know. The papers talk about a moratorium. I understand that to mean a
suspension of credit. . . .”
“Only in extreme cases, Mr. Jameson. Only in extreme cases. Of course,
we are not desirous, at the moment, of increasing facilities. We are, if
I may use the expression, sitting on the fence. But my directors—I have
a letter from them before me now—are anxious for me to impress on all
our clients, that they do not anticipate any financial crisis. Measures,
as I am given to believe, have been taken; temporary expedients adopted;
by which. . . .” He went on to explain them, at some length.
“Then I take it,” said Peter, “that on the resumption of
banking-business. . . .”
“Matters will be exactly as they were a week ago.” Mr. Davis rose again,
shook hands, made his point courteously. “Naturally, Mr. Jameson, as
Nirvana Limited will not be under the necessity of making payments, they
will not require any addition to the overdraft which you have guaranteed
for them.”
“Of course not,” said Peter. The interview had turned out according to
anticipation. If Nirvana wanted any more money, it would have to be
found in cash.
He stood for a moment on the steps of the Bank. London had not altered
in a night. The straight aristocratic thoroughfare seemed a little
busier than usual. That was all. Then he looked for the gaudy sentries
outside Marlborough House; saw that they were in khaki!
“The factory, please, Murray; and as fast as you can,” said our Mr.
Jameson. . . .
-----
[1] “No more. No more. Not a word more. It is the Day.”
§ 3
To describe “Pretty” Bramson as nervous, would be a gross
understatement. The man was scared stiff; had been for two days. Peter
found him wandering about the half-empty building—(the English workman
does not usually put in an appearance till twenty-four hours after “Bank
Holiday”)—damp cigarette between his lips, white about the gills,
alternatively fidgeting and depressed. The famous black moustaches were
distinctly out of curl: the brilliantined hair lacked its usual polish.
“Morning, Bramson. You look rather out of sorts.”
Bramson led melancholy way into the private office.
“It’s all U P with us now,” he said. “We’re ruined. That’s about the
long and short of it.”
“Rats!” snapped Peter, lighting a cigar.
“The Bank will be down on us for that overdraft. . . .”
“Don’t be a fool. To begin with, they can’t call in any loans. There’s a
moratorium. Secondly, if they do want their money, I can pay it. Do you
really think I guarantee liabilities I can’t meet?”
“I hadn’t thought of the moratorium,” began Bramson, plucking up
courage.
Peter, puffing slowly at his cigar, got over the flash of temper.
“Worried about that thousand of yours?” he queried suddenly.
“No-o. Not exactly. But. . . .”
“You _are_ worried. Of course you’re worried. So am I. So’s everybody
else. Let me remind you that _I’ve_ got twelve thousand pounds in the
concern, in addition to that confounded overdraft. But we shan’t either
of us save our money by worrying. For goodness’ sake, pull yourself
together, man. Let’s have a look at last month’s figures. . . .”
Bramson went to the safe; opened it; took out some papers “Get a
pencil,” said Peter, “and write down what I tell you. . . . Ready. . . .
Right. . . . Now then: Assets . . .” He dictated steadily; picking out
the amounts from the big type-written statement. “Liabilities. . . .”
The dictation continued. “That’s the lot, I think. Add them up please.”
Bramson read out the figures: “Assets £27,862, Liabilities, including
overdraft, £22,396.”
“Which means,” commented Peter, “that your thousand and my twelve are
worth—about five between them. Roughly forty cents on the dollar. _If_
we could sell the factory as a going concern.”
“You haven’t taken anything for the good-will of the business,” put in
Bramson.
“Of course I haven’t. That’s the whole question. Up to the end of last
month, we were making profits. That was why you bought Turkovitch’s
shares, wasn’t it? Do you think we’re going to make a profit this
month?”
“We might.”
“Forget it,” said Peter genially. “The best we can hope for is to nurse
the show through this damned war—if it doesn’t last too long. Now
listen to me. . . .”
He plunged into details, giving his orders succinctly. This must go:
that be curtailed. Publicity account, selling expenses, manufacturing
charges, clerical work—Peter dealt with each seriatim, hardly referring
to the figures on the table. “As for the finance,” he concluded, “I’ll
deal with that myself. But mind you, the whole thing’s a gamble . . .
Play poker, Bramson?” he asked suddenly.
“Occasionally.”
“Well, if you ever put up your last table-stake to bluff the jack-pot on
a busted flush—you’ll understand the present position of _Nirvana
Limited_.”
