The Man Who Bought London (10 page)

To think was to act with Hermann Zeberlieff. He must chance whether Vera had antagonized the youth. He stepped out of the car and made his way to where Gordon Bray stood. ‘I think we have met before,’ he greeted him, and the cordiality which his appearance excited dispelled any doubt as to the other’s attitude of mind.

They stood chatting for a little while, discussing the peculiarities of King Kerry. ‘Don’t you think he is very wonderful?’ asked the enthusiast.

‘Very,’ replied Hermann dryly.

‘He is such a splendid fellow to his employees, too,’ the young man went on, utterly oblivious of the fact that no word in praise of King Kerry was calculated to arouse a responsive glow in the breast of the other. ‘I met Elsie Marion at lunch today.’

‘Elsie Marion?’ repeated Hermann with obvious interest.

Gordon nodded.

‘Yes, she is his secretary, you know; we used to live under the same roof’ – he smiled – ‘before Elsie made good.’

‘And what has she to say about this great man?’ asked Hermann, with gentle irony.

The young man laughed. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little too enthused,’ he said, ‘and probably you being an American and used to the hustle and enterprise of your fellow-countrymen, are not so struck as I am with his methods.’

‘I am immensely struck by them,’ replied Hermann, but did not mean exactly what the other meant. ‘I should like to have a talk with you, Mr Bray; there are so many matters we could discuss. They tell me you were in court when my sister was sentenced.’

The young man turned and surveyed him with grave eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

‘It was an awful pity, don’t you think, that she should make such a fool of herself?’ asked Hermann. Gordon Bray flushed.

‘I think she must have had a very excellent reason for doing it,’ he said.

The other concealed a smile. Here was a devoted swain indeed, one of the ‘worship at a distance’ brigade he placed him, a tame dog to be petted or kicked by the wealthy woman who had the patience to keep him to heel.

‘It is a matter of opinion,’ he said aloud; ‘personally, I detest the Suffragette, and it was a revelation and a shock to discover that my sister could be included in their numbers; but that is beside the point. Will you come along and have a chat?’

‘When?’ asked the other.

‘There is no time like the present,’ said Mr Zeberlieff good-humouredly.

The young man stared.

‘But it is rather late, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ said the other, ‘if you can spare the time.’

He walked back and introduced the youth to his companion, and Mr Leete submitted with bad grace to the presence of a third party at a moment when he intended sounding Zeberlieff as to his willingness to help finance Goulding’s against the competition which had come to them.

They dropped Leete at his flat and went on to Park Lane, and in Hermann’s little study the two men settled down to cigarettes and coffee, which was served with such little delay as to suggest that the excellent Martin had produced the liquid part of the entertainment from a thermos flask.

‘I’m coming straight to the point with you, Mr Bray,’ said Hermann after a while. ‘I’m a very rich man, as you possibly know, and you, as far as I am able to judge, have not too much of this world’s wealth.’

Gordon Bray nodded. ‘That is perfectly true,’ he said quietly.

‘Now I am willing to serve you if you will serve me,’ Hermann went on. ‘You possibly know that my sister is engaged.’

There was a little pause, and then Gordon said in so low a voice that the other hardly heard him – ‘No, I did not know this.’

Hermann looked at him sharply.

‘Yes, she is engaged all right, to my friend Martin Hubbard – you may have heard of him; he is one of the best known men in town, and is especially precious to me, since he has the same name as my servant, and I never forget him,’ he smiled.

Up till then Hermann had not dreamt that he was, in any way, hurting the feelings of the other. It never occurred to him that this man of the people should harbour any serious thought of love for the woman who was so far beyond his reach. Something in the young man’s face arrested him, and he glanced suspiciously at his visitor. ‘I hope my sister’s engagement has your approval,’ he said with good-natured irony.

‘It is not for me to approve or disapprove,’ said the young man calmly. ‘I can only express the hope that she will be very happy.’

Whatever suspicion might have been in Hermann’s mind was dissipated by the attitude of the other.

‘I don’t suppose that she will be very happy,’ he said carelessly. ‘After all, happiness is a relative term. A woman with a couple of million pounds in her own right can find happiness where a less fortunate creature –’

‘How can I help you?’ interrupted Gordon. He had to say something. It seemed to him that the beating of his heart could
be heard in the room, and the horrible sense of depression which had come to him when the other broke the news was patent in his face.

‘I have reason to know,’ said Hermann slowly, ‘that my sister has a very high opinion of your judgement. I seem to remember that she has spoken to me several times about you. It very often happens,’ he went on with an insolent disregard for the other’s feelings, ‘that girls of my sister’s class are considerably influenced by the advice of men of your class, and I believe this is so in the case of my sister and yourself. You can help me a great deal,’ he said emphatically, ‘if, when my sister comes out, when she recovers her normal position in society, you use whatever influence you possess to further this marriage. I expect,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘she will kick up a row when she finds that I have arranged her affairs for her.’

