
over Magnas, and though he didn’t understand the motive or the mood,
he had noted that curious indifference which had spread over Mr.
Petre’s mind like a veil as they went together over the figures of
the Government purchase of the Paddenham Site. It’s all very well
to be a millionaire, and an American millionaire at that, and a
fantastic American millionaire into the bargain; but you weren’t
going to tell Charlie Terrard that any living man was indifferent to
something well over a million pounds.
No. It was some deep game! Something in the man which made him
great, but which, to Terrard as to every one else, also made him
inexplicable. He had to propose to-day a deal upon a scale quite out
of the common--far above the humdrum of the Paddenham Site--and he
dreaded a scene. Besides which, Mr. Petre seemed to him to have got
odder and odder in all these last few months, imprisoning himself
absurdly. It made the young man nervous to think of it. But he had to
face that interview, and he faced it. After all, the worst that could
happen would be a refusal--even if it were abrupt they could leave
the matter and talk of other things.
So mused he on those stairs till he came to the old dark oaken door
and rang.
He came in. Mr. Petre greeted him rather wearily, and they sank
opposite each other into two deep chairs looking out into the gardens
under the summer light--and upon his soul Charlie Terrard didn’t know
how to begin.
At last he said:
“Mr. Petre, I have never talked to you about your own interests in
your own country.” (Mr. Petre’s blood already ran cold.) “Honestly,
I thought it would be impertinent.” (Mr. Petre was far beyond any
effective impertinence. Panic was the emotion which those few words
had stirred in him. Good God! What was coming next? And how should he
meet it?) “But I ought to tell you what people are saying. I mean,”
concluded Charlie firmly, “about your position in Rotor affairs.”
It was an odd, hoarse voice that answered him.
“What people are saying--eh, what?” Mr. Petre still kept his face too
much turned away as he gasped out the words, and Terrard noted his
hands grasping the arms of the chair.
“Mr. Petre,” said Charlie quietly, “you are Jevons; he’s only the
original man; you’re Jevons now and you’re the American Rotor
Combine.”
“Yes,” gasped the unfortunate man almost inaudibly ... at any moment
a direct question would sink him. He prayed as no man yet prayed
that Charlie would keep to affirmations which he had but to admit.
“Of course, the people who count know that you really control....
Anyhow, they make certain you control--_I_ should say you control,”
he continued, plunging boldly, “‘The American Rotor Trust.’ It’s
a sort of commonplace with those who know, Mr. Petre, and I only
mention it because it’s common knowledge, and to explain what I want
to say next.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Petre desperately--it was the first he had heard of
it. Then he added still more desperately, “I do....” He added those
words in his terror of the alternative, “I don’t,” which would lead
to heaven knows what cataract of revealing blunders. Follow the lead,
he thought, follow the lead; it’s the only chance. Therefore it was
that he had confessed himself to be the man behind Jevons, whoever
the devil Jevons might be, or whatever the devil Jevons was. Yes. All
right. He, the victim of this torture, controlled the American Rotor.
“Yes, I do,” he added again, and looked down at the Temple greensward
so tragically that he might have been confessing forgery and high
treason and making a clean breast of it.
“Now you know, Mr. Petre,” said Terrard, a trifle emboldened by
the absence so far of a check, “it’s inevitable--I don’t say it’s
justified--but it’s inevitable under the circumstances--that they
should think you’ve come over on that business. I mean for or against
the Trefusis crowd.”
“Yes,” murmured Mr. Petre inanely, like a parrot, “for or against
the Trefusis crowd.” Then with sudden intelligence and anxiety,
“Who’s they?” he jerked out irritably. “Who’s talking about me and my
affairs?” Terrard soothed him with a lifted hand.
“Oh, Mr. Petre, Mr. Petre, don’t imagine for a moment that your
privacy has not been respected!... I do assure you it has been. I
only meant those who cannot but know your splendid boldness in the
Paddenham business. After all, you know, there’s me, and there’s
Charlbury, and the office--oh, there’s been nothing in print, but you
couldn’t expect the people who follow these things not to have heard
a name, a mere name, Mr. Petre.”
“Yes,” groaned Mr. Petre dully. “Go on.”
“Well,” said Terrard, “as I say, they can’t help thinking you’re here
either with or against Trefusis and his lot. Certainly that’s what I
thought--to put it plainly.”
“Well,” said Mr. Petre, “what then?”
Terrard pondered a moment, recalling the instructions of Mr.