Two minutes later the car was purring Citywards.
§ 4
Passing over London Bridge, through Gracechurch Street and Fenchurch
Street, Peter saw that the City had in no wise altered. The same drays,
motor-omnibuses, taxicabs and motor-cars fought their way through its
streets. The same bareheaded clerks hurried along its pavements. The
same hawkers proffered the same wares. Only the closed doors of the
banking-houses portended the unusual.
In his own office at Lime Street nothing spoke of world-crisis. Parkins
still sat at the enquiry desk. Old George was still dusting cigar boxes.
Miss Macpherson’s typewriter clicked and tinkled from the clerks’ office
beyond the stock-rooms. Simpson, just back from his chop at “The George
and Vulture” showed no signs of depression. He, too, had interviewed his
bank manager.
“And what did Smollett say about Beckmann’s bills?” asked Peter.
“It looks as though we shall have to meet them after the moratorium,”
said Simpson. “You see they’ve been discounted through an English bank.
As far as I can make out, Beckmann’s aren’t technically Germans at all.
The firm’s domiciled in a neutral country—so Smollett says. . . .”
“Do you mean to say we shall be allowed to go on importing the brand?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Simpson.
That there could be any patriotic reasons for not trading with
Beckmanns, did not strike them. The war was not yet twenty-four hours
old; and neither the obtuse Simpson nor the concentrated Peter had
realized it as more than a disturber of business.
“Elkins and Beresford will be sure to try and use this to prejudice
customers against the brand,” suggested Peter.
“Let them.” Somehow, the crisis seemed to have nerved Simpson. Peter
never remembered him so decided.
“We must go slow,” was his verdict. “Of course trade will absolutely
disappear for the first week or so. Then it’ll begin to pick up again.
There’ll be no difficulty about supplies. Whatever happens on land, our
Navy’s got the Germans beaten at sea. Go slow, and keep our resources
liquid—that’s my idea. . . . By the way, how about that factory of
yours?”
Peter hesitated a moment—Simpson had always been rather hostile about
Nirvana—then said, “I’ve been up there this morning. Bramson’s rather
rattled. We shall have to go slow there too. It’s a pity the brand
couldn’t have had another two years’ hard advertising before this
happened. As it is—everything depends on how long the war lasts. If it
goes on more than six months, I may have to find a partner. That means
parting with a big slice of my shares. You see, I don’t feel I ought to
take any more of my capital out of this business.”
“No. I agree with you there. Though if it became absolutely
necessary. . . . By the way, you won’t mind my saying so, but I never
understood why you took on ‘Pretty’ Bramson. He hasn’t got a very good
reputation in the trade. And then his cousin Marcus being a
competitor. . . .”
“Oh, he’s not a bad little chap.” Peter, like all good men of business,
was over-loyal to his staff. “The only trouble is that he hasn’t got
much guts. But he’s all right as long as you keep an eye on him. . . .
Good Lord, it’s nearly three o’clock, and that poor devil of a chauffeur
of mine hasn’t had his lunch yet.”
“Had any yourself?” asked Simpson.
It was the one detail of the day which our Mr. Jameson had forgotten!
§ 5
“And are we _quite_ ruined?” chaffed Patricia as they finished dinner
the same evening. Prout and the Rawlings had taken the afternoon train
to town, leaving her lonely and—to tell the truth—more than a little
worried.
“Not quite, old thing,” retorted Peter. . . .
But that night, for the first time in years, he woke up suddenly; saw
her sleeping peacefuly in the white bedstead next his own—and realized
that his responsibilities were not exclusively confined to the financing
of Nirvana Limited.
PART FIVE
DECISION
§ 1
Passed the first week—a week of rumours and counter-rumours, barren of
certainty. Mealy-souled politicians,—protected by a Navy they had done
their best to weaken—gabbled high words of hope. The few trained men,
laughed at for years, departed silently about their business: the
half-trained set themselves to learn. For already, the spirit of the
English-speaking Peoples was astir. Slumbering, the spirit awoke: a
blind spirit, conscious only of resentment, of independence mysteriously
threatened, of Something Wrong in the world: finding its quaint vent in
shibboleth phrases, in deep drinkings, in wagging of flags: but growing,
growing always, not to be denied. Already, through the domino-cafés of
London, at the long bar in the English Club at Shanghai, in dank
bungalows of the Malay Peninsula, on Canadian ranches and Australian
“stations,” there ran the Word: “I think I ought to go, old boy. Well,
mate, are you going?”