‘Then she doesn’t know?’ interrupted the other quickly.

‘Not yet,’ replied Hermann. ‘You see, my sister is a very extraordinary girl; she has been a source of great trouble to me during the years I have been responsible for her well-being. You will understand, Mr Bray, as a man of the world, something of my responsibility, and my anxiety to see her happily settled in life. At present, with her independence, and with her enormous fortune,’ he spoke emphatically, tapping the polished surface of the table before him with every sentence, ‘she is the prey of every fortune-hunter who happens along. My friend Hubbard is a man against whom such a charge could not lie.’

He was depending upon Gordon Bray being perfectly innocent of the gossip in which society indulged; that he knew nothing of the shaking heads which followed Martin Hubbard’s advent to the drawing rooms of Mayfair, or the elaborate care
with which the mothers and the aunts of eligible wards withdrew their charges at the first opportunity.

Gordon Bray made no response. If he knew any of these things he did not betray the fact. He sat in the soft cushioned chair, facing the other, and was silent. Hermann Zeberlieff made the mistake of confusing his silence with acquiescence, and continued –

‘I am willing to give you whatever chance you want in the world,’ he said slowly, ‘in return for your good offices. On the day my sister marries I am prepared to give you a couple of thousand pounds – a very considerable sum, and one which would assist you materially to reach that place in the world which I have no doubt as an ambitious young man you have set yourself to attain.’

Again Bray did not answer. He was looking at the other, relief in his heart, contempt for the man before him occupying his thoughts. To have asked him of all people in the world to assist in coercing this dream lady of his! He could have laughed at the grotesque absurdity of it. As it was, he waited until Hermann had concluded his expression of views upon the responsibility of safeguarding the millionairess before he spoke. Then he rose, and reached out for his hat, which he had placed upon a chair near by.

‘There’s no necessity for your going,’ said Hermann in surprise.

‘Nevertheless, I am going,’ answered the other. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Zeberlieff, you have made a great mistake in confiding so much to me, but you may be sure that I shall respect your confidence.’

Hermann lowered his brows.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked harshly.

‘Just what I say,’ said Gordon Bray quietly. ‘You ask me to do the kind of work which it would be disgraceful and discreditable to do even if I had no’ – he hesitated – ‘no friendship for your sister.’

‘You refuse – why?’ asked Hermann in surprise.

It was indeed a matter for surprise that this man, who at best was only a superior type of clerk, should throw away an opportunity of earning two thousand pounds.

‘If I were strong enough to influence Miss Zeberlieff,’ the young man went on, ‘it would not be in the direction of Mr Martin Hubbard, or any other human being in the world, that I would influence her.’

‘Why?’ asked Hermann again.

‘Because I love her,’ said his visitor calmly, ‘and because I believe she loves me.’

If somebody had thrown a bomb into the room Hermann Zeberlieff could not have been more surprised than he was.

‘You love her,’ he repeated incredulously; ‘how absurd!’ Something in the young man’s face should have warned him, but he went on – ‘No, no, my good man,’ he said with an unpleasant smile. ‘You must find another easy way to wealth than marrying my sister. So that was the idea of –’

‘Stop!’ Gordon Bray took a step towards him, his eyes bright with anger. ‘I don’t allow you or any other man to say that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘I can make allowances for your anger. I can well imagine that I am not the sort of man that you would care to have as a brother-in-law. At the same time, it is only fair to say,’ he went on, ‘that you are the very last type of man in the world that I should have chosen for the same office. I love your sister, and I am going to marry her, but I am not going to marry her until I have secured some sort of position in the world for myself, without her aid, save for such help and inspiration as her splendid character will give me.’

‘Excuse me if I laugh,’ interrupted Hermann. He had got back to himself with extraordinary quickness.

‘Without her aid,’ the young man went on, ignoring the insult, ‘I am going to establish a place for myself in the world, and when I have I shall take her. As to the proposal you make, in which Mr Hubbard plays so prominent a part, I most strongly advise you to put that matter entirely out of your head.’ He was bold now, bold with the sense of power.

Hermann’s face was not good to look upon. He was desperate – desperate in the knowledge of his own perilous position if his plans for securing something of his sister’s fortune were frustrated.

Zeberlieff’s command over himself was marvellous. Shocked as he was, beaten as he might well be, he pulled himself together with an effort and smiled. ‘If my sister has to wait until you establish a position in London,’ he said, ‘I am afraid you will be marrying a middle-aged woman.’

‘That may be,’ said the other quietly; ‘but if Mr King Kerry –’

‘King Kerry,’ repeated Hermann quickly; ‘is he in this scheme too?’

