MR. PAWTER EXPLAINS
Mr. Pawter was in his office when Bill called. He was reading a
newspaper, whistling softly the while, a practice peculiar to men of
an equable temperament.
“The return of the wanderer,” he murmured. “Please tell the cashier
to have the fatted calf slaughtered with appropriate ceremony. You
will find your room in order, and your desk so innocent of muddle that
you will hardly feel at home for a day or two. And----”
“Pips, I want a story out of you,” said Bill, seating himself on the
other side of the table.
“You are still engaged in the profession from which I rescued you?”
he asked wearily. “And you want a story? I should be false to the
traditions of my agency if I missed a chance of getting good
publicity. What is the story? Does it pay to advertise? Yes, it
does.”
“Pips,” interrupted Bill again, “the story I want is about a priory
and a Seen Prior.”
Mr. Pawter eyed him steadily.
“That is exactly the kind of story I can’t give you,” he said, “not
for publication anyway.”
“I don’t want it for publication. I want to know what you are in this
outfit.”
“You seem to know already,” Mr. Pawter smiled faintly. “I am a
Prior--in other words, I am the accountant of the Proud Sons of
Ragousa. You didn’t know that I was an accountant? Accountancy was my
long suit, and I am a member of the Chartered Society. There is
nothing mysterious about me, William. I am surprised you should have
imagined there was.”
“Did you know Brother John?”
Pawter’s face became instantly grave.
“Yes, I knew him,” he said quietly. And then, after long reflection:
“I’d better tell you the story of my connection with this society. The
head of the Ragousas, as you probably know, is Mr. Leiff Stone.
Ragousa, as you will know if any of your school learning remains, was
at one time the richest town in Dalmatia, the port from which the
argosies sailed--‘argosy’ means literally ‘a vessel of Ragousa.’ Many
years ago I was associated with Stone in business, and when he had got
the Order running, and his prize scheme had caught on to such an
extent that members were flocking into the Order, he sent for me and
asked if I would put it upon a proper business basis. Naturally, it
was not the kind of thing which greatly interested me--secret
societies and all that sort of stuff--but there were very many reasons
why I should take up the work. In the first place, two thousand a
year----”
“Dollars?” asked Bill.
“I am speaking of our own depleted currency,” said Mr. Pawter. “No,
two thousand pounds was the salary offered to me, and a very
acceptable sum it was. I did not like the lottery idea very much; as a
business man it had no appeal for me, and, moreover, it struck me that
it erred on the side of illegality. However, the police seemed
satisfied that the Ragousas should have their argosies, and who am I
to oppose my opinion to the law officers of the Crown? I undertook the
work, but on the understanding that I should not be one of the masks.
I pointed out to Leiff Stone the extraordinary opportunities that
existed in the Order for impersonation and fraud, unless there was one
man whom everybody knew by sight, and who could be distinguished from
the rest of the crowd. He fell in with my views, and ever since it has
been my duty to draw the numbers which bring fortune to members of the
Order.”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Bill. “The revenue of the Ragousas is a
pretty heavy one, isn’t it?”
“It has a turnover of something between six hundred and seven hundred
thousand pounds a year, and half of that goes in argosies--nearly
half.”
“Now is it possible,” said Bill, “for a swindler to obtain admission
to the Priory, and, by impersonating one or the other officers, secure
a hold of that money?”
“Absolutely impossible,” said Pawter emphatically, and Bill showed
his surprise. “The grafter who tried that would get the shock of his
life. Nobody, not even the Grand Prior himself, can touch any of the
money, and certainly cannot touch the prize money. I will explain the
system. When a man is initiated into the Proud Sons of Ragousa, he
pays ten dollars; he pays another ten dollars every year. Half of that
money is banked by the local lodge in what is known as ‘A’ account,
with the London, Southern & Northern Bank. That is, in fact, the prize
fund, which is only released to the men who win the argosies, on a
cheque signed by me and initialled by the Grand Prior. Is that
clear?”
Bill nodded.
“Of the other pound--the other half of your subscription that is to
say--a proportion is retained for working expenses of the lodge, and
the remainder, a definite sum, is remitted to the Grand Priory. It is,
I might tell you, a very insignificant amount--I refer to the amount
that goes to headquarters--just sufficient to keep the Priory running,
with very little surplus, and it is known as the Prior’s Tax. So
obviously there is nothing to be gained from getting control of the
Priory. The only big stuff that is handled is the Argosy Fund, which
is never really in the Prior’s hands.”
“What about the Twenty-Third Degree?”
“That also has a small income,” nodded Pawter, “and the Grand Lodge
is in the same case--there are no surpluses.”
“Isn’t it possible to fake the draw?”
“I draw the numbers, bare-armed. There are really five draws,” he
explained, “and the Priors, who sit in council beforehand, decide
which of the five shall be the ‘true draw.’ So I am absolutely in
ignorance as to which they will decide upon, and I could not fake if I
wanted to. The five numbers, or the five groups of numbers, are
written down, and then the Priors tell me which of the groups is the
‘true draw,’ and there is nothing more for me to do but to turn up the
names that correspond with the numbers and forward the cheques.”
“The more businesslike the Ragousas become, the more mysterious they
are!” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be a foothold for a crook,
unless the crook happens to be you.”
“Even I haven’t much of a chance,” he began.
“Tell me one thing: have you ever seen Leiff Stone’s face since he
became a Prior?”
“I know him only by his purple gown. If I met him to-day in the street
I should not recognise him.”
“Who was Brother John?”
“Brother John was the Grand Prior’s assistant, and was the only parson
in the bunch.”
“What is there concealed at the Priory?”
“Nothing,” said Pawter emphatically. “I know the Priory from gate to
cellar. I know every cell in it, every inch of it, and I tell you that
if there’s anything more innocent than a Prior of the Proud Sons of
Ragousa.”
Poor Bullott, thought Bill! The raid was abortive before it was made.
But he could not tell the inspector this or take the responsibility
for checking his plans.
“Have you the least suspicion of an idea in your mind why Brother John
was murdered?”
“Not the least. He was a man without enemies, a man who had no private
feuds; beyond his devotion to Stone, I know of no very great
friendship of his. The murder is inexplicable, and I can only suppose
that the shot fired at Brother John was either intended for somebody
else, or----”
“Don’t say it was an accident,” said Bill, “because that kind of
accident hardly happens twice in twenty-four hours. The man who shot
Brother John took one good crack at me, and nearly got me.”
“There are certain advantages in having a small head,” murmured Mr.
Pawter as he closed the door upon his sometime assistant.