Fatal Venture (3 page)

On the other hand, the scheme had obvious drawbacks. It was hard to believe that, if it contained no snag, someone wouldn’t have already tried it. Then existing tourist concerns and seaside resorts would see in it a rival and do all in their power to damn it. It would, moreover, be extraordinarily vulnerable. Tom would say to Dick or Harry: “I thought of going on her, but I can’t forget she was sold for breaking up. Tell me in confidence, old man, do you think she’s safe?” A hint of that kind would grow like a snowball. Or someone might be put up to state baldly that the ship was dangerous, knowing that a slander action, even if unsuccessfully defended, would in itself achieve the aim.

But during this week Morrison had not only ruminated; he had acted. First he had enquired about Bristow. He had found a clerk in the office of his firm’s solicitors who knew a member of the staff of Bristow, Emerson and Bristow, and at the cost of a film and supper he was able to put his questions direct. From these it emerged that the man he had met in the train really was the firm’s junior partner, and that he bore very much the character Morrison had imagined. Bristow, as seen through his subordinate’s eyes, was clever and efficient, good at his job, determined and decent up to a point. “He’s alright if everything goes his way,” the young man explained, “but if he gets crossed, he’s the very devil. But he’s straight enough, if that’s what you want to know.”

This being the point at immediate issue, Morrison decided to go ahead with the costs, trusting Bristow to pay him a reasonable sum for the work. He also determined to make a few enquiries about Malthus, the man who had been asleep – or awake – in the train. He could check him up in the various books of reference, and perhaps might find someone who knew him.

Getting out the costs proved a bigger job than he had expected, and he had to bribe with theatres and dinners certain other acquaintances – this time from shipping offices – before he could get his information. However, what with this and the figures he found in his own firm’s books, he was able to prepare what he believed was a reasonable statement.

The figures were impressive. If they were correct, there was a fortune in the scheme. Morrison began to wonder whether chance had not brought him his great opportunity, and he determined to make himself so useful to Bristow that he couldn’t be done without.

It was therefore with something of excitement that on Sunday afternoon he presented himself at Bristow’s rooms in Hampstead.

The house was of a good type in a good neighbourhood and Bristow’s sitting room, a large, front, bow-windowed chamber on the first floor, was charmingly furnished. “Oozing with money,” Morrison thought, as his host waved him to an armchair and offered cigarettes and whisky. Bristow was civil, though not effusive. “Glad to see you,” in somewhat dry tones was his highest flight of cordiality, and he went on at once to business as if he considered time spent on social amenities was wasted.

“Well,” he began, “you’ve thought over what I said in the train? Do you feel like helping me – for an agreed consideration?”

Morrison restrained his urge to reply, “Such is my desire,” and instead answered that he had already got out some figures.

Bristow seemed pleased. “Good!” he pronounced. “Then before we go into them, let’s fix up an agreement. I’ve drafted two: I said I was going to give you an alternative.” He crossed to a desk and picked up a couple of papers. “Both start with a secrecy clause, and by this” – he held up the first – “I agree to pay you for your time at whatever rate you consider fair.”

“And the other?”

“By the other,” Bristow returned, “you agree to put in whatever time you can without any direct payment. If the scheme proves a failure, you get nothing. If it succeeds I promise you twenty percent of my net profits up to a figure to be agreed on: I suggest five hundred pounds. I may add that if the thing really clicks, there’d be a job for you if you cared to take it, though this wouldn’t be guaranteed.”

“I’ll take the second,” said Morrison.

For the first time a trace of enthusiasm showed in Bristow’s manner. “That’s fine,” he declared warmly. “I’m delighted. Very well: read this, and if you’re satisfied, we’ll sign.”

Morrison read the second paper carefully. He was no lawyer, but his job had brought him some knowledge of agreements. In spite of its legal language, the document was clear.

“I’ll sign,” he decided.

“Fine!” Bristow repeated, rising and ringing the bell. “I have it in duplicate and we’ll go straight through with it.”

The maids being out, the landlady was impressed as a witness, and in five minutes the delighted Morrison had in his pocket a document which under favourable circumstances would give him a legal claim to £500.

