Dictator's Way (34 page)

Now Marsden got up and opening the door called into an adjoining room:

‘Peter, bring me the Belfort Trust papers, will you? Securities and all. They're in the safe, you know. Dickson has my key.'

Closing the door, he came back to his seat.

‘Carsley won't be a minute,' he said. ‘May I ask, is it the intention to close the Trust?'

‘You don't want that, eh?' chuckled Sir Christopher. ‘Pretty profitable bit of business, eh?'

Marsden laughed, too.

‘Well, we've had it a long time,' he said. ‘I suppose old Mr Belfort ...?'

‘Fussing a bit,' admitted Sir Christopher. ‘He wants to see all papers, bonds, securities, everything himself. Natural, in a way, as he is taking over now his brother's died. I shall tell him if he can find another trustee to act in my place, I shall be grateful. I have quite enough on my hands, as it is, and the hundred a year I get as trustee doesn't pay me for my time.”

Mr Marsden gave an acquiescent murmur though, as, to his certain knowledge, Sir Christopher had never given to the Trust more time than was required for the signing of an occasional paper now and again, he was inclined to think Sir Christopher earned his hundred easily enough. Still, it was true this old Mr Belfort, suddenly imported into the affair through the death of another trustee, seemed inclined to be officious. But then again Sir Christopher wouldn't mind that, provided Mr Belfort confined his officiousness to worrying not his fellow trustee but the Trust's solicitor. Probably Sir Christopher would not care if this fussy old man wanted to do everything himself, instead of leaving everything to the others, as his recently deceased brother had been content to do.

There was a pause while they still waited for Peter Carsley. Sir Christopher, little used to waiting, looked frowningly at the door, and Mr Marsden suddenly remembered.

‘Oh, Sir Christopher,' he said, ‘a boy left your theatre tickets this morning – here they are.'

‘Theatre tickets?' repeated Sir Christopher. ‘What theatre tickets?'

‘From the Regency,' explained Mr Marsden, producing an envelope with the imprint of that well-known theatre and marked ‘Two stalls'. He added: ‘I went with a friend the other night. I had no idea Shakespeare was so interesting. I didn't find it at all boring, not at all.'

He paused, for Sir Christopher was looking in a puzzled way at the envelope the lawyer had handed him.

‘Some mistake,' he said. ‘I've not booked any seats anywhere. Who left it here?'

‘A boy from the theatre,' Marsden explained, looking puzzled in his turn. ‘It's addressed to you, in our care, so we thought it was all right.'

‘I see it's my name,' grunted Sir Christopher, opening the envelope. ‘Two stalls for to-night, apparently, but there's no–'

He paused abruptly, and Marsden saw that he had become pale, that in his small, fierce eyes had crept what almost seemed a sudden terror. His hand shook that held the tickets, and all at once he looked a smaller, frailer man, as if in that one moment something had gone out of him, something that left him naked and afraid.

For the moment Marsden almost supposed that he was dreaming, for what could there be in two theatre tickets to throw into this sudden panic the strong, the successful, the prosperous wealthy man of business?

Sir Christopher got up suddenly and went to the window. He threw it open and leaned out, far out, as if he had great need of air, and for a moment Marsden played with the idea of creeping up behind and taking him by the legs and throwing him out.

A foolish, impracticable idea, of course. Besides, the Marsden, Carsley, and Marsden offices were on the first floor of the building and a fall would hardly have been fatal, not immediately fatal at any rate. Anyhow, the opportunity passed, for Sir Christopher turned back into the room and very slowly, very deliberately, tore envelope and tickets in half and threw them down on the floor.

‘Trying to frighten me,' he said between his teeth, more to himself than to Marsden, and Marsden wondered bewilderedly why a gift of two stalls for a successful Shakespeare revival should be supposed to be an attempt to frighten a man like Sir Christopher. It was said that the finest performance of
Hamlet
for two generations was to be seen just now at the Regency, and what was there about that to alarm any man? But Sir Christopher was looking straight in front of him as grimly as though he saw there some strange enemy, and though his great clenched fist on the table before him was steady enough, there was still that dark look of terror in his eyes – of terror mastered and held down no doubt, but of terror all the same. He said heavily: ‘It doesn't matter... it makes no difference... Marsden, I'll make a fresh will.'

‘Now, to-day?' stammered Marsden, more and more astonished.

‘Now, to-day,' repeated Sir Christopher, glaring at him as if daring him to say a word, and the door opened and young Peter Carsley came in rather quickly, carrying a sealed packet in his hands.

‘I'm so sorry I've been so long,' he said. ‘We couldn't get the safe open at first.'

Peter was a tall, fair, good-looking youngster, with grey eyes, prominent, well-shaped nose, a strong, even obstinate-looking mouth and chin, and a direct, rather blunt manner. That he had had some difficulty in passing his final examinations is a fact that must not be concealed, but at any rate he had got through in the end, even though the intensive effort required had quite likely cost him his chance of representing England against Wales at Twickenham – and whether the gain was worth the sacrifice he was in his secret heart not quite sure.

He greeted Sir Christopher now with a certain restraint and Sir Christopher's manner to him was far from cordial, indeed almost rude. Peter flushed a little, he had a trick of flushing, it was the secret shame of his inner life, and put down on the table the sealed packet he had brought with him.

‘This is the list of securities,' he said, producing a typewritten document. ‘It's not been checked yet.'

‘We'll do that now,' growled Sir Christopher. ‘Make sure they're all there for Belfort to see. He's coming to dinner to-night, and he can go through them afterwards to his heart's content.'

‘Shall you be keeping them all night?' Marsden asked, a little startled. ‘Isn't that a trifle – dangerous? £20,000, almost all in negotiable stuff.'

‘I've a good safe,' Sir Christopher retorted, ‘and I'm sorry for the burglar I lay hands on.' He held out his hand as he spoke and certainly it looked one of which the grip would be formidable enough. ‘Besides, I keep a loaded six-shooter in my bedroom,' he added.

‘But–' began Marsden hesitatingly.

‘But what?' grunted Sir Christopher. ‘I've had diamonds worth as much as that in the safe for three months now or longer – they've been all right.'

He had rather a grim look as he spoke, and indeed his square-set figure, his fierce, glittering eyes and great hooked nose all gave him the look of some huge bird of prey it would be best not to meddle with. One felt it would be a rash thief indeed who ventured within his reach.

Peter turned towards the door, and, as he did so, noticed the torn theatre tickets lying where Sir Christopher had thrown them down. He paused, surprised, and Sir Christopher said with an evident sneer:

‘Two stalls for a theatre. You can have them, if you like. I'm engaged.'

Looking still more surprised, Peter picked them up.

‘Oh, thank you,' he said, with the gratitude a gift of theatre tickets always evokes, and then with a certain disappointment: ‘Oh, Shakespeare.'

‘Prefer a musical show?' asked Sir Christopher.

‘Well, yes, I do,' confessed Peter. ‘They ram Shakespeare down your throat so at school, you do get fed up with him.'

‘Better go,' grunted Sir Christopher. ‘It'll improve your mind. They're for to-night.'

‘Oh, for to-night, sorry, I'm engaged to-night,' Peter answered, and put down the tickets on the corner of the table from which, with an angry gesture, Sir Christopher swept them to the floor as the door closed behind Peter.

‘Young puppy, infernal young puppy,' Sir Christopher snarled. ‘Did you hear that?– like his insolence. He meant he was engaged because he knows Jennie's going to the Amherst ball and he's going, too. Does the young fool think I'll ever let her marry him?'