Charlbury, J.P. for the County of Surrey. Then he started off:
“Well,” slowly, “the fact is,” more slowly, “Trefusis is going about
saying he must act, one way or the other.” Mr. Petre’s blood ran
cold again. “You know the kind of man he is?” Mr. Petre nodded; he
didn’t, so he nodded--quite emphatically. “He’s like a rat. If he’s
cornered, he bites.” Mr. Petre nodded again, as though the habits
of the mysterious Trefusis had been the study of his life. “But
he’s frightened, Mr. Petre; devilish frightened. To put it plainly,
I’ve no doubt of this; that if he thinks you’ll meet him, and that
you really mean business, he’ll come down. He’ll combine. He won’t
do anything--he’ll just take your terms--in reason. He won’t take
action.”
“Take action!” gulped the distracted man. “Take action!” And in
his heart he cried aloud to heaven for salvation. A certain malign
Trefusis was--might--would take _action_!--oh! merciful God!--and all
would be before the world!
“I said he _wouldn’t_ take action if you approached him,” said
Charlie, “and that I advise you to do. I advise you most strongly.”
“You mean,” said Mr. Petre slowly, as he gathered some wandering,
foggy idea that there was an avenue of escape somewhere, “that ...
Mr. Trefusis....” he was glad that the “Mr.” went down; it might have
been Sir Ezekiel or Lord Trefusis for all he knew, “won’t take action
if he thinks that I...?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Charlie, impatient at such play-acting, but
restraining his impatience. “If he knows that you’re bringing your
thing over here against him, he’ll take it for granted you’ve marked
him and he’ll die game. He’ll attack first. If you approach _him_,
that’s another matter. I tell you, he’d come right down and feed out
of your hand.”
“Ah!” echoed Mr. Petre, “if I approach him, yes; if I approach him,
he’ll feed out of my hand.”
“He knows you might even start a paper--and that would sink him with
the grumbling that’s going on. He knows of your campaign in the
States, Mr. Petre, and your--I mean Jevons’--purchase of the ... the
... what _was_ the name of that paper...?”
Charlie’s inquiry was honest enough, he knew the name of that great
American organ, but he couldn’t recall it for the moment, “You know,
Mr. Petre, the...? ... the...?”
“Oh, Lord!” thought Mr. Petre, “oh, _Lord_!” He would say anything,
do anything to prevent another such extreme of danger.
To his unspeakable relief Terrard babbled on. “Oh I never mind!” he
said. “Anyhow, the paper did the trick. Yes,” he continued, with a
little half laugh, “the Trefusis brothers--they’ve only got to know
that you’re coming in and they’ll make their proposals all right.
They know their way about.” It was not an echo of Charlbury; it was
a phrase that every one had used of the brothers Trefusis, even in
the old obscure days when the one had been hammered and the other had
wriggled out of the police court proceedings over the check business.
Men said “They knew their way about” in the tone of admiration due
to such master minds. “All you’ve got to say is that you’re quite
agreeable to an arrangement with the Company as it stands, and that
if they don’t like it you’re out for an independent proposition. It
binds you to nothing.”
“No,” said Mr. Petre (he understood _that_ phrase at any rate,
and a blessed one it was!), “it binds me to nothing. What were
your exact words, by the way, Mr. Terrard? I mean that about the
present Company, and an arrangement, and the proposition? It was
‘proposition’ you said, I think, wasn’t it?”
Terrard was used to pretty well anything by this time, but he did
marvel a little at the affectation of simplicity in manner that was
so admirably done. But the matter of it was surely extravagant.
However, millionaires must be humored, and he fell in with the great
man’s affectation of not knowing the A.B.C. of blackmail.
“Yes,” he answered, “that’s what I said.”
Mr. Petre pulled out a note-book and a pencil. “Yes,” he said.
“Please give me the exact words.” Terrard was getting a little
frightened. This was really out of nature.
“Well, what I said was, ‘All you’ve got to say is that you’re
agreeable to an arrangement with the Company as it stands.’”
“Wait a moment,” said Mr. Petre, “not quite so fast, please. Yes, ‘as
it stands.’ I’ve got that down.”
“And if they don’t like it,” Terrard went on, “you’re out for an
independent proposition. It binds you to nothing.”
“I’ve got that down now,” said Mr. Petre at last, reading it over to
himself, “... proposition. It binds me to nothing.”