‘Mr King Kerry knows nothing about the matter,’ said the young man, ‘but he has promised me an opportunity just as soon as he starts building.’ He stopped.

‘He starts building – what?’ asked Hermann quickly. ‘What is he going to build; what is the great idea; where is he going to pull down and build? Tell me that!’

‘I can tell you nothing,’ said the other, and walked to the door.

‘I ask you one question.’ Hermann stood by the fireplace, his elbow resting upon the marble mantelpiece, his head on his hand. ‘Will you swear to me that my sister loves you?’

It was an unexpected question, and almost took Gordon’s breath away by reason of its unlikeliness.

‘I cannot swear to that,’ he smiled; ‘yet I believe it.’

‘She has told you?’ Gordon nodded. ‘Then that is all right,’ smiled Hermann. ‘Now I will show you out.’

He led the way downstairs. On the ground floor was the dining room and his little library.

‘Perhaps you would like to drink the health of my sister?’ he said.

Gordon hesitated. He had evidently done this man an injustice.

‘I should indeed,’ he said genially, and Hermann led the way into the dining room, closing the door behind him.

He walked to a little cupboard and took out a quart black bottle and two tiny glasses. ‘This is the most powerful liqueur in the world – Van der Merwe. We will drink to my sister’s release – and our better acquaintance.’

‘With all the pleasure in life,’ said the young man heartily.

First Hermann poured a glass full of the amber-coloured fluid and handed it to his guest, then he filled his own glass, and Gordon could know nothing of the tiny black button halfway down the neck that the other had pressed when the first glass had been poured.

The presence of that button had been sufficient to discharge into the glass a minute quantity of a colourless liquid.

‘Good luck!’ said Hermann, and drank his glassful.

Gordon followed suit.

‘And now,’ said Hermann easily, ‘you must sit down and smoke a cigarette whilst I tell you something of Vera.’

His narrative had not proceeded far before Gordon Bray’s head sank on his breast, and he fell back in the chair, in which the other had placed him, in a dreamless sleep.

On the opposite side of the road a young man, smoking the end of a cigar, his felt hat on the back of his head, and his hands thrust deep into his heavy overcoat pockets, waited patiently for Gordon Bray to come out. The light had gone out in the upstairs sitting room nearly an hour ago. Whither had they adjourned?

He lit another cigar, and prepared for an extension of his vigil. A reporter with his heart in his work counts neither time nor hardship as wasted if he can secure a story. And this young reporter of the
Evening Herald
was no exception to the general rule.

He waited, chatting with such policemen as passed. Half-past four came, and with it the pearl-grey of dawning daylight, but still nobody came out from the ornamental door of 410, Park Lane. Five, six, and seven came, and the world began to wake up drowsily, and the early morning populace of London went hurrying north and south along the fashionable thoroughfare.

‘He can’t be staying the night,’ muttered the young reporter.

He scribbled a note and sent it off by the first likely messenger, and in half an hour a man came briskly down Park Lane until he reached the place where the watcher stood.

‘You can go off now,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to go off until I’ve seen this thing through,’ said the reporter.

‘Do you think he went in?’ asked the newcomer.

‘I’m sure,’ said the other emphatically. ‘I followed them in a taxi-cab. They dropped old Leete in Piccadilly and came on here. I saw him get out. I saw the car drive off, and, moreover, the two men go in. I’ve been watching ever since.’

‘Is there a back way?’ asked the other.

‘No – the servants’ entrance is in the basement, down the flight of stairs here to the left.’

He indicated the area.

At seven-thirty from this same area there issued a man who was evidently a servant. The reporter crossed the road and followed him up Park Lane, quickening his pace until he came abreast of them. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

The man-servant, Martin, turned with surprise.

‘Do you want me?’ he asked civilly; then, with a change of expression to one of pleasant recognition he said: ‘You’re the reporter who came to the house about Miss Zeberlieff, aren’t you?’

The young man nodded. ‘Guilty,’ he said with a smile. ‘Any news of her?’

‘She’s coming out today,’ said the man. ‘I can’t understand it; as nice a lady as ever drew breath.’ He shook his head mournfully.

‘I suppose you’ll be glad to see her back, won’t you?’

‘She won’t come back to the house,’ said Martin emphatically. ‘Her maid has taken all her things to a hotel. I don’t suppose she likes the idea of returning after what has happened,’ he speculated. ‘That’s all I can tell you,’ he said, and was moving off with a nod.

‘One minute,’ said the reporter; ‘you’re in a hurry to get away when a poor devil of a reporter wants to earn a few shillings from you.’

The man grinned. ‘I wish I earned as many shillings as you earned pounds,’ he said enviously. ‘I shouldn’t be working for him.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the house.

‘I suppose it isn’t exactly lively?’ suggested the reporter.

The man shook his head.

