The Victory Finance Company
The morning after Sir Garth’s confession to Hessel, the cause of it,
Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., D.S.O., stepped from his car
outside Ald House in Fenchurch Street, greeted the hall-porter
cheerfully, refused the lift (“must keep young, you know, Canting”)
and climbed briskly up to the offices of the Victory Finance Company
on the fourth floor.
The General was a well-built man of about five foot ten, very erect
and extremely good-looking, with a straight nose, firm chin,
brushed-up moustache, and dark hair only powdered with grey. There was
nothing subtle about him; it was quite obvious that he would be an
extremely good friend to people whom he liked and frankly contemptuous
of those he did not understand. He had done well in command of a
division in France (or, what was considered the same thing, the
division which he commanded had done well) and was now confidently
engaging in a campaign in which he would be even more dependent on the
skill of those serving under him.
The offices of this young and promising Finance Company were by no
means pretentious. They consisted of a clerks’ room, opening on to the
landing, a small room for the manager and secretary, and a larger
directors’ room, which also had a door opening on to the stairs.
Sir Hunter, as was his habit, entered by way of the clerks’ room,
greeted the two young clerks, asking one about his mother’s neuritis
and the other about the fortunes of his pet football club (“Always
get to know your men and their interests, my lad”), and passed
down the short passage into the directors’ room. Here he found a
fellow-director, Captain James Wraile, a clean-cut, clean-shaven man
of forty, with the very pale blue eyes that may mean the extremity of
either strength or weakness and are so very hard to judge.
“Morning, Wraile, my boy. Glad you’ve turned up,” exclaimed the
General heartily. “How goes the world?”
Wraile smiled quietly.
“Well enough, I think, General, if you aren’t in British Cereals.”
“Ah, yes, we did well not to touch that. Your advice, I think, Wraile.
I don’t know what we should do without you.”
“It was rather lucky; they looked a good thing at first sight. But one
can generally find the weak spot when one gets down to the
foundation—as it’s our job to do. Lessingham’s coming in this morning,
Blagge tells me, General. He rang through last night to ask if you’d
be here.”
“Oh, he is, is he? Very good of him to come at all. I suppose if I see
him once a month that’s about all I do, and Resston never. It’s as
well he’s coming, though. He’s got a flair and we can do with his
advice about the Barsington Dirt Track Racing Company. I don’t quite
know what to say about that business, you know, Wraile. It’s a craze
at the moment; there’s money in it now—big money. But will it last?
Especially in the country towns—there’s a very limited public there,
what?”
“Very limited, Sir Hunter. It’s all right for a quick flutter, but a
loan—we might find ourselves badly let in.”
“Well, we’ll ask Lessingham—he may jump on it straight away. I respect
his judgment. What time’s he coming?”
“Eleven o’clock, he said—should be here any time now.”
“Then I’ll keep my news till he comes—I’ve done a good stroke of
business for the Company I think, Wraile, a very big stroke. Ah, here
he is. Come on, Lessingham; better sometimes than never. Well, I’m
glad to see you. We’ll have your advice first and then I’ll tell you
my news—it might put the other out of our heads.”
The newcomer was a man of medium height and rather clumsy build—heavy
shoulders, with a suspicion of hump in the back, and a large paunch.
His hair was black and rather curly, but his complexion was pale and
he wore large yellow-rimmed spectacles, with tinted Crooke’s lenses.
He was smartly dressed—rather overdressed, with a heavy cravat and
pearl pin; he wore dark-grey gloves which he did not remove even when
writing, a habit that grated on the well-trained senses of his
fellow-director. He spoke in a very soft and rather husky voice, which
yet carried a considerable impression of character. As a matter of
fact, he talked very little, leaving Sir Hunter to supply the
deficiency. The three men sat down at the board table and were
presently joined by the manager, Mr. Albert Blagge. Blagge was a
tired-looking, middle-aged man, with honesty and mediocrity written
all over him in equal proportions. He took little part in the
discussion that followed and it was soon evident that he was employed
as a responsible clerk and not as an adviser.