“Yes, but don’t put that last down,” said Charlie Terrard. “It’s
separate. The words ‘it binds you to nothing’ were only my comment.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Petre, shutting the pocketbook up and putting
it back. “That’s a weight off my mind. And you said if I do that ...
I mean, if you let Mr. Trefusis know that I’m ready to see him ... he
won’t,” he shuddered inwardly, “take action.”
“That’s so,” said Terrard. “That’s what I said.” But he was almost as
much bewildered as Mr. Petre himself. That such a man should act thus!
“Very well,” concluded Mr. Petre with a vast sigh of relief. “Go and
see them, Mr. Terrard, go and see them by all means. That’s what I
want.”
It was an astonishing way to deal with a huge commercial affair
covering two continents; but Terrard knew his man too well by this
time to spin out the interview. He was content to take his leave.
A few days later there was a large public indignation meeting against
the B.A.R. Bill in Leeds. That same week half a dozen in the north
and Midlands, and one, not very successful, in London.
Two papers timidly admitted letters. Gowle’s wretched fanatical sheet
(what a Godsend!) began a regular attack.
A few days later again a careless conversation between Terrard and
young Cassleton at the Benezra’s ball had drifted, somehow, on to
B.A.R.’s. Charlie had said casually that Mr. Petre had been talking
about the future in front of Rotors over here, in England.
Cassleton saw Henry Trefusis on the morrow, and put up danger
signals. Henry Trefusis refused to budge. Cassleton had grown
eloquent. Trefusis had said it was talk--Terrard’s talk, no proof.
Cassleton was the more convinced of danger.
Next day he met Terrard hurrying west: going to see Petre, he said.
He’d look into Bolter’s at five. Terrard was telling the truth. He
was indeed on his way to see Mr. Petre--and he saw him, to some
purpose.
A little after five he was in Bolter’s lounging by the side of the
lounging Cassleton. They had talked for half an hour and more.
Terrard had summoned the young genius, the Hermes of the Trefusis
Jove, and had plainly put the thing before him. Mr. Petre, _his_ Mr.
Petre, wasn’t over here for his health: He--the Rotor man. However,
he was willing to come to terms. Terrard could assure Cassleton of
that. Couldn’t the principals meet?
But Cassleton had bluffed. The surrender was not going to be as easy
as Terrard had hoped. He told Terrard plainly that Mr. Petre was not
in any one’s pocket, and that talking was only talking. He sneered
that there wasn’t a word in Mr. Petre’s writing; not even a penciled
scrawl; there wasn’t even a telephone message; there wasn’t----
“Oh, if that’s all,” said Charlie Terrard with sudden vigor, “that’s
easily settled.” He sent for a messenger, sat down, and wrote at top
speed:
“DEAR MR. PETRE,
“You will remember our recent conversations. I am putting
it before them now. I wonder, could you let me have a line
simply to say ‘An arrangement with the present Company
if they will, after an appointment with Mr. Trefusis;
if he will discuss the matter with me. Failing this, an
independent proposition.’ It would be quite enough.
“Yours,
“C. T.”
The messenger was told to wait for an answer.
Mr. Petre was still one of those who on receiving a letter answered
it, such was his simplicity, such was his happy ignorance of the
world. When he had read that innocent note, of which the hand was the
hand of Terrard, but the spirit was the spirit of Charlbury, he wrote
his reply at once, straight-forwardly as a man should:
“DEAR MR. TERRARD,
“Yes, that was exactly the way we put it, an arrangement
with the present Company, if they will, after an
appointment with Mr. Trefusis, if he will discuss the
matter with me. Failing this, an independent proposition.
“Very sincerely yours,
“JOHN K. PETRE.”
The messenger bore back to Bolter’s that invaluable envelope. Charlie
Terrard had spent the half hour in drinking with his prey as amicably
as a brother. Mr. Petre’s answer was given him by a Club servant.
He just put it into his pocket, and for a few minutes more the two
men, still settled down side by side, talked first of a cousin’s
accident in the hunting field, from that to new Rotor roads, from
that to Rotors, and they had not been upon that dangerous ground for
the space of three replies before Cassleton said, “You know, Charlie,
Trefusis won’t take any stock of this yarn of yours.”
“I can’t help that,” said Terrard simply. “I did the right thing. I
told you at once. You know what you’d have thought of me if I hadn’t;
and if you won’t meet Petre in time, believe me, so much the worse
for you.”
Cassleton put on an air of distress.