But no Word had yet reached Peter Jameson. The City held him. For the
moment, the old game played itself on.
It was a “quiet” time; but not so bad as he had anticipated. Jameson’s
customers, disregarding the moratorium, paid their accounts; gave
niggling orders. The week’s shipment arrived punctually from Havana.
Nirvana, to the untrained eye, seemed hardly to have suffered. The four
machines stamped and clicked all day; girls bent over the packing
tables; the tin-men pricked and soldered as before. Only the pink slips
of “unfilled orders” dwindled and dwindled, the piles of unsold
cigarettes in the stock-room rose and rose.
Peter was sitting alone in the back-office at Lime Street, thinking how
soon he would have to begin paying off his “hands,” when Parkins
announced, “Mr. Raymond P. Sellers.”
“What does he want?” asked Peter.
“I think it’s an American gentleman, Sir. He said he had a ‘proposition’
to put before you.”
“Ask him to come in.”
There entered a clean-shaven young man with gold eye-glasses, in
square-shouldered clothes, square-tipped patent leather shoes, carrying
a Panama hat in one hand and a reporter’s note-book in the other, who
ejaculated: “Say, Mr. Jameson, I’m real glad to meet you,” in a voice
which no citizen of the United States ever used on land or sea.
Peter started to shake hands; looked up at his visitor; and burst out,
“Francis, you blithering idiot, what on earth are you doing in that
get-up?”
Francis looked round to see if the door were closed. Then he said, in
his ordinary voice, “It is a bit grotesque, isn’t it? But as the special
representative of an anonymous American newspaper syndicate, I think it
will pass for the next few days.”
“You always were a bit of a lunatic,” said Peter gruffly, “but this is
the limit. What do you propose doing in your fancy-dress?”
“I’m leaving for Amsterdam on tonight’s boat, if you want to know,”
answered Francis. “After that, my plans depend on circumstances. Look
here,” he became suddenly serious, “this isn’t a joke. I should get into
the devil’s own row if ‘they’ knew I’d been down here. You mustn’t tell
a soul, Peter. Honestly. Not even Patricia. I know it sounds like a
penny-novelette—but most of the penny-novelettes are coming true at the
moment. Word of honour, old man, you won’t tell a soul.”
Peter glanced at his cousin; saw that the slackness had disappeared from
his face. The lips were tight-set, the eyes dark with suppressed
emotion.
“Word of honour, Francis. I won’t tell a soul. Not even Patricia. Why
did you come here though, if it was against—” he stumbled over the
word—“orders?”
“Because there’s no one else I can trust. It’s a question of my
correspondence, and the flat. I want you to look Prout up occasionally.
He thinks I’ve enlisted. Here”—he fumbled in his pocket—“are eight
letters for him. From me. Have one posted every three weeks. I’ve
pencilled the dates on the flap. You can get some one to post them from
the country, I suppose.” Peter took the letters; nodded comprehension.
“There’s a cheque in each of them, so you needn’t worry about giving the
older bounder any money. I’ve told him you’ll call, and that he’s to
give you any correspondence that comes for me.”
“What am I to do with it?” asked Peter.
Francis hesitated a perceptible second before saying, “I want you to
open everything that comes except—letters from America. Answer them
all. Say I’m away, if you like. Joined the Army. I don’t think there’ll
be any bills. If there are, they can wait.”
“And the letters from America?”
“Those, I don’t want you to open on any account. Keep them for me till I
come back. If you don’t hear from me in six months, better say eight
months, burn them. And post this.” He took another envelope from his
pocket, handed it to Peter, who saw, in his cousin’s sprawly
handwriting, “Miss B. Cochrane. C/o The Guaranty Trust Company of New
York. To be forwarded.”
There was the usual awkward silence which betokens sentiment among
English people. Then Peter got up, walked over to the safe, pulled out
his private cash-box, and locked up the letters.
“That’ll be all right,” he said. “But why eight months? You don’t expect
the war to last as long as that, do you?”
Came footsteps outside, a hand at the door-catch.
“Well, good-bye, Mr. Jameson. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you for
the information.”
Mr. “Raymond Sellers” shook hands effusively; half bowed to Simpson, and
departed.
“Who was that chap?” asked Peter’s partner.
“That was only . . .” Peter stopped himself in time, “an American
newspaper fellow—cadging advertisements for one of their
trade-journals.”
