The Counsellor Page 17

  “Tapping a different stratum of purchasers?” interjected Dibdin.

  “Exactly,” The Counsellor assured him. “And, naturally, since you, for instance, Mr. Dibdin, have had a hand in keeping the present Company afloat under discouraging conditions, it would be only fair to let you share in any future prosperity. That’s a matter for further consideration. There’s no question of rushing you into a decision. If anyone cares to move that we meet again in three months, after you’ve had time to thrash the thing out, I shall be quite satisfied.”

  “Then I move that a Special Meeting be called for that purpose this day three months,” said Dibdin, “and that in the meanwhile the Secretary be instructed to inquire further into the offer received from Messrs. Spurstowe & Hague as well as this offer from Mr. Brand.”

  “I second that,” said Albury.

  “Any amendment?” asked the chairman. “None? Then we’ll take a formal show of hands. Thank you. The motion is carried. And I think we have to thank Mr. Brand for his offer.”

  “I think that concludes our business?” responded The Counsellor. “But I’d like to move a hearty vote of thanks to the chairman, directors, and the staff for their services.”

  “You’ll have to second it yourself, then,” Albury pointed out with heavy humour. “All the rest of us are included in the staff, and we can’t go passing votes of thanks to ourselves. We’re not such a mutual admiration society as all that,” he added, with no attempt to conceal a cynical expression.

  “No seconder?” inquired Whitgift, glancing round the table. “Then perhaps Mr. Brand will withdraw his motion.”

  “Oh, certainly,” agreed The Counsellor, with a smile.

  “That concludes our business,” Whitgift intimated.

  Miss Wickwood threw a final glance of dislike at The Counsellor, pushed back her chair, rose, and left the room. As she went, The Counsellor realised how apt Sandra had been in describing her back view as lizard-like. Dibdin followed her, giving The Counsellor a parting smile as he passed. Albury remained in his seat, his brows knit, as though he were cogitating over something. Whitgift, after a few words to the Secretary, came round to where The Counsellor sat, and, bending over him, demanded in an undertone:

  “Any news yet?”

  “Nothing to report,” The Counsellor declared, when he grasped that Whitgift was asking for news of Miss Treverton.

  “That American fellow—Querrin—has turned up here,” Whitgift continued. “He says he knows nothing about her disappearance. In fact, he’s badly cut up about it. . . .”

  “She’s put him in the freezer, too, has she?” interrupted Albury, who had evidently been listening. “Well, well! I wonder who she’s got in tow with next?”

  Whitgift gave him an angry look, but Albury seemed quite unperturbed.

  “She’s ‘off with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!’ if you ask me. Or one of ’em, anyhow. I shouldn’t worry your heads over her, if I were in your shoes. ‘She’s her own mistress’, as old Treverton used to say. Or somebody else’s, perhaps. Can’t a girl have a fling without half the countryside poking their noses into her affairs? Have a heart, Whitgift.”

  This was so intentionally provocative that The Counsellor wondered how Whitgift would take it. Apparently he decided to ignore it, though The Counsellor could see a slight movement at the hinge of the jaw which spoke of clenched teeth.

  “How are you getting back to town?” he asked The Counsellor, as though he had not heard Albury’s remarks.

  “I sent my chauffeur down to The Black Bull to get something to eat,” The Counsellor explained. “I suppose I can ring him up from here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Whitgift volunteered. “I’ll do it for you, if you like. Going now?”

  “Wait a moment,” Albury broke in. “I want a word or two with Mr. Brand before he goes. You can spare the time? It won’t take long. I just want to hear a bit more about this offer of yours. Come along to old Treverton’s den. We can be private there,” he added with obvious intention.

  Whitgift hesitated for a moment, as though in doubt as to the course he should take. Then he shook hands with The Counsellor and went round the table to where Barrington was collecting his papers.