On the subject of Dirt Track Racing the General had a good deal to say
and said it well. Lessingham sat beside him at the Board table,
sifting through his gloved hands a sheaf of prospectuses over which he
ran his eyes—a habit of apparent inattention which intensely annoyed
Sir Hunter but of which he had been unable to break his partner. At
the end of ten minutes the General had reached his climax and
conclusion—the Barsington Dirt Track Company was unsuitable for the
Victory Finance Company to handle.
“I agree,” said Lessingham, without looking up from his papers.
Sir Hunter frowned slightly and brushed his moustaches. He would have
preferred an argument; he liked something to batter down. On this
occasion, however, he was anxious to get on to the more important
subject that was itching under his waistcoat. Being slightly
uncomfortable about his ground, he assumed a more than usually strong
and hearty voice:
“Now, my boy,” he said, “I’ve got a piece of news for you that’ll make
you sit up. I’ve done a stroke of business that not many people, I
flatter myself, could have brought off.”
Lessingham turned his spectacled eyes for a moment to his companion’s
face, then resumed his scrutiny of the Central Motorway Company’s
prospectus. Wraile looked at the Chairman with interest, but said
nothing. The reception of his opening remarks had not been
enthusiastic, but it took more than that to throw Sir Hunter out of
his stride.
“You both know Fratten—Sir Garth Fratten—head of Fratten’s Bank—one of
the most solid and respected men in the City? You’ll hardly believe
me, but I think I have practically persuaded him to join our Board!
What do you think of that, eh?”
Sir Hunter paused impressively and looked at his fellow-directors to
see what effect this tremendous piece of news would have on them. The
effect was certainly visible, but it was hardly of the nature that the
General had expected. Wraile looked at him with raised eyebrows—a
respectful, but hardly encouraging expression. Lessingham, on the
other hand, wore a look of intense anger. His face retained its even
white colour but his eyebrows were knit in a heavy frown and his lower
lip protruded as he glared at Sir Hunter.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “Join our Board? Fratten join our Board?
What right have you to ask him without our consent? It’s a gross
liberty, Lorne—a gross liberty!”
Sir Hunter was palpably taken aback. He had expected enthusiasm; he
received abuse. Not since, as a Brigadier, he had been sent for by the
Corps Commander and, instead of receiving the praise he had expected
for a “successful” raid, had been frigidly rebuked for squandering
lives, had he been so thrown off his balance. He grew red in the face,
his moustache bristled, and a line of small bubbles appeared on his
lips.
“Wh . . . what’s that?” he stammered. “A liberty! What the hell d’you
mean, sir? It’s the best stroke of business I’ve ever done!”
“I can quite believe that,” said Lessingham acidly.
“But, damn it, man, Fratten’s name on our Board will draw money like a
magnet! Think of the security it offers. Fratten! Fratten’s Bank
practically guaranteeing us!”
“Fratten’s Bank doing nothing of the kind,” exclaimed Lessingham
angrily. “There’s a Board of directors there just as there is here;
it’s not a one-man show, any more than this is!”
Lorne was staggered. He looked to Wraile for support, but Wraile’s
face was cold; he looked at Mr. Blagge, but the manager’s eyes were
bent upon the papers before him.
“Well I’m b——,” said the General. “Of all the ungrateful devils! Look
here, you chaps, can’t you understand what it’d mean? Every investor
looking through a list of Finance Companies will see Fratten’s name on
our Board—the biggest name on the whole list—just what we want!
Security! Ballast! We’ve got brains, we want ballast! What?”
Lessingham’s reply was quiet this time, but cold, decided,
unsympathetic as a surgeon’s knife.
“It is you who don’t understand, Sir Hunter,” he said. “If Fratten
were to come on this Board, he would want control—these big men always
do. Why else do they come on to our small company Boards? To swallow
them up; swamp them. Fratten’s a sound enough man in his own way, but
he’s old-fashioned—no use to us. He would turn this Company into a
‘safe-as-houses,’ ‘no risk’—and no result—business, with an investment
schedule like his own Bank’s—the last thing we want. You might just as
well close the whole thing down. His name might impress an
unenlightened investor, but it wouldn’t impress a broker for a
minute—a broker would know that Fratten is not the type of man to run
an Investment Company, he wouldn’t recommend us to his clients—and the
number of investors who deal without the advice of a broker isn’t
worth considering. The thing’s a washout, I tell you—a rotten
washout!”
