Fatal Venture (4 page)

“I know. A lot of people before Stott have wanted new worlds to conquer. Then what about a new vehicle of travel? A private yacht or plane?”

“He doesn’t like the air, sir, but a yacht might do the trick. What about crossing Europe by water in a super-launch?”

“Too humdrum. He must be able to prate about his originality. What about that South American river: the Parana, isn’t it? A super-launch to explore the Chaco where the fighting was, and those forests someone wrote about a few years ago: Something Hell, I think the name was. A good book, I remember.”

Morrison smiled. “You’ve hit it, sir. Blue Star to Buenos and then up the Parana or whatever it is, until he gets too sick of it to go further. Back to Buenos and across the continent by
de luxe
express to Valparaiso and home by the Canal, I believe that’s the ticket.”

“Very well. Go down and try it on. And if he turns it down, ask him what he’d prefer.”

So it happened that Morrison, after a rapid though intensive study of what the British Museum had to say on the Chaco, turned the bonnet of the firm’s small Ford westwards. It was a charming autumn day and Morrison was in the best of spirits. He gazed about him with approval. The leaves had not yet begun to come down, but they had turned every conceivable shade of brown and russet: all spectacular and delightful. The sun shone brightly, though its light was already a little thinner than in full, summer. Morrison congratulated himself as the last vestiges of Town fell behind and he came to what was indubitable country.

It was just as he was approaching the gate of “St Austell” that the great idea shot into his mind. Stott! Wasn’t Stott the man he had been looking for?

Stott’s enemy, to escape which he had planned these colossal tours, was, Morrison believed, nothing more nor less than boredom. What the man wanted was not a trip or a cruise, but an interest. He had too much money to work, and he was no sportsman. He had often told Morrison that the thought of poking a ball about with a golf club or billiard cue made him ill. He neither fished nor shot nor rode to hounds. It was true he was a bridge player, but one couldn’t play bridge all day.

But if he wanted an interest
and
a cruise, how more perfectly could he have both than through Bristow’s scheme? If only he could be interested, the thing was as good as done.

He could live on board in the most luxurious suite – indeed, if he wanted it, he could have a whole deck reserved for himself and his friends. He could be made chairman of the venture, which would pander to his pride, while presiding at frequent staff conferences would give him an interest and he could kid himself that he was running the entire affair. Certainly Stott seemed to be their man!

Morrison ran past the gates of “St Austell” to the Post Office in Windsor. There he was lucky enough to get a through call to Bristow. A possible backer! Should he put the thing up to him?

With Bristow’s reply drumming in his ears and his heart beating slightly quicker than usual, Morrison headed the Ford back to “St Austell.”

Stott’s house was long and low, built of reddish-brown bricks and tiles, mellowed not with chemicals, but by age. It gave an extraordinary impression of peace and stability, as if nothing could ever disturb its serenity, standing there with its creeper-covered walls, its surrounding lawns and gardens and its background of great elms and beeches. Perfectly appointed, it might have been chosen as a sample of the English country cottage at its best.

Marshall, the butler, greeted Morrison with becoming gravity. “Mr Stott’s expecting you, sir,” he declared. “He’s in the garden. Will you come this way?”

The master of the house was lying in a deckchair in the shadow of a patriarchal elm, a giant among trees, with a cigar in his mouth, a book on his knee and a glass of whisky and soda at his elbow. He did not move as Morrison appeared, though he greeted him civilly enough.

“I expected you before lunch,” he said. “However, now that you’ve arrived, pull over that chair and help yourself to a cigar and a drink.”

Morrison did as he was told. “I wanted to have some proposals to submit to you, sir,” he explained, “and I had to look various points up. I hope you’ll approve the result.”

“Well, go ahead and let’s hear.”

Morrison opened with a graceful tribute to the profundity of his host’s knowledge of the world, geographically as well as sociologically. He indicated that organised tours were no longer capable of giving satisfaction to so experienced a traveller, and, moving by easy stages, at length reached the suggestion of river exploration.

Stott, obviously taking the flattery as his due, made no reply to this, but sat obviously waiting for more.

