The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 8
Colonel Black Has a Shock
Mr. Sandford had an appointment with Colonel Black. It was the final interview before the break.
The City was busy with rumours. A whisper had circulated; all was not well with the financier—the amalgamation on which so much depended had not gone through. Black sat at his desk that afternoon, idly twiddling a paper- knife. He was more sallow than usual; the hand that held the knife twitched nervously. He looked at his watch. It was time Sandford came. He pushed a bell by the side of his desk and a clerk appeared.
“Has Mr. Sandford arrived?” he asked.
“He has just come, sir,” said the man.
“Show him in.”
The two men exchanged formal greetings, and Black pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Sandford,” he said curtly. “Now, exactly how do we stand?”
“Where we did,” said the other uncompromisingly.
“You will not come into my scheme?”
“I will not,” said the other.
Colonel Black tapped the desk with his knife, and Sandford looked at him. He seemed older than when he had last seen him. His yellow face was seamed and lined.
“It means ruin for me,” he said suddenly. “I have more creditors than I can count. If the amalgamation went through I should be established. There are lots of people in with me too—Ikey Tramber—you know Sir Isaac? He’s a friend of—er—the Earl of Verlond.”
But the elder man was not impressed. “It is your fault if you’re in a hole,” said he. “You have taken on too big a job—more than that, you have taken too much for granted.”
The man at the desk looked up from under his straight brows. “It is all very well for you to sit there and tell me what I should do,” he said, and the shakiness of his voice told the other something of the passion he concealed. “I do not want advice or homily—I want money. Come into my scheme and amalgamate, or—”
“Or—” repeated the ironmaster quietly.
“I do not threaten you,” said Black sullenly; “I warn you. You are risking more than you know.”
“I’ll take the risk,” said Sandford. He got up on to his feet. “Have you anything more to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Then I’ll bid you good-bye.”
The door closed with a slam behind him, and Black did not move. He sat there until it was dark, doing no more than scribble aimlessly upon his blotting-pad. It was nearly dark when he drove back to the flat he occupied in Victoria Street and let himself in.
“There is a gentleman waiting to see you, sir,” said the man who came hurrying to help him out of his coat.
“What sort of a man?”
“I don’t know exactly, sir, but I have got a feeling that he is a detective.”
“A detective?” He found his hands trembling, and cursed his folly. He stood uncertainly in the centre of the hall. In a minute he had mastered his fears and turned the handle of the door.
A man rose to meet him. He had a feeling that he had met him before. It was one of those impressions that it is so difficult to explain. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, a note of deference in his voice. “I have called to make a few inquiries.”
It was on the tip of Black’s tongue to ask him whether he was a police officer, but somehow he had not the courage to frame the words. The effort was unnecessary, as it proved, for the next words of the man explained his errand.
“I have been engaged,” he said, “by a firm of solicitors to discover the whereabouts of Dr. Essley.”
Black looked hard at him. “There ought to be no difficulty,” he said, “in that. The doctor’s name is in the Directory.”
“That is so,” said the man, “and yet I have had the greatest difficulty in running him to earth. As a matter of fact,” explained the man, “I was wrong when I said I wanted to discover his whereabouts. It is his identity I wish to establish.”
“I do not follow you,” said the financier.
“Well,” said the man, “I don’t know exactly how to put it. If you know Dr. Essley, you will recall the fact that he was for some years in Australia.”
“That is true,” said Black. “He and I came back together.”
“And you were there some years, sir?”
“Yes, we were there for a number of years, though we were not together all the time.”
“I see,” said the man. “You went out together, I believe?”
“No,” replied the other sharply, “we went at different periods.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“No, I have not seen him, although I have frequently written to him on various matters.” Black was trying hard not to lose his patience. It would not do for this man to see how much the questions were irritating him.
The man jotted down something in his notebook, closed it and put it in his pocket. “Would you be surprised to learn,” he asked quietly, “that the real Dr. Essley who went out to Australia died there?”
Black’s fingers caught the edge of the table and he steadied himself.
“I did not know that,” he said. “Is that all you have to ask?” he said, as the man finished.
“I think that will do, sir,” said the detective.
“Can I ask you on whose behalf you are inquiring?” demanded the colonel.
“That I am not at liberty to tell.”
After he had gone, Black paced the apartment, deep in thought.
He took down from the shelf a continental Baedeker and worked out with a pencil and paper a line of retirement. The refusal of Sandford to negotiate with him was the crowning calamity.
He crossed the room to the safe which stood in the corner, and opened it. In the inside drawer were three flat packets of notes. He picked them out and laid them on the table. They were notes on the Bank of France, each for a thousand francs.
It would be well to take no risks. He put them in the inside pocket of his coat. If all things failed, they were the way to freedom. As for Essley—he smiled. He must go any way. He left his flat and drove eastwards to the City. Two men followed him, though this he did not know.
Black boasted that his corporation kept no books, maintained no record, and this fact was emphasized the night that the Four had visited him unbidden. Their systematic search for evidence, which they had intended to use against him at a recognized tribunal, had failed to disclose the slightest vestige of documentary evidence which might be employed. Yet, if the truth be told, Black kept a very complete set of books, only they were in a code of his own devising, the key of which he had never put on paper, and which he only could understand.
He was engaged on the evening of the detective’s visit in placing even these ledgers beyond the reach of the Four. He had good reason for his uneasiness. The Four had been very active of late, and they had thought fit to issue another challenge to Colonel Black. He was busy from nine o’clock to eleven, tearing up apparently innocent letters and burning them. When that hour struck, he looked at his watch and confirmed the time. He had very important business that night.
He wrote a note to Sir Isaac Tramber, asking him to meet him that night. He had need of every friend, every pull, and every bit of help that could come to him.