“_Tobacco Leaf_ or the other one?”
“The other one,” said Peter nonchalantly.
§ 2
To Peter Jameson’s rather narrow imagination, as yet untouched by the
new melodramatic world, the whole interview with Francis appeared
fantastic. He could neither visualize the steps which preceded that
interview—the coming of the idea, the remembering of an old
school-friend in the Foreign Office, the chivvying about from pillar to
post necessary for the securing of “peculiar” employment, the two days
of schooling by the quiet little civilian at “S,” the final
instructions; nor the resultant arrival of “Mr. Raymond P. Sellers” at a
certain hotel in Amsterdam, where he waited in his clean bedroom
overlooking the canal till a very ordinary-looking Dutch
merchant—having closed the door carefully behind him—said, “Hello,
Gordon. I didn’t know you were one of us.” . . .
No! Peter certainly couldn’t visualize his cousin in the rôle of a
secret-service agent. And such a secret-service agent—Philips Oppenheim
in the flesh! He remembered, of course, that Francis had always been
rather a dab at languages; remembered his talking German at a not too
savoury dancing-hall in Singapore where they had once foregathered.
But surely there never was a man so utterly unfitted for such a job, so
absolutely certain to make a muck of it, as Francis Gordon.
“Fantastic,” decided our Mr. Jameson; and went on with his work.
§ 3
Nevertheless, the interview left its mark in more ways than the
pencilled notes “Post F’s letters” in Peter’s business-diary.
Two more weeks drifted by; news, unsatisfactorily scanty at the
beginning, grew unsatisfactorily complete. So far, the enemy had it all
their own way. Business, on the other hand, showed a tendency to
revive—Nirvana business especially. With the economies effected, a
little more trade—provided nothing interfered with their exports—would
ensure them against actual loss. Bramson had cheered up, Simpson and the
cigar-business dropped back into their usual lethargy. But our Mr.
Jameson, for the first time in years, felt himself lacking in
concentration.
This lack of concentration, as he carefully explained to himself, was in
no wise due to the bad news. As an Englishman, and one who vaguely
recollected the South African campaign, he had never expected a
walk-over. Things looked pretty bad at the moment. Paris might possibly
fall—though it hardly seemed likely. That would be awkward, of course:
but by no means an irretrievable disaster. . . .
Nor, he decided, had business anxieties affected his grip of things
financial. Nirvana could be saved. The main problem had been grappled
with. Now—granted his continued personal attention—it was only a
question of patience. . . . Then, why the devil this strange inability
to concentrate, this growing annoyance?
A good many people had begun to annoy Peter—Julius Hagenburg among
others. The man, proud possessor of a British naturalization certificate
taken out in 1912, had of course every right to change his name if he
thought fit. But Peter could not get accustomed to him as “James
Hartopp, Esq.” And his loud-mouthed patriotism, even though he had
squared off almost all his old account, and given a large order, somehow
offended.
There were a good many such naturalized Germans in the Havana
cigar-trade; many of them with sons who had already enlisted. But every
time he met one of them—old Schornstein, for instance, with his “Ve
must vait and see, my poy. Ve must vait and see,” or Blumberg eager to
explain that “De liperal barty had saved de gountry,”—Peter experienced
a new prejudice.
But Jameson’s connexion with Beckmanns provided the crowning annoyance
of all. Peter and Simpson had decided—as soon as the legal position
became clear—that it would be ridiculous to stop importing the brand
immediately. They must, of course, do their best to replace the goods
with those of another factory. On the other hand, to give them up
without finding a substitute, would merely mean turning over an
important advantage to some less-scrupulous competitor.
Still,—whatever the “Proclamation as to trading with the Enemy” might
say about “firms domiciled in neutral countries”—Peter could _not_ get
out of his mind that the actual owners of the concern _were_ Germans.
Every Friday afternoon, as Simpson dictated his careful letter to them,
ending with the old stereotyped phrasing “with kind regards, Yours very
sincerely,” Peter would remember Heinrich Beckmann, in his heavy boots,
his black tail-coat, his hard bowler-hat, iron-moustached and curt of
phrase, gobbling oysters and swilling wine at Fortis’; would see young
Albert Beckmann, fat, flabby, blond, over-manicured, frothing glass at
his lips, eyeing the _Tänzerinnen_ in the gaudy night-club where they
had celebrated the signing of the contract. “Huns,” Peter would say to
himself—(the appellation “Hun” had just come into vogue)—“bloody
Huns!”