“It isn’t exactly that, Charlie,” he said. “You know as well as I do
what I mean. Trefusis wouldn’t say it isn’t true. What he does say is
that he takes no stock of it.”
“Well, he’ll be selling stock pretty soon,” said Charlie, as grimly
as his easy voice could manage such a tone. Then he added: “Surely
Trefusis knows what kind of a man Petre is?”
Cassleton nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said, “everybody knows that.”
“Perhaps everybody does _not_ know it as I know it,” said Charlie.
“It is the amazing everyday sort of way that he does these things. He
moves the price of a City like a man taking off his hat; he decides
in five minutes.”
“They’re all supposed to do that,” said Cassleton wearily.
“Well, he _does_ it,” said Charlie with unusual emphasis, even
sitting up slightly in the effort and then sinking back again. “Now
you said just now there was no writing, and you saw me write and you
saw me get the answer. Perhaps you thought I’d nothing to show you.
Well, I don’t know whether this means anything to you,” he went on,
pulling out the envelope. “It’s only a chance note, but you must be
blind if you can’t see the man through the few words,” and he tossed
Mr. Petre’s innocuous, candid five lines over to Trefusis’ lieutenant.
Cassleton looked with a languid eye over these five lines and
restrained himself. It was getting hotter than he thought.
He handed them back with no comment at first: then--“Well, I don’t
see that makes any difference,” he said, and broke off the subject.
Terrard had no reason for remaining much longer, nor had Cassleton.
They parted with as little ceremony as they had met. Cassleton moved
off without haste, hailed a taxi and was with Trefusis within half an
hour. Terrard saw him well off, and then went to the box to talk to
his office. Even as Terrard was telling his partner over the ’phone
that there was nothing doing Trefusis was hearing from Cassleton that
the thing was real and urgent, that his fears were realized, and that
at any moment the mine might be sprung under his feet.
“How shall I get him, here? Now?” Trefusis had asked sharply.
“You can’t,” Cassleton had drawled out. “I can get Terrard if you
like.”
“Get Terrard,” said Trefusis.
But by the time Cassleton had got the Club he was told that Terrard
had gone, and when he got on to Blake and Blake he was told that
Terrard had not yet come, but that Charlbury could speak to him.
“How long will Mr. Terrard be?”
“We don’t know,” said the voice.
“Tell him to ring up 4398 St. Martin’s the moment he comes.... Tell
him that it’s urgent,” he ended, in the voice of a man who doesn’t
believe anything to be ever urgent at all. Then he put up the
receiver and waited, saying nothing, while his master sat at the
table looking through the walls and thinking furiously. The deep
lines about Trefusis’ mouth were heavily drawn and he was breathing
a little more rapidly than was his wont. He turned to the table
and made a pretense of writing. But if any one had looked over his
shoulder they would have seen that he was writing nothing, only
scribbling the pen forward feverishly line after line to avoid the
lifting of his head and the indiscretion of speech.
At long last the bell of the telephone rang. Cassleton was taking
it up when Trefusis rushed to his side, took it from his hand and,
even as he spoke into it, his eyes became so vivid and of such an
intensity that the younger man, who knew him too thoroughly, was
afraid.
“Yes,” he said.... “No”.... “Mr. Terrard?”... “My name is
Trefusis.”... “Very well, I will see you first if you will. My
arrangements are almost complete.”... “No, Mr. Terrard, I’m afraid
it must be now. To-morrow will be too late.”... “Very well, Mr.
Terrard,” and he put the receiver up again.
Of the two alone in that room Cassleton was the one who suffered
the feeling of defeat. Through the brain of Trefusis was running
the rapid chain of a new scheme for changing front ... at all costs
a combine, new capital, the public would take the racket; bound
to.... Did he stand to lose? to get less than what he had made sure
of, even that morning?... Possibly. One must take the rough with
the smooth.... There might have to be heavy sacrifice.... He would
see.... But at any rate B.A.R.’s would be saved and the bulk of
what he had securely grasped after that long effort of building up
British Amalgamated would remain in his hands.
“Cassleton,” he said after a pause, “where would you like to be when
Terrard comes?”
“You don’t want me to hear?” said Cassleton.
“On the contrary,” said Trefusis, “I do want you to hear.”
The eyes of the younger man wandered about the corners of the room.
He smiled oddly at the cupboard which had played so famous a rôle in
the Burton transaction, then he shook his head.
“No, my dear fellow,” he said, with an odd and new familiarity
towards such a master, “there are limits. Besides which, I hate
stuffy cupboards.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you should hide and eavesdrop,” said Trefusis
angrily.
