The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
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led them to his private room.
“I must tell you the whole story,” he said, after he had carefully shut and locked the door. “Last Wednesday, the market still rising and a genuine boom in sight, Mogseys — they’re the biggest firm of brokers in the city — got a wire from their Paris agents which was to this effect, ‘ Sell Consols down to 80.’ They were standing then at 90, and were on the up-grade. Immediately following the wire, and before it could be confirmed, came another instruction, in which they were told to sell some gilt-edged stocks — this was on a rising market, too — down to prices specified. I have seen the list, and taking the prices as they stood on Wednesday morning and the price they stand at to-day, the difference is enormous — something like three millions.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that the unknown bears have pocketed that amount. Well, Mogseys were paralysed at the magnitude of the order, and cabled away to their agent, asking for particulars, and were equally dumfounded to learn that they were acting on behalf of the Credit Bourbonnais, one of the biggest banks in the South of France. There was nothing else to do but to carry out the order, and on Thursday morning they had hammered stocks down ten points — stocks that have never fluctuated five points each way in mortal memory!”
The Committeeman, speaking in tones of reverence of these imperturbable securities, mopped his forehead with a tumultuous bandanna.
“Now,” he resumed, “we know all the bears throughout all the world. The biggest of ’em is dead. That was George T. Baggin, one of the most daring and unscrupulous operators we have ever had in London. We know every man or woman or corporation likely to jump onto the market with both feet and set it sagging — but there isn’t a single known bear who has a hand in this. We’ve tried to discover his identity, but we’ve always come up against a blank wall — the bank. The bank can’t give away its client, and, even if it did, I doubt very much whether we should be any the wiser, for he’s pretty sure to have hidden himself too deep. We’d probably find the bank was instructed by a broker and the broker by another bank, and we’d be as far off a solution as ever.”
“Is there any cause for the present break?”
“I’m coming to that. In all previous slumps there has been a very good excuse for a panic hanging round. In the present instance no such excuse exists. There is a good feeling abroad, money is free and the Bank Rate is low, and the recent spurt in Kaffirs and Yankee rails has put a good heart into the market — why, even the Brontes have dealt!”
He mentioned the name of the great bank, which, in the City of London, ranks second to the Bank of England only.
“I don’t know exactly the details of their dealing, but it is pretty generally known in the City that they have increased their commitments, and, when a conservative house like Bronte’s takes advantage of a spell of prosperity, you may be sure that peace is in the very air we breathe.” T.B. Smith was thoughtfully rolling a glass paperweight up and down a blottingpad, and Van Ingen, following such a plain lead, was regarding the ceiling with an air of pained resignation.
Neither of the two spoke when the Committeeman finished his recital. He waited a little longer for them to offer some remark, and, finding that neither had any comment to make, he asked, a little impatiently:
“Well?”
T.B. roused himself from his reverie.
“Would you mind telling me the names of the stocks again?” he asked. “The stocks that are being attacked.”
The member recited a list.
“Um!” said the Commissioner thoughtfully.
“Industrials, breweries, manufactories — the very shares that enjoyed the boom are now undergoing the slump. Will you give me a Stock Exchange Yearbook?”
“Certainly.”
He unlocked the door and went out, reappearing shortly with a fat brown volume.
T.B. turned the pages of the book with quick, nervous fingers, consulting the list at his side from time to time.
“Thank you,” he said at length, pushing the book from him and rising.
“Have you any idea — ?” the broker began, and T.B. laughed.
“You nearly said ‘clue’” he smiled; “ — yes, I’ve lots of ideas — I’m just going to work one of them out.”
He bowed slightly, and the two men left the building together. Van Ingen was burning with curiosity, but he wisely kept silence. At the corner of Threadneedle Street, Smith bought an evening paper.
“Issued at 4.10,” he said, glancing at the “fudge” space, where the result of a race had been printed, “and nothing has happened.”
He hailed a passing cab, and the two men got in.
“Bronte’s Bank, Holborn,” was the direction he gave.
“Like the immortal Mrs. Harris, there ain’t no Bronte, as you know,” he said. “The head of the business is Sir George Calliper. He’s an austere young man of thirty-five or thereabouts. President of philosophical societies and patron of innumerable philanthropies.”
“Has no vices,” added Van Ingen.
“And therefore a little inhuman,” commented T.B. “Here we are.”
They drew up before the severe façade of Bronte’s, and dismissed the cab.
The bank was closed, but there was a side door — if, indeed, such an insignificant title could be applied to the magnificent portal of mahogany and brass — and a bell, which was answered by a uniformed porter.
“The bank is closed, gentlemen,” he said when T.B. had stated his errand.
“My business is very urgent,” said T.B. imperatively, and the man hesitated.
“I am afraid Sir George has left the building,” he said, “but, if you will give me your cards, I will see.”
T.B. Smith drew a card from his case. He also produced a tiny envelope, in which he inserted the card.
A few minutes later the messenger returned.
“Sir George will see you,” he said, and ushered them into an anteroom. “Just a moment, gentlemen; Sir George is engaged.”
Ten minutes passed before he came again. Then he reappeared, and they followed him along a marble-tiled corridor to the sanctum of the great man. It was a large room, solidly and comfortably furnished and thickly carpeted. The only ornamentation was the beautifully carved mantel, over which hung the portrait of Septimus Bronte, who, in 1743, had founded the institution which bore his name.
Sir George Calliper rose to meet them. He was a tall young man with sandy hair and a high, bald forehead. From his square-toed boots to his black satin cravat, he was commercial solidity personified. T.B. noted the black ribbon watchguard, the heavy dull gold signet-ring, the immaculately manicured nails, the dangling black-rimmed monocle, and catalogued his observations for future reference.
Van Ingen, who saw with another eye and from a different point of view, mentally recorded a rosebud on the carpet and a handkerchief.
“Now, what can I do for you?” asked Sir George; he picked up the card from the desk and refreshed his memory.
“We’re very sorry to trouble you,” began T.B. conventionally, but the baronet waved the apology aside.
“I gather you have not come to see me out of office hours without cause,” he said, and his tone rather suggested that it would be unpleasant even for an Assistant-Commissioner, if he had.
“No, but I’ve come to make myself a nuisance — I want to ask you questions,” said T.B. coolly.
“So long as they are pertinent to the business in hand, I shall have every