§ 4
But in addition to this growing revulsion against the enemy—(dislike of
the Germans had been ingrained in the man’s character since his first
day in business)—the thousand emotional flea-bites of the period began
to affect Peter. That he could be hearing whispers of the
English-speaking spirit—the spirit that was even then driving Francis
Gordon, nervous to the depths of his imaginative soul, into dangers
beyond belief, dangers that had to be faced in cold blood and absolutely
alone—never struck the Chairman of Nirvana Limited.
He was conscious only of a Questioning; it seemed as though every one
and everything asked him something, something he could not answer.
The morning newspaper began that Questioning. It lurked, somehow or
other, behind the war-news, the casualty-lists. More than one name which
conjured up the face of a boy known at Eton, figured in those early
columns. Challis minor, in his own house, who had held onto his position
till the last moment: “dying,” wrote his Colonel to his mother, “as I am
sure you would have wished him to die.” Latham of the Artillery, who had
fought his gun single-handed till he dropped dead over the breech-block.
Peter caught himself trying to explain to a shadowy Challis minor how
impossible it was for certain people, people with responsibilities like
his own, to join the Army. . . .
Evelyn and Primula too, now back at Lowndes Square, accentuated
uncertainty. They could talk of nothing but the soldiers they had seen
drilling in Kensington Gardens, the motor that had dashed—astounding
phenomenon—down the Broad Walk. They reminded him of the episode,
trivial at the time but constantly recurring, of Patricia’s brother,
Jack Baynet. Jack had been mobilized with the 6th Division; had asked
Peter and Patricia to visit him in Camp at Cambridge. Peter had promised
to go, cried off at the last moment. One couldn’t very well mingle, an
able-bodied civilian _in mufti_, with men who were going to France
within the week. . . .
An eternal Questioning! Everything, everybody, seemed an embodied and
personal demand. Everything, everybody—the khaki, blossoming now like a
brown flower at every street-corner; the boy Parkins who had to be
assured that his place would be kept before he enlisted; a traveller and
two mechanics at the factory who went first and asked afterwards; Miss
Macpherson’s eyes when she dictated the Havana mail; Pat. For Patricia
grew very silent those days. . . .
By the first week in September Peter had solved the Questioning; reduced
it to a question. And the question, briefly, was this: “To join up meant
the almost certain sacrifice of Nirvana. Not to join up, meant the
definite loss of self-respect. Which should he do?” He had no fear of
the soldiering part: on the contrary—being entirely and blessedly
ignorant of warfare’s actualities—it seemed to him the obvious,
glorious _and easy_ solution of his problem. To abandon his
business-responsibilities, on the other hand, implied—quite apart from
the pang of giving up the thing he most loved—a lack of moral courage,
a yielding to popular clamour.
Curiously enough, it was not Patricia but Hubert Rawlings who clinched
Peter’s decision.
§ 5
It was a month and three days since the outbreak of war. Paris—thought
Peter, as he sat alone in the back office at Lime Street—was
practically safe. Still, it might easily be six months before the
Cossacks got to Berlin. Meanwhile. . . .
The telephone-bell jangled; he took up the receiver, heard his
brother-in-law’s voice.
“Peter Jameson speaking. . . . That you, Hubert? . . . Right, I’ll be in
if you come along at once.”
Hubert Rawlings, Publicity Agent, had not been worried with any whispers
of the “English-speaking spirit.” The contemptible cry of “business as
usual” found him a ready convert. Government officials, eager to do
anything except fight, had decided on a campaign of advertising, as
wasteful to the country’s purse as it was degrading to its patriotism;
and in Hubert Rawlings they discovered an invaluable henchman. Posters,
leaflets, newspaper-stereos—one more revolting to decent folk than the
other—spawned themselves in his lower-middle-class mind, spewed
themselves over London and the provinces. Officially, he made no profits
on these transactions, actually. . . . And in addition, there was always
the advantage of being “in with the Government.” One might get . . .
Heaven knows what one mightn’t get. . . . Also, one had “opportunities.”
Such an “opportunity” brought Hubert Rawlings to Peter’s office.
He came in, silk-hatted, morning-coated, flower in buttonhole, perfectly
at ease. Already his voice had assumed a faint touch of the “Whitehall
manner.”
“How do you do, Peter?” he said. “I hope you didn’t wait for me.”
“Afternoon, Hubert. Take a pew. What’s the trouble?”