“I am glad of that,” answered Cassleton. “One never knows! Witnesses
are useful.”
Trefusis nearly found himself saying “Take care,” but he caught back
the words in time.
“You needn’t worry,” said Cassleton, continuing in that familiar tone
which surprised himself, “Terrard’ll talk to you before me, just as
he would if I wasn’t there.”
“Well, there must be some record,” said Trefusis, “and we leave it at
that.”
They had nothing more to say one to the other; each feared a breach,
for each knew too much about the other. Perhaps the more powerful
of the two feared it most. For now there were special reasons for
hanging together, and those reasons became stronger than ever when
Terrard was shown in, greeted Cassleton, and took his place for
discussion.
That discussion was of no great length, the two sole motives which
urge men in the world to which these men belonged, the motives
of avarice and fear combined, were at work and acting with their
accustomed command and power.
There was the less ground for delay when Terrard protested that
he had no power to negotiate. He told them that he was but the
mouthpiece of the principal. He could only repeat the message he had
himself been given, that Mr. Petre was willing to transact; that Mr.
Petre thought it common sense to transact; that if Mr. Trefusis would
not transact, then Mr. Petre would not transact; but that if Mr.
Trefusis would transact, then he, Mr. Petre, was free to meet him at
any time or place he would, Mr. Petre being a free man.
Trefusis elaborately drew a five-pointed star with a pencil upon a
piece of paper, tracing odd curves about it, as he heard this simple
statement of the position.
“Would Mr. Petre come here at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, Mr.
Terrard?” he said.
“I have no doubt he would,” said Terrard easily. “I will ring you up
just beforehand, but I’m pretty sure he’ll come round; he’s one of
those men who never seem to have much to do.” Here he rose to go.
“Yet he seems to get a lot done somehow, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Trefusis....
Next morning at eleven Mr. Petre and Charlie Terrard were shown with
some pomp into the room where they found Trefusis and Cassleton
awaiting them. And one of those exchanges which determine the lives
of millions in our modern democracy began between those four men,
within those four walls.
There sat Henry Trefusis and Cassleton on one side of the table in
the bare, vulgar office, and there sat Mr. Petre and Terrard on the
other; Mr. Petre strained and ill at ease.
Mr. Petre said very little and said it oddly, as though by rote.
Cassleton and Trefusis noted that manner, and agreed silently that
our greatest men are the hardest to comprehend. Charlie Terrard did
most of the explanation and all the firmness in the intervals of his
principal’s silence. Terrard it was who laid down detail and clause,
negotiated, insisted, yielded when he chose to yield. All Mr. Petre
did was to nod and, now and then, in monosyllables, to agree. But
Trefusis, fighting a losing battle, could see well enough which was
master and which was man. He divined the reality behind the mask.
Petre was the soul, Terrard the mere mouthpiece. Petre was the
Captain of that day.... How marvelously did that great man affect
tedium! How admirably assumed was the recurrent spasm of disgust when
his eyes met Henry Trefusis’ eyes!
It took less than two hours. And at the end of it there existed in
duplicate a document not fifty lines long which left Charlie Terrard
assured that Mr. Petre would stand as an equal God and twin master of
B.A.R.
* * * * *
The victors went out. Henry Trefusis sat silent. Cassleton spoke to
him, and could hardly get replies. At last the young man left in his
turn, and the financier sat alone, not writing, not moving, pondering
hour by hour.
He rang for wine and food; dismissed it; told the porter he should
remain to work and that he was in to no one.
The long summer evening, benign, beneficent, went by. From the narrow
court below came the shouts of children playing. The light drooped.
It was almost dark before this man had concluded what is of import to
such men.
A fool would have said that he and his politician brother had lost
half their prospect of loot in the decision of the morning. But the
Trefusis sort in our declining state are not fools in that sense.
One scheme was wrecked? He would build a vaster one--with the rumor
of John K. Petre behind him. He had designed to leave apart the Tide
Power Basins and to ruin them. Now, with this name behind him, he
would change his plan. He would buy up and Rotorize them. He would
catch the fool public with debentures: they should buy the tides for
him and yet leave him master, and at the same time provide a wide
support for his raid upon the wealth of England. He would rotorize
Central Lighting in the towns. He would more than double the haul
in which he had sacrificed half his share. He had lost a battle. He
would win the campaign.
It was dark when his long thought was concluded. He went out into the
warm night.