“Now let’s go ahead,” went on Bristow. “What figures have you got out?”

“Very encouraging they are,” Morrison returned, opening his notebook. “If your figure for the ship is correct, I think the scheme would be a good proposition. In fact, I think it would pay extremely well.”

“You do?” exclaimed Bristow with evident satisfaction.

“I’m sure of it. First, take your figure of two thousand passengers for six months of the year.” And he plunged into the details of his statement. These agreed largely with the figures Bristow had put up in the train. They discussed each point from every angle, then at last Morrison straightened himself tip. “Very well,” he said, “that leads me to fares.”

Bristow took a deep breath. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Now you’re getting to it. What about fares?”

Morrison was keenly enjoying himself. “I think,” he pronounced, “that you could offer a fare that would keep her filled. I make it about nine pounds a week
and
” – he raised his hand as Bristow would have spoken – “if you increase the number of your passengers to three thousand, as I should advise, that nine pounds would come down to about seven.”

“Seven pounds a week!” Bristow repeated excitedly. “Good Lord! If we could do that we’re millionaires. What does that include?”

“Everything but shore excursions.”

“Everything!” Bristow’s eyes goggled. “Why man alive, we could easily get eight pounds a week or more – much more, I should think. If you’re right that would mean a pound a week per passenger profit: say” – he figured rapidly – “nearly eighty thousand a year!”

Morrison grinned. “That’s what I made it,” he agreed.

Bristow got up and began to pace the room. “I thought there was money in it,” he declared, “but I never thought it ran to anything like that. Say it was only fifty thousand a year! I can’t get over it!”

“It mightn’t work out quite so well in practice,” went on the less exuberant Morrison. After all, he didn’t hope to get fifty thousand, but five hundred at most. “There might be unexpected repairs wanted, and the ship mightn’t last as long as you think.”

“But, damn it, man, if she lasted four years we’d get our money back. And if she lasted five we’d make a pile. We needn’t worry about her lasting.” He gave a whistle, and picking up the whisky, poured a couple of fingers into each glass. “We need a drink after that,” he declared. “I feel all bowled over.”

They had their whisky, and then for a couple of hours they worked, checking calculations, weighing probabilities, estimating unknowns. They made some slight amendments, but in the main Morrison’s conclusions stood.

“Bless my soul, I can’t get over it,” Bristow said as at last he threw down his pencil and sank back in his chair. “How is it the thing hasn’t been done before?”

Morrison shrugged. “Makes you feel there must be a snag somewhere.”

Bristow nodded. “That’s what’s bothering me. It’s too good!”

He seemed frightened by the vastness of the promise. He sat staring before him for some seconds, then with a little gasp went on: “It’s easy enough to see our next step. We must get the two hundred thousand to start the thing. How are we going to do it?”

What they wanted, Bristow considered, was a rich man who would put in the whole sum in return for a fifty-fifty share in the profits. He preferred an individual to a syndicate for many reasons. Negotiations would be easier, less formal, more elastic. But he had already approached without success all the rich men whom he knew.

“It’s not so easy as it sounds,” Morrison pointed out. “No one could be expected to consider the scheme without examining all these figures, but if we showed them to the wrong man he might easily buy the ship for himself and leave us out in the cold.”

“I fancy I could guard against that,” Bristow declared grimly. “However, the first thing is to find the man. I suggest we think over it until next Sunday, and if we’ve no luck we’ll then consider the syndicate.”

“Right,” Morrison agreed. Then, as an afterthought, he touched on the Malthus matter, which at intervals had given him a little uneasiness. “Something I forgot to mention to you. Do you remember the man in the carriage when we were talking?”

“Yes; he was asleep.”

“He wasn’t asleep – at least, not all the time.”

Bristow sat up. “What?” he almost shouted.

“You remember some people came past and a woman said something about a monkey? I happened to glance at him just as she spoke. He opened his eyes and looked at her and shut them again.”

Bristow swore. “Then, damn it all, man, he might have heard what I said!”

“I doubt it.”

Bristow grew more upset. “Of course he could! It was a silent-running coach. Why in hell didn’t you mention it before?”