‘We haven’t had a guest for goodness knows how long,’ he said. ‘He brought a chap home last night, but he was gone again
in an hour. There were times when –’ He checked himself, thinking perhaps he was saying too much, else he might have given a very graphic resume of a period in Mr Zeberlieff’s social life when guests were frequent and sovereign tips were of daily occurrence.

‘Did he stay the night?’ asked the reporter carelessly.

‘Who?’ demanded the man.

‘The gentleman who came to the house last night.’

The servant shook his head.

‘I tell you, he was only there an hour, and I never as much as opened the door to him.’

‘Is Mr Zeberlieff up yet?’ asked the reporter.

‘It’s no good going to him,’ said the servant hastily, ‘and if you do, for the Lord’s sake, don’t mention that I’ve been chatting with you. Yes, he’s up; as a matter of fact, he hasn’t been in bed. He sent me to bed at two, and he’s been up writing most of the night. Anyhow, he hasn’t worried me.’

He held a letter in his hand, and was evidently taking it to the post.

‘He writes a curious hand,’ said the reporter, half to himself.

The man lifted the letter up and eyed it critically.

‘I don’t know – it isn’t so bad,’ he said. ‘I’ve known worse.’

In that second the journalist had read the name and the address, and had all his work cut out to suppress the whistle which was part of the ritual of surprise.

‘Well,’ he said, with seeming reluctance, ‘if he’s been up all night he won’t want to see me; anyway, I’ll go up to Holloway and meet Miss Zeberlieff,’ and with a nod the men parted.

The reporter strolled leisurely across the road and joined his relief. ‘You can hang on here,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think you’ll
see anything. I’m going home to have a bath and then get into communication with King Kerry.’

‘What is up?’ asked the other man.

‘I don’t know yet,’ was the reply. ‘You just watch the house and let me know – and if Bray comes out, follow him. But I especially want to know if Zeberlieff himself goes out.’

Inside the house in Park Lane, Hermann Zeberlieff was walking thoughtfully up and down his drawing room. He had bathed and showed no evidence of his absence from bed save for the tiny lines about his eyes, which really owed their existence to quite another cause. He looked fresh and bright and eminently handsome in the searching light of the morning sun. Martin came to summon him to breakfast, and was pouring out the coffee for him when Hermann said suddenly –

‘Oh, by the way, Martin, you wanted to go down into Cornwall to see your people the other day.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the servant; ‘but you couldn’t spare me, sir.’

‘I can spare you now,’ said Hermann. ‘You can go by the eleven train this morning.’

The man looked at him in astonishment. ‘And have you made arrangements, sir, as to who will look after you while I’m away?’

‘I shall go to a hotel,’ said Hermann carelessly. ‘You’re not exactly indispensable, Martin.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ said the dutiful servant. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The man hesitated.

‘Well?’

‘I’ve lost the key of the wine cellar somewhere,’ said Martin apologetically. ‘I laid it down on the hall table last night and forgot all about it.’

‘Don’t bother, I’ve a key of my own,’ said Zeberlieff.

‘I can get it open easily,’ said the man.

‘I don’t want you to go anywhere near the wine cellar,’ said Zeberlieff sharply. ‘Who was that man I saw you speaking with?’

The guilty Martin went red.

‘He’s a reporter, sir,’ he stammered. ‘He came to enquire about Miss Zeberlieff.’

‘H’m!’ said Hermann. ‘I don’t want you to chat with that kind of people. I told you before.’

‘Well, sir –’ began the man.

‘I understand about Miss Zeberlieff. What did you tell him?’

‘I told him, sir, that we could give him no information whatsoever,’ said the unveracious Martin glibly, ‘and I forbade him ever to speak to me in the street again.’

‘Admirable liar!’ responded Hermann with a little smile. ‘He asked nothing else?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ answered the man emphatically.

‘I don’t like reporters,’ Hermann went on, ‘they have not exactly been mascots to me. About the wine cellar,’ he said, after a pause, ‘I suppose you want to take a sample of my port to your Cornish friends?’

The man was too used to the insults of the other to be overmuch hurt; but he was very angry indeed.

Hermann was unusually cheerful during the morning, though his servant strode about with a black face and did only what work was required of him. He did not go near the wine cellar, nor did he think it worth his while to report to his master that in some mysterious way a big oaken arm-chair had disappeared from the study.

‘He’ll probably think I’ve taken that to Cornwall, too!’ muttered the man.

At a quarter to eleven a taxi-cab was called to 410, Park Lane, and Martin’s luggage was deposited on top. An interested reporter of the
Evening Herald
– he had been at one time a bright and particular star on
The Monitor
– watched the departure with mixed feelings, and when a quarter of an hour later Hermann himself issued from the house and closed the door carefully behind him, he was followed at a respectful distance by two men, neither of whom was the reporter.