“We thought that you might care to hire a motor cruiser, sufficiently large to have comfortable cabins for yourself, and, if you desired it, for friends. In this way you could go where you wished at your own time and independent of steamer schedules.”

“I’ve done a lot of rivers, as you know,” Stott replied, “and I can’t say I found them very interesting.”

This was not exactly promising, but Morrison knew his man. “I can well understand that, sir,” he answered diplomatically. “But, if I may say so, I think that was because you travelled by tourist steamer – not always very comfortably, I’m afraid. I was going to suggest a waterways tour a little off the beaten track.”

“Where?”

“Well, what about the Northern European countries? Say, Norway, Sweden and Finland to start with?”

Stott pointed out with some force that there was little of Norway, Sweden and Finland that he didn’t already know. Morrison, however, was just getting into his stride. He suggested a more ambitious programme: across Europe from the English Channel to the Black Sea. This also Stott turned down with contumely, as the police say, together with similar suggestions about the USA and India. With skill, Morrison finally worked round to the Chaco scheme.

“There
is
one other proposal,” he said hesitatingly, “but I scarcely like to mention it, as I don’t think it would appeal to you. It’s to go out by Blue Star Line to Buenos Aires and then take a private cruiser up the Parana, through the Chaco, where the fighting was. But I need hardly talk about that. I feel sure you wouldn’t consider it.”

Stott rose to it as Morrison had hoped. “And why shouldn’t I consider it, young man? It seems to me the first sensible thing you’ve said today. Tell me more about it.”

Morrison threw off as casually as he could the information he had amassed at the British Museum. Stott listened silently and at first seemed favourable to the scheme. But as he learned the distance he would have to go and the character of the forest through which he would have to pass, he grew less enthusiastic. Finally, he turned it down with a complete lack of ambiguity.

Morrison wondered if the time had yet come to attempt his
coup
. He thought so, but, to keep his conscience clear, he decided first to put Alcorn’s question.

“Then, sir, is there any other proposal you would prefer? As you know, we should be only too glad to get out details.”

It was when Stott declared pithily that to make proposals was Morrison’s job, not his, that the young man felt that zero hour had come. He went to work craftily.

“I wonder, sir,” he began deprecatingly, “whether you would care to get in on this new home waters cruising idea? It’s novel enough and you might enjoy it.”

Stott glanced at him shrewdly. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“Well, it’s really confidential, sir, and perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. A friend of mine is mixed up with it and that’s how I happen to know. It’s proposed to try cruising in home waters with big ships. You know the Hebrides, of course?”

“Been to Oban and Skye and so on long ago.”

Morrison’s heart leaped. “Ah, yes, sir; very pretty and all that,” he admitted condescendingly. “But it’s not what I mean. The outer islands are the thing; at least, so I’ve heard. But the snag is that you can only see them by going in small steamers. Very comfortable, of course, but not what you, sir, are accustomed to. Now, this scheme is to bring these islands and other interesting parts of our coast within the reach of the traveller who knows what’s what.”

“Why didn’t you suggest that for the motor cruiser?”

“Because of the sea, sir,” Morrison returned with admirable presence of mind. “It can be rough there. Still, the motor cruiser might be the best way, if you didn’t care for the idea of the other.”

“Why shouldn’t I care for it? What’s the hitch? What are you beating about the bush for?”

Morrison made a deprecating gesture. “Sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear. The scheme is not in operation yet. In fact, I understand the company is only being floated.”

“Oh.” Stott looked unpleasant. “Money wanted?”

“You’ll naturally think that’s what I’m after, sir, and, of course, if you became interested, it would be fine for my friend. But it was really yourself I was thinking of: as a passenger. Would you care for a trip of the kind?”

“I might.”

“Then we could keep that in view. Of course, there is the other side of it that you suggested. If you chose to put some money into it you might find the scheme an interest: to have some control, for instance, and perhaps a complete deck reserved for yourself and friends. It would certainly be novel.”

“And what would you get if I came in?”

Morrison was careful to avoid showing indignation.

“Nothing sir, if you came in. But – between ourselves, if you please – I’m hoping for a job in the new company.”