  “Well, come along,” suggested Albury, rising lumberingly from his seat. “I thought that’d scare him off. This is between us two. I don’t want him butting in.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Euthanasia

  ALBURY led the way to Treverton’s little office, and, with a brusque gesture, invited The Counsellor to take a seat. He himself leaned against the mantelpiece; pulled out a briar pipe much burned on one side through frequent lighting at Bunsen flames; and charged it leisurely from his pouch. During this process he said not a word, but examined The Counsellor’s appearance with a minuteness which bordered on rudeness. Not to be outdone, The Counsellor drew out his case and lit a cigarette, giving his new associate stare for stare.

  “I talk best when I’m smoking,” Albury explained at last when his pipe was well alight. “And, to come to the point at once, what’s this little game of yours, Mr. Brand?”

  “Little game? I don’t quite get you,” retorted The Counsellor disingenuously.

  “Put it in words of one syllable,” said Albury. “Do you mean to buy the Press, or is it just a kid? I’d like to know.”

  “Yes, I do mean it,” answered The Counsellor. “I’d a notion I’d made that clear enough already.”

  “Think you can make it pay?” asked Albury bluntly.

  “Not on present lines, certainly,” replied The Counsellor with a smile.

  “You’re right there. Second question. Are you a business man, or a second art-maniac like Treverton? Meaning, are you out for the dibs or are you going to run the thing as a mere hobby?”

  “In this matter, I’m out for the dibs, as you concisely put it.”

  “Well, thank God, that sounds like commonsense,” said Albury. “The way this show has been run in past years would make angels weep. You and I are going to get on together, Mr. Brand.”

  “The deal’s not closed yet,” pointed out The Counsellor. “You don’t happen to know the names of Spurstowe and Hague’s clients?”

  Albury shook his head.

  “I don’t. Nor does Barrington. Whitgift may; but he and I don’t happen to be on confidential terms, as p’raps you noticed. I’ve tried to put a line on that Wickwood doll. She eats out of his hand. But I got nothing for my pains, and I don’t think she knows anything either.”

  He paused for a moment, and then continued slowly:

  “I’ve been wondering if Treverton’s niece isn’t at the back of it. That’s just possible. Look here. She’s got £3,000 locked up in shares. Beyond that, I’ve some grounds for saying that Treverton borrowed money from her to keep the show afloat in bad years. If you look in the balance-sheet, you’ll find a biggish item: ‘Sundry Creditors.’ She was one of them and Treverton was another—for money lent to the Company. Now, just lately, she and the old man began to get across each other. To me, that spells cash, for there was no other reason that I can see. This Yank was in the offing, you know. That meant she’d want her money to earn dividends, instead of being locked up in old Treverton’s hobby. And if she took her money out, it meant B-U-S-T for the Treverton policy, for no one else would put cash into the thing on the old terms. Hence the rows.”

  “Your idea looks like throwing good money after bad,” commented The Counsellor. “She has £3,000 locked up already in shares You say she’s prepared to pay over £4,000 more, making £7,000 in all embarked in a derelict concern.”

  “You’re not such a goop as all that, if I’m any judge,” said Albury, shaking his pipe-stem at The Counsellor. “You’ve offered £6,000 for this show, which means you think it’s worth that at least. So the fair Helen, if she got it, could sell it for £6,000 after sinking £7,000 in it. That leaves her only £1,000 to the bad, instead of being £3,000 and more, out of pocket as she is at present. And the show
might be worth a deal more than £6,000 if it were run on sound lines. It might pay her to leave her money in it. By the way, did you notice the date on that letter of Spurstowe & Hague?”

  “September 12th,” said The Counsellor, who had a memory for some details.

  “Yes, September 12th. That was it. And that was just a day or two after she disappeared, wasn’t it? Don’t you see how that fits in? When old Treverton got wind of this manœuvre, he’d have spotted her hand in it and given her hell, if she’d been handy. He was that kind of man. But she dished that by disappearing just before this letter. She’s cleared out with no address and done the thing through this lawyer-firm, so that her name doesn’t appear.”

  “No good,” said The Counsellor, decisively. “Treverton held the majority of the shares. He could block the acceptance of the offer at any meeting.”