Lessingham’s anger spurted up again in his last words—his usually
controlled voice revealed, in that sentence, the primeval qualities of
his race.
Sir Hunter sat back in his chair, a look of blank astonishment on his
face. It lightened, however, as an idea seemed to strike him.
“But Fratten wouldn’t have control,” he said. “He’s not coming into
this to make money, but to oblige me—as an old friend. I didn’t tell
you—we were old school friends—we met the night before last at an
Old-Boy dinner. He wouldn’t want control—or even to interfere. I was
going to suggest that we should each of us sell him 5%; but if you
aren’t keen, I’ll let him have 10% of my own—that’ll leave me with
only 50%, you and Resston’ll still have your fifteen and Wraile his
ten. He’s only coming in to oblige me.”
“He’s not coming in at all if I can stop it,” exclaimed Lessingham
fiercely. “I don’t know what you think you are, Sir Hunter. You’re
Chairman of the Board and you hold a majority of shares, but this
isn’t an infantry brigade—your word’s not law. You can outvote us, but
we can get out—and if you bring this fellow in, I shall—then see how
you get on without me. Wraile can please himself.”
As he spoke, there was a knock at the door and one of the clerks came
in.
“Gentleman of the name of Fratten to speak to you on the ’phone, Sir
Hunter, sir, please. Shall I put him through?”
“Fratten!” Lorne looked round him with momentary hesitation, then
straightened his back.
“Yes, put him through, put him through, my lad, what?” he exclaimed.
There was a moment’s silence as Sir Hunter held the receiver to his
ear, then:
“Hullo, Garth, good-morning; good-morning, my dear fellow; good of you
to ring me up. What? This morning? By all means, come when you like;
come now.” (His eyes wandered defiantly from face to face.) “Yes, of
course—delighted to see you, my dear fellow; delighted.”
He replaced the receiver and returned the telephone to its stand on
the wall behind his chair.
“Sir Garth’s coming round now,” he said. “Going to look into our
doings. Naturally a man in his position can’t commit himself without
investigation.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Naturally he can’t,
what?”
Lessingham turned towards the manager.
“I’ll ask you to withdraw, please, Mr. Blagge,” he said. The manager
gathered up his papers and left the room.
“Now, Chairman,” said Lessingham, speaking quietly but decisively,
“this matter’s got to be settled here and now—you’ve invited Fratten
to come round here and to join the Board without consulting your
fellow-directors. You’ve got the whip hand of us in the matter of
votes—you can put him on if you like. But if you put him on, I go
off—that’s final. I don’t expect you to settle that in one minute, but
you’d better have your mind made up before Fratten gets here. I’m
going now; you can let me know what you’ve decided. Only understand,
what I’ve said is final.”
He rose and, without another glance at either of his colleagues,
walked out the room. Sir Hunter’s face was a dark red; he was deeply
offended—and at the same time, seriously alarmed; he knew well enough
where the brains of the company lay; Wraile was clear-headed and
intelligent, but comparatively an amateur like himself; Lessingham was
a financier. At the same time he could not allow himself to knuckle
under to a fellow of that type; he could not throw over Fratten; it
would be a gross insult to the distinguished banker after asking him
to join the Board. Lorne realized that he had acted hastily, perhaps
unwisely—but he had gone too far to retire—only a really great general
can bring himself to retire.
“You’ll stand by me, Wraile?” he said gruffly. “I count on you.”
“I will, of course, General, if you’re determined on it; I know well
enough that I owe everything to you—but I’m sorry you’ve decided to
exchange Lessingham for Fratten—I’m convinced that one’s the man for
our job and the other isn’t.”
Before Sir Hunter could reply, the door opened and Sir Garth Fratten
was announced.
“Good-morning, Lorne,” he said. “Very good of you to let me come
round.”