Stott did not answer, continuing to stare questioningly at the other, and Morrison presently continued: “Please don’t think, sir, that I’m asking you to invest in it. It simply occurred to me that, as you were out for a novel cruise, you might be interested to hear the details.”

“Well, I suppose I’m for it to that extent. Go ahead.”

Morrison realised that he had reached his principal hurdle. “I’m afraid, sir, I’ve told you all I know myself. If you’re interested you’d have to see someone in the affair. I dare say I could bring down my friend, if you cared to meet him.”

Stott looked harder at the young man. “Looks damned tricky,” he said threateningly.

Morrison smiled. “I’m not such a fool as to think we could get you to do anything against your will, Mr Stott.”

Stott grunted. “Huh! You know that much, do you?” He paused, then went on: “Who is he, this friend?”

“His name is Bristow and he’s a partner in a firm of solicitors, Bristow, Emerson and Bristow of Fenchurch Street.”

“Oh. Acting for someone?”

“He spoke as if he had the business in his own hands, but there, I’m afraid, you’d have to ask him yourself.”

“Not communicative, are you? Well, when is this blessed solicitor to be seen?”

It was victory. Before Morrison left he had fixed up a meeting for the following Sunday.

Morrison chuckled with pleasure as he drove back to Town. If through his efforts Bristow was enabled to carry out his plan, the £500 and probably the job would materialise. In fact, if the thing went big, Morrison felt his future was assured.

But his satisfaction was lukewarm compared to Bristow’s when that evening he was told the news. He was overwhelmed.

“My word!” he cried. “What a chance! We’ll never get a better! We must pull this off, Morrison, at all costs!”

On Sunday afternoon they drove down in Bristow’s small Standard. In the back seat were two young men, friends of Bristow’s.

“Salmon and Nickleby – Morrison,” said Bristow introducing them. “We shall want a witness to the agreement if we get a bite, and these two can’t be separated.”

All the way down the prospective witness and his friend kept up an interminable discussion about racing. Morrison, who scarcely knew which end of a horse went first, was bored beyond words, particularly as the chatter prevented him from discussing the coming interview. Fortunately for his peace of mind, Bristow left them in the car when they reached “St Austell”.

The allies found Stott sitting under his tree with his book and whisky and cigars. Again he did not move at their approach, but contented himself with offering them drinks and smokes.

“Delightful place you have here, Mr Stott,” Bristow began conversationally, when they had settled down.

“Not too bad,” the owner admitted. “But I don’t expect you came down to tell me that. What’s all this home cruising stuff Morrison was talking about?”

“Oh, that?” said Bristow as if a new idea had been suggested to him. “It’s a scheme for opening up big-ship cruising to the man in the street. We propose to hire or buy an Atlantic liner and put her on round the British Isles. We think we could fill her during the summer with people paying moderate fares.”

“That the sort of cruise you thought would suit me?” Stott said grimly, glaring at Morrison.

“Not as one of the herd, sir,” Morrison smiled. “I suggested you should have a deck to yourself.”

“And what would a trifle like that cost?”

“That, sir, would be a matter of arrangement,” Bristow answered. “We couldn’t do it if you were an ordinary passenger. Morrison, I think, had in his mind that you might care to take some shares and some control of the undertaking.”

“I thought we’d veer in that direction,” said Stott unpleasantly, “but I confess I didn’t think we’d do it so quickly.”

“You must admit, sir, we haven’t asked you for anything. We don’t anticipate any difficulty in getting our capital subscribed.”

“The British public? Going on the ‘mostly fools’ tack?”

“No, sir. We’ve had the figures of the scheme worked out by experts, and they tell us it would be very profitable.”

“Not a hope,” declared Stott. “The price of these ships is prohibitive. Think it wouldn’t have been done if it was any good?”

“I can only say,” Bristow returned, “that the experts seem pretty sure of their figures.”

Stott made sceptical noises. “Got out your prospectus?”

“It’s drafted, but not yet printed.”

Stott drew delicately at his cigar. “I’d like to see the figures,” he said at last.