  “On the face of it, yes,” Albury agreed. “But you’ve forgotten something. The Company’s insolvent, really; and if one of the Sundry Creditors chose to turn nasty, it would go bankrupt. Then it would be Carey Street and the Official Receiver, and a forced sale to anyone who offered, see? Oh, that’s all right, you take it from me. And another thing. Here’s this Yank turned up just at the critical moment. He’s a business man, I’m told, able to advise her. Naturally she’d want him on the spot to help her to negotiate. And of course he’s not going to give away her address. He doesn’t want Treverton butting in.”

  “No good,” reiterated The Counsellor. “If your ideas were right, there’s nothing to hinder her coming forward now. Treverton’s out of it all for good.”

  “Perhaps she hasn’t heard of his death,” objected Albury.

  “She can’t have missed it,” said The Counsellor. “There was quite a long obituary notice in The Times.”

  “She never read The Times,” said Albury, scornfully. “She wasn’t a highbrow. I don’t read The Times myself.”

  Suddenly he seemed to recollect that he had been neglecting hospitality. He got up, went across the room to a cupboard, and looked at the contents. Finally he produced a syphon, decanter, and glasses.

  “Have a drink?” he invited. “There’s no whisky. Brandy was old Treverton’s tipple, so a B. and S. is the best I can offer you.”

  Without awaiting an answer, he poured out a liberal three fingers into each glass and splashed in some soda-water. The Counsellor accepted the drink and, being rather thirsty, took a draught. Albury contented himself with a mere sip before putting down his tumbler.

  “Who does the actual photographing of these pictures you reproduce?” asked The Counsellor, following up an idea which had suggested itself to him some time before this.

  “I do that,” explained Albury. “Whitgift’s the head bummaroo of our printing department, he looks after some of the photographic side as well. You see, in such a miserable little firm, each of us has to do a bit more than his share, whether he likes it or not. I’m a chemist, nominally, and my real job’s in trying out new dyes for colour-sensitive plates and for colour-screens, but actually I do part of the technical side of the photography. And a lot of odd jobs as well.”

  “Dibdin’s sales manager, I gathered; and Barrington keeps the books?”

  “That’s so. Dibdin’s done not badly in pushing sales for us. You’d find him worth keeping on, if you take over the show and launch out a bit. He’s quite sound.”

  “And Whitgift?”

  “Whitgift and I don’t love each other much, as I said before. I thought he might have a finger in this business of Spurstowe & Hague, at first. He let slip a word or two once, that made me suspicious on that score. A bit eager to have us snap at the offer when it came in. We talked it over amongst ourselves, you know: Treverton and the rest of us. And Treverton had a strong suspicion that Whitgift had managed to interest some outsiders and raise capital somehow. That made him damned annoyed, needless to say. But most likely he got on to a mare’s nest there. Anyhow, I’ve no desire to see Whitgift at the head of things here. He’d do his level best to get me the push; you can count on that.”

  Before The Counsellor could make any comment on this, there came a knock to interrupt them. The maid, Florence Etham, appeared at the door and spoke to Albury.

  “There’s someone wanting to speak to you on the ’phone, sir.”

  Albury rose with a look of annoyance.

  “I’ll have to go along to the ’phone,” he explained. “We’ve no extensions in this place. Old Treverton was too mean to stand the extra expense of putting them in. It’s a damned nuisance having to rush along to the instrument every time one wants to talk. I’ll be back in a minute or two. Just stay where you are.”

  He went out, closing the door behind him.

  Left to his own devices, The Counsellor cast about him for amusement until Albury returned. There was a large bookcase containing a miscellaneous assortment of works upon Art, and after scanning the shelves he took down a ponderous copiously-illustrated tome and, returning to his seat, began to examine the pictures in it. But in a few minutes his interest slackened and he let the book lie on his knee. He tried to concentrate upon the relations between the various shareholders in the Company, but found that his thoughts persisted in wandering. Then he became conscious of a slight headache. He sipped some of the brandy in his glass, but now it seemed to have a peculiar taste which he had not noticed before. Then a wave of nausea swept over him, leaving him dizzy. With an effort, he pulled himself together, and the sight of the brandy-decanter, suggested an idea.

