He sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did his watch come into your possession, Reeder?’
Mr. Reeder nodded. ‘That was a little jest on my part,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A little jest.’
The Director knew Mr. Reeder too well to pursue the subject.
Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite, for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the groundbait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie Claude Staffen, and the illustration was apt, for there was something very fishlike about this young man with his dull eyes and his permanently opened mouth. Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a sideline, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.
Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.
He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr. Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he could imagine dark caves stumbled upon by acident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Deauville Casino, with immense piles of mille notes fore him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians-in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer-this was his considered view.
When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sittingroom, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.
Mr. Staffen took off his light overcoat and, walking to the table, inspected the ore with sober interest.
‘I’ve had the assay,’ he said. ‘The johnny who did it is a friend of mine and didn’t charge a penny; his report is promising-very promising.’
‘The company-’ began Art, but Mr. Staffen raised a warning finger.
‘I think you know, and it is unnecessary for me to remind you, that I do not intend speculating a dollar in this mine. I’m putting up no money. What I’m prepared to do is to use my influence in the promotion for a quid pro quo. You know what that means?’
‘Something for nothing!’ said Art, and in this instance was not entirely wide of the mark.
‘Well, no-stock in the company. Maybe I’ll take a directorship later, when the money is up and everything is plain sailing. I can’t lend my name to a-well, unknown quantity.’
Art agreed.
‘My friend has put up the money,’ he said easily. ‘If that guy had another hundred dollars he’d have all the money in the world-he’s that rich. Stands to reason, Mr. Staffen, that I wouldn’t come over here tryin’ to get money from a gentleman who is practically a stranger. We met in Canada-sure we did! But what do you know about me? I might be one large crook-I might be a con man or anything!’
Some such idea had occurred to Bertie Claude, but the very frankness of his friend dispelled something of his suspicions.
‘I’ve often wondered since what you must have thought of me, sittin’ in a game with that bunch of thugs,’ Art went on, puffing a reflective cigar. ‘But I guess you said to yourself, “This guy is a man of the world-he’s gotta mix.” An’ that’s true. In these Canadian mining camps you horn in with some real tough boys-yes, sir. They’re sump’n’ fierce.’
‘I quite understood the position,’ said Bertie Claude, who hadn’t. ‘I flatter myself I know men. If I haven’t shown that in “Homo Sum” then I’ve failed in expression.’
‘Sure,’ said Mr. Lomer lazily, and added another ‘Sure!’ to ram home the first. ‘That’s a pretty good book. When you give it to me at King Edward Hotel I thought it was sump’n’ about arithmetic. But ’tis mighty good poetry, every line startin’ with big letters an’ the end of every line sounding like the end word in the line before. I said to my secretary, “That Mr. Staffen must have a brain.” How you get the ideas beats me. That one about the princess who comes out of a clam-’
‘An oyster-she was the embodiment of the pearl,’ Bertie hastened to explain. ‘You mean “The White Maiden”?’
Lomer nodded lazily.
‘That was grand. I never read poetry till I read that; it just made me want to cry like a great big fool! If I had your gifts I wouldn’t be loafin’ round Ontario prospecting. No, sir.’
‘It is a gift,’ said Mr. Staffen after thought. ‘You say you have the money for the company?’
‘Every cent. I’m not in a position to offer a single share-that’s true. Not that you need worry about that. I’ve reserved a few from promotion. No, sir, I never had any intention of allowing you to pay a cent.’
He knocked off the ash of his cigar and frowned.
‘You’ve been mighty nice to me, Mr. Staffen,’ he said slowly, ‘and though I don’t feel called upon to tell every man my business, you’re such a square white fellow that I feel sort of confident about you. This mine means nothing.’
Bertie Claude’s eyebrows rose.
‘I don’t quite get you,’ he said.
Art’s smile was slow and a little sad.
‘Doesn’t it occur to you that if I’ve got the capital for that property, it was foolish of me to take a trip to Europe?’
Bertie had certainly wondered why.
‘Selling that mine was like selling bars of gold. It didn’t want any doing; I could have sold it if I’d been living in the Amaganni Forest. No, sir, I’m here on business that would make your hair stand up if you knew.’
He rose abruptly and paced the room with quick, nervous strides, his brow furrowed in thought.
‘You’re a whale of a poet,’ he said suddenly. ‘Maybe you’ve got more imagination than most people. What does the mine mean for me? A few hundred thousand dollars’ profit.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What are you doing on Wednesday?’
The brusqueness of the question took Bertie Claude aback.
‘On Wednesday? Well, I don’t know that I’m doing anything.’
Mr. Lomer bit his lip thoughtfully.
‘I’ve got a little house on the river. Come down and spend a night with me, and I’ll let you into a secret that these newspapers would give a million dollars to know. If you read it in a book you wouldn’t believe it. Maybe one day you can write it. It would take a man with your imagination to put it over. Say, I’ll tell you now.’
And then, with some hesitation, Mr. Lomer told his story.