Morrison was getting annoyed. “How could I? There was no opportunity, as you know very well. Besides, I didn’t think it important.”

“No opportunity! A word in the corridor and we might have found out who he was!”

“I did that myself,” Morrison retorted in slightly sulky tones.

Bristow made a gesture of exasperation. “Damn you, Morrison. You’re hard to live up to! Who was it?”

Morrison turned over the pages of his notebook. “Mr A N Malthus, 777 Jordan Square, W8. He seems to be well off; is believed to have no job, but goes to races and does a lot of cruising.”

“Cruising? Hell! How did you find all that out?”

“I saw his name and address on his suitcase, and I checked him up in the directory. He’s not in
Who’s Who.
As he was travelling abroad, I wondered if we knew anything about him, but his name wasn’t on our books. I asked a friend of mine in Butler’s, and he knew him all right. He had dealt with them for years.”

“Any special reputation?”

“Pleasant spoken, but too sharp to be quite wholesome.”

Bristow seemed unreasonably upset. “I don’t like it,” he repeated. “I was a fool to talk in a place like that, but I was sure the man was asleep.”

“But what matter?” persisted Morrison. “It’s not likely he’d steal the idea.”

“It’s not likely perhaps, but it’s possible. What did you think he looked like, Morrison? You sat opposite him and could see him better than I.”

Morrison reassured him, though without much success. “It just means,” Bristow ended up, “that we must get our money and an option on the ship as soon as possible.”

All the next week the problem remained in Morrison’s mind, and then on the Friday an incident occurred which led to a new development.

On that morning Morrison was called into his manager’s room. Mr Alcorn was a pleasant man, on good terms with his staff. He was writing as Morrison entered, but he looked up, grunted, “Here’s Stott on the warpath again,” pushed a letter across the desk, and buried himself once more in his correspondence.

Morrison took the letter. “The wanderlust is again upon me,” it read, “and this time I want to go somewhere new. I’m sick of all the usual tours. What do you advise? You know where I’ve been for the past few years, and also that I will neither take violent exercise of any kind, nor rough it in order to visit out of the way corners of the earth. Will you send someone down to talk it over?”

John M Stott had for some time been one of Morrison’s
bêtes noires
. A man of about seventy, he was small of stature, red-faced and choleric in appearance, and possessed at moments of stress of an unpleasantly rough tongue. He lived alone with his butler, housekeeper and chauffeur in a charming house near Windsor. He was undoubtedly rich – to Morrison his wealth seemed fabulous – and he was a good friend to the house of Boscombe. He liked sea travel, as represented by patronage of the largest and most luxurious liners, and every year he gave the Agency the pleasure and profit of arranging some still more extensive tour. Three months of the previous winter he had spent on the liner
Silurian
, 34,000 tons, doing a world tour at a quoted price of 800 guineas. This was his most expensive holiday to date, though its cost was not unduly above the average.

It was an idiosyncrasy of Stott’s that he would never call to see people if they could be made to call to see him. When, therefore, his urge for travel possessed him, a representative of the Boscombe Agency found it convenient to attend at “St Austell,” the charming villa near Windsor. Formerly the managing director himself had gone, but latterly the dirty work had fallen to Morrison. This was due to Morrison’s successful handling of another job. Stott’s neighbour, the Earl of Bullen, had called at the Agency about a complicated shooting journey through Syria, Transjordania and Iraq, and been so impressed by Morrison that on his return he had sung his praises, Stott, always ready to defer to a peer of the realm, demanded Morrison’s aid when the time came for his next tour. Once again Morrison gave satisfaction and from that date Stott became his special charge.

“Well,” said Alcorn, putting down his pen and throwing his letter into the “out” basket, “where shall we send the blighter this time?” Alcorn hated Stott, who had always treated him as a not very superior servant.

“The trouble is, sir, that’s he’s been everywhere,” Morrison pointed out; “everywhere that there are big liners and restaurant cars and
de luxe
hotels.”

“What about improvements and developments since his last visit?”

I tried that last year and it didn’t work. If you suggest his going back to a place, he always says: “Damn it! I was there three years ago, or five or whatever it is?”