  “That must be poisonous stuff of old Treverton’s . . . Poisonous. . . Brandy doesn’t take me like this. . . .”

  Another spasm of nausea shook him, and with it came a terrifying suspicion:

  “That stuff’s been doped. . . . They’ve tried to knock me out. . . . Must pull myself together somehow. . . .”

  Easier said than done. He attempted to rise from his chair, but all his muscles seemed to have gone slack. The blood began to throb in his ears, accentuating his headache; and he had more and more difficulty in thinking lucidly. Drowsiness crept over him; and he was sinking into sleep when with a final effort of will, he forced himself to his feet.

  “The door. . . . Get out. . . . Call for help. . . .”

  He moved door-ward, swaying and staggering, with waves of nausea shaking him as he went; and it was only by repeating disjointed commands to himself that he was able to walk at all. Stretching out his hand, he gripped the door-handle, turned it, and pulled. The door remained fast. He began to feel breathless.

  “Locked outside . . . fresh air . . . window . . .” he impressed on himself.

  He tried to call out, but found he had no voice left.

  “Bell. . . .”

  A few stumbling steps took him to the bell-push which he pressed in passing.

  “Mustn’t fall down . . .” he muttered. “Never get up again if I do, in this state. . . .”

  He staggered against the desk, striking his anklebone heavily on the wood; and this shock roused him slightly. Then, with his head reeling, he floundered to the nearest window and tried to throw up the old-fashioned sash. It resisted, and he abandoned his attempt. Then, with a final gathering of mental and physical concentration, he put his shoulder to the panes and drove out the glass, sinking to his knees after this supreme effort. A high wind was blowing outside, and through the broken panes came a vivifying rush of cold fresh air.

  Only semi-conscious now, The Counsellor heard faintly the sound of someone knocking on the door, excited voices, and then the door flew open and someone hurried into the room. He heard a cry: “Keep back! Out of the way there, at the door!” Then he was picked up like a child and carried out into the corridor. In a last flicker of consciousness he saw the horrified faces of Mrs. Yerbury and the maid as he was carried past them.

  It was a very shaken Counsellor who awoke to find himself stretched on a bed in a shabby little bedroom. He lifted his head for a moment and found himself gazing at his own reflection in the mirror
on the dressing-table beyond the foot of the bed. Then he found that Mrs. Yerbury was beside him.

  “That was a terrible attack you had, sir,” she said sympathetically, as she saw that he had waked up. “Are you subject to these fits, though I’m sure I hope not. When we heard you ringing the bell like that, Florence and me rushed up at once, but we couldn’t get in, for the door was locked fast and we never noticed the key in it; and then Florence let out a scream that brought Mr. Whitgift a-running, and lucky it was that he happened to be working in his room and heard her. He got in, just pushed us aside and told us to get out of way while he carried you out and brought you in here, which is Mr. Treverton’s room, poor man. Are you feeling better now? We’re just going to get the doctor. I told Florence to go and ring him up.”

  “You can cancel that, now,” ordered The Counsellor. “I know what’s the matter with me. Don’t worry. It’s all right. But you might ring up my chauffeur at The Black Bull, please. Now, at once.”

  “Will you not have the doctor, sir?” pleaded Mrs. Yerbury in obvious distress. “Surely you’d be the better to see someone after an attack like that. Is it epilepsy, sir? I once knew somebody with an epileptic relation, and a terrible trial he was to her, poor thing. Fits is terrible afflictions, no matter what kind they are.”

  The Counsellor lay back and closed his eyes, feeling deadly sick.

  “Ring up my chauffeur,” he repeated. “Tell him to put my car in the garage here and then come up to me. Quick, please.”

  The effort of saying this exhausted him for the moment, and he lay back on the pillow.

  “Well, I’m sure a doctor’s more what you need, sir,” Mrs. Yerbury insisted.

  “I know what’s wrong with me,” declared The Counsellor. “Run to the ’phone. And then come back and sit with me, please, until my chauffeur turns up. Go now, please.”

  “But . . .”

  “Oh, do as I tell you,” said The Counsellor. “I’ve something in my car that’ll put me right. Quick, now.”