The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
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audacity of the question struck the baronet dumb.
“Failing?” he repeated. “Bronte’s fail — Mr. Smith, are you jesting?”
“I was never more in earnest,” said T.B.
“Think what you like of my impertinence, but humour me, please.” The banker looked hard at the man before him, as though to detect some evidence of ill-timed humour.
“It is no more possible for Bronte’s to fail than the Bank of England,” he said brusquely.
“I am not very well acquainted with the practice of banking,” said T.B., “and I should be grateful if you would explain why it is impossible for a bank to fail.”
If Sir George Calliper had been a little less sure of himself, he would have detected the monstrous inaccuracy of T.B.’s confession of ignorance.
“But are you really in earnest?”
“I assure you,” said T.B. seriously, “that I regard this matter as being one of life and death.”
“Well,” said the banker, with a perplexed frown, “I will explain. The solvency of a bank, as of an individual, is merely a matter of assets and liabilities. The liabilities are the elementary debts, deposits, loans, calls, and such like that are due from the bank to its clients and shareholders. Sometimes the liability takes the form of a guarantee for the performance of certain obligations — that is clear enough?”
T.B. nodded.
“Assets may be represented as gold, Government securities and stock convertible into gold, properties, freehold, leasehold, land; but you know, of course, the exact significance of the word assets?”
T.B. nodded again.
“Well, it is a matter of balance,” said the banker, “allowing a liberal margin for the fluctuation of securities, we endeavour and succeed in keeping a balance of assets in excess of our liabilities.”
“Do you keep gold in any quantity on the premises? — what would be the result, say, of a successful burglary that cleared your vaults?”
“It would be inconvenient,” said Sir George, with a dry smile, “but it would not be disastrous.”
“What is your greatest outstanding liability?” demanded T.B.
The banker looked at him strangely.
“It is queer that you should ask,” he said slowly; “ — it was the subject of a discussion at my board meeting this afternoon — it is the Wady Semlik Barrage.”
“The Egyptian irrigation scheme?” asked T.B. quickly.
“Yes, the bank’s liability was very limited until a short time ago. There was always a danger that the physical disabilities of the Soudan would bring about a fiasco. So we farmed our liability, if you understand the phrase. But with the completion of the dam, and the report of our engineer that it had been submitted to the severest test, we curtailed the expensive insurance.”
“When are the works to be handed over to the Egyptian Government?”
Sir George smiled.
“That I cannot tell you,” he said; “it is a secret known only to the directors and myself.”
“But until it is officially handed over, you are liable?”
“Yes, to an extent. As a matter of fact, we shall only be fully liable for one day. For there is a clause in the agreement which binds the Gov* ernment to accept responsibilities for the work seven days after inspection by the works department, and the bulk of our insurances run on till within twentyfour hours of that date. I will tell you this much: the inspection has taken place — I cannot give you the date — and the fact that it was made earlier than we anticipated is responsible for the cancellation of the insurances.”
“One more question, Sir George,” said T.B.
“Suppose, through any cause, the Wady Semlik Barrage broke on that day — the day upon which the bank was completely liable, — what would be the effect on Bronte’s?”
A shadow passed over the banker’s face.
“That is a contingency I do not care to contemplate,” he said curtly.
He glanced at his watch.
“I have not asked you to explain your mysterious visit,” he said, with a smile, “and I am afraid I must curb my curiosity, for I have an appointment in ten minutes, as far west as Portland Place. In the meantime, it may interest you to read the bank’s balance-sheet.”
Van Ingen’s eye was on him as he opened a drawer in his desk.
He closed it again hurriedly, with a little frown. He opened another drawer and produced a printed sheet. “Here it is,” he said. “Would you care to see me again at ten tomorrow?”
T.B. might have told him that for the next twelve hours the banker would hardly be out of sight for an hour, but he replied:
“I shall be very pleased.”
He had shaken hands with Sir George, and was on his way to the door, when Van Ingen gave him a sign. T.B. turned again.
“By the way,” he said, pointing to the picture over the fireplace, “that is the Bronte, is it not?”
Sir George turned to the picture.
“Yes,” said he, and then with a smile: “ — I wonder Mr. Bronte did not fall from his frame at some of your questions.”
T.B. chuckled softly as he followed the uniformed doorkeeper along the ornate corridor. In a cab being driven rapidly westward, Van Ingen solemnly produced his finds.
“A little rose and a handkerchief,” he said. T.B. took the last-named article in his hand. It was a delicate piece of flimsiness, all lace and fragrance. Also it was damp.
“Here’s romance,” said T.B., folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. “Somebody has been crying, and I’ll bet it wasn’t our friend the banker.”
12. Murder
“I’ve got two men on to Sir George,” said T.B. to Van Ingen. They were at the Yard. “I’ve given them instructions not to leave him day or night. Now, the question is, how will the ‘ bears ‘ discover the fatal day the barrage is to be handed over to the guileless Fellaheen?”
“Through the Egyptian Government?” suggested Van Ingen.
“That I doubt. It seems a simple proposition, but the issues are so important that you may be sure our mysterious friends will not strike until they are absolutely certain. In the meantime—”
He unlocked the safe and took out a book.
This, too, was fastened by two locks. He opened it, laid it down, and began writing on a sheet of paper, carefully, laboriously checking the result.
*
That night the gentleman who is responsible for the good order of Egypt received a telegram which ran:
PREMIUM FELLOW COLLECT WADY BARRAGE MERIDIAN TAINTED INOCULATE WEARY SULPHUR.
There was a great deal more written in the same interesting style. When the Egyptian Chief of Police unlocked his book to decode the message, he was humming a little tune that he had heard the band playing outside Shepheard’s Hotel. Long before he had finished decoding the message, his humming stopped.
Ten minutes later the wires were humming, and a battalion of infantry was hastily entrained from Khartoum.
Having despatched the wire, T.B. turned