“Come in, my dear fellow, come in!” exclaimed the General, advancing
to meet him with outstretched hand. “Delighted to see you. Let me
introduce Captain Wraile to you—one of our directors. He was our
managing-director till a year or so ago but he was enticed away to a
more glittering post than we can afford, what? Ha, ha.” He clapped
Wraile on the shoulder to show that he bore him no grudge. “But we
were lucky enough to keep him on the Board. He was my Brigade Major in
France in ’15—don’t know what I should have done without him—ran the
whole show—most efficient fellow you ever saw—don’t blush, my boy; you
know I mean it. Marvellous hand at inventing devilments—stink-bombs,
rifle grenades, every sort of beastliness he used to contrive for poor
old Jerry—long before the authorities dished us out even a ‘jam-pot.’
You ought to have seen our catapult battery behind the Pope’s Nose at
Festubert! Ha, ha, that was an eye-opener for Fritz.”
Sir Hunter laughed uproariously, but Wraile, who was intimately
acquainted with the moods of his old chief, knew that he was nervous.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Captain Wraile,” said Sir Garth, smiling
pleasantly at him. “A little fresh blood and ingenuity is the very
thing that’s wanted in post-war finance. May I sit down, Lorne? I’m
rather a crock just now and have to nurse myself.”
“My dear fellow, I’m so sorry—inexcusable of me! Have a glass of port
[the General’s panacea]—no?—a cigar, anyhow—Corona Corona, handpicked
by myself, every one of ’em.”
“I’ll leave you, sir,” said Wraile. “I expect you and Sir Garth want
to have a talk.”
“Not the least need for you to go so far as I’m concerned,” said the
banker. “You’ve told him what I came round about, Lorne?”
Sir Hunter nodded, and looked rather anxiously at Wraile.
Sir Garth continued: “All I want is just to know roughly your general
policy. Then, if you’ll give me a copy of your last Annual Report and
Balance Sheet and a Schedule I’ll take them away and just run through
them in my spare time. You won’t mind that, I’m sure.”
The Chairman shortly, but not too clearly, outlined the history and
activities of the company, and calling in the manager, introduced him
to Sir Garth. Fratten looked at him with interest, and evidently
realized at once that not here would he find what he was looking for.
“The other members of your Board,” he said when Mr. Blagge had left.
“Would you mind letting me know who they are?”
“Of course, of course; I quite forgot that—stupid of me, what? There’s
old Lord Resston—he never turns up—holds 15% of the shares and draws
his guineas—great disappointment to me. Wraile here comes pretty
regularly twice a week; I’m here most days. The only other director’s
a chap called Lessingham—Travers Lessingham—very shrewd; doesn’t show
up much, though—other irons in the fire, I suppose. Still, when he
comes, his advice is worth having. That’s our Board. Then there’s
Blagge, our manager, whom you’ve met; Miss Saverel, our very capable
secretary, and a couple of junior clerks.”
Fratten nodded. “And do you suppose your fellow-directors will care
for me to join you?” he asked.
For a second Sir Hunter hesitated, but before the pause could become
awkward—or even apparent—Wraile slipped into the breach—as he had so
often done in France.
“Speaking for myself, sir,” he said, “I shall consider it a great
honour to work with you.”
The General shot him a grateful glance.
“Of course, I must formally consult my colleagues,” he said, “but,
naturally I don’t expect anything but a warm welcome.”
Sir Hunter had burnt his boats.
“Very well,” said Sir Garth, rising, “I’ll look into these papers and
let you have a decision within a week or two—it’ll take me a little
time—I’m an old-fashioned methodical man and I don’t rush my
decisions. Good-day to you, Lorne; good-day, Captain Wraile.”
“I’ll come down with you, my dear fellow—nearly my lunch time—can I
persuade you to . . .” the door closed behind them and Wraile was
alone. He stood for a moment in thought, then touched a handbell
twice. The inner door opened and a young woman, tall, fair, and
attractive, came into the room.
“Dictation, please, Miss Saverel.”
The secretary pulled a chair up to the table and opened her note-book.
“My dear Lessingham . . .”