“This is our opportunity—the opportunity of clever men. I have not got the money necessary: you have…” He leaned forward in his chair, and glanced at the intent faces of his audience. Then he began to speak…
Ten minutes later he pushed back his chair.
“There is my proposal, gentlemen, in a nutshell. Unforeseen developments will doubtless occur; I have spent my life overcoming the unexpected. What is your answer?”
He rose and stood with his back to them by the fire, and for several minutes no one spoke. Each man was busy with his own thoughts, and showed it in his own particular way. The American, his eyes shut, rolled his toothpick backwards and forwards in his mouth slowly and methodically; Steinemann stared at the fire, breathing heavily after the exertions of dinner: von Gratz walked up and down—his hands behind his back—whistling under his breath. Only the Comte de Guy stared unconcernedly at the fire, as if indifferent to the result of their thoughts. In his attitude at that moment he gave a true expression to his attitude on life. Accustomed to play with great stakes, he had just dealt the cards for the most gigantic gamble of his life… What matter to the three men, who were looking at the hands he had given them, that only a master criminal could have conceived such a game? The only question which occupied their minds was whether he could carry it through. And on that point they had only their judgment of his personality to rely on.
Suddenly the American removed the toothpick from his mouth, and stretched out his legs.
“There is a question which occurs to me, Count, before I make up my mind on the matter. I guess you’ve got us sized up to the last button; you know who we are, what we’re worth, and all about us. Are you disposed to be a little more communicative about yourself? If we agree to come in on this hand, it’s going to cost big money. The handling of that money is with you. Wal—who are you?”
Von Gratz paused in his restless pacing, and nodded his head in agreement; even Steinemann, with a great effort, raised his eyes to the Count’s face as he turned and faced them…
“A very fair question, gentlemen, and yet one which I regret I am unable to answer. I would not insult your intelligence by giving you the fictitious address of—a fictitious Count. Enough that I am a man whose livelihood lies in other people’s pockets. As you say, Mr. Hocking, it is going to cost big money; but compared to the results the costs will be a flea-bite… Do I look—and you are all of you used to judging men—do I look the type who would steal the baby’s money-box which lay on the mantelpiece, when the pearls could be had for opening the safe?… You will have to trust me, even as I shall have to trust you… You will have to trust me not to divert the money which you give me as working expenses into my own pocket… I shall have to trust you to pay me when the job is finished…”
“And that payment will be—how much?” Steinemann’s guttural voice broke the silence.
“One million pounds sterling—to be split up between you in any proportion you may decide, and to be paid within one month of the completion of my work. After that the matter will pass into your hands…and may you leave that cursed country grovelling in the dirty…” His eyes glowed with a fierce, vindictive fury; and then, as if replacing a mask which had slipped for a moment, the Count was once again the suave, courteous host. He had stated his terms frankly and without haggling: stated them as one big man states them to another a the same kidney, to whom time is money and indecision or beating about the bush anathema.
“Take them or leave them.” So much had he said in effect, if not in actual words, and not one of his audience but was far too used to men and matters to have dreamed of suggesting any compromise. All or nothing: and no doctrine could have appealed more to the three men in whose hands lay the decision…
“Perhaps, Count, you would be good enough to leave us for a few minutes.” Von Gratz was speaking. “The decision is a big one, and…”
“Why, certainly, gentlemen.” The Count moved towards the door. “I will return in ten minutes. By that time you will, have decided—one way or the other.”
Once in the lounge he sat down and lit a cigarette. The hotel was deserted save for one fat woman asleep in a chair opposite, and the Count gave himself up to thought. Genius that he was in the reading of men’s minds, he felt that he knew the result of that ten minutes’ deliberation… And then… What then?… In his imagination he saw his plans growing and spreading, his tentacles reaching into every corner of a great people—until, at last, everything was ready. He saw himself supreme in power, glutted with it—a king, an autocrat, who had only to lift his finger to plunge his kingdom into destruction and annihilation… And when he had done it, and the country he hated was in ruins, then he would claim his million and enjoy it as a great man should enjoy a great reward… Thus for the space of ten minutes did the Count see visions and dream dreams. That the force he proposed to tamper with was a dangerous force disturbed him not at all: he was a dangerous man. That his scheme would bring ruin, perhaps death, to thousands of innocent men and women, caused him no qualm: he was a supreme egoist. All that appealed to him was that he had seen the opportunity that existed, and that he had the nerve and the brain to turn that opportunity to his own advantage. Only the necessary money was lacking…and… With a quick movement he pulled out his watch. They had had their ten minutes…the matter was settled, the die was cast…
He rose and walked across the lounge. At the swing doors was the head waiter, bowing obsequiously.
It was to be hoped that the dinner had been to the liking of Monsieur le Comte…the wines all that he could wish…that he had been comfortable and would return again…
“That is improbable.” The Count took out his pocket-book. “But one never knows; perhaps I shall.” He gave the waiter a note. “Let my bill be prepared at once, and given to me as I pass through the hall.”
Apparently without a care in the world the Count passed down the passage to his private room, while the head waiter regarded complacently the unusual appearance of an English five-pound note.
For an appreciable moment the Count paused by the door, and a faint smile came to his lips. Then he opened it, and passed into the room…
The American was still chewing his toothpick; Steinemann was still breathing hard. Only von Gratz had changed his occupation, and he was sitting at the table smoking a long thin cigar. The Count closed the door, and walked over to the fire-place…
“Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “what have you decided?”
It was the American who answered.
“It goes. With one amendment. The money is too big for three of us: there must be a fourth. That will be a quarter of a million each.” The Count bowed.
“Yep,” said the American shortly. “These two gentlemen agree with me that it should be another of my countrymen—so that we get equal numbers. The man we have decided on is coming to England in a few weeks—Hiram C. Potts. If you get him in, you can count us in too. If not, the deal’s off.”
The Count nodded, and if he felt any annoyance at this unexpected development he showed no sign of it on his face.
“I know of Mr. Potts,” he answered quietly. “Your big shipping man, isn’t he? I agree to your reservation.”
“Good!” said the American. “Let’s discuss some details.” Without a trace of emotion on his face the Count drew up a chair to the table. It was only when he sat down that he started to play a tattoo on his knee with his left hand.
* * * *
Half an hour later he entered his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hotel Magnificent.
A girl, who had been lying by the fire reading a French novel, looked up at the sound of the door. She did not speak, for the look on his face told her all she wanted to know.
He crossed to the sofa and smiled down at her.
“Successful…on our own terms. Tomorrow, Irma, the Comte de Guy dies, and Carl Peterson and