Guy Renton (22 page)

“Mr. Franklin explained to me that he knew one of the directors; a man from one of the older firms, I can't remember offhand which, who was starting on his own. Mr. Franklin was so very confident...”

Guy cut him short.

“I'm sure it's quite all right. Now please don't worry. You couldn't have acted differently. It was only that I heard of the firm last night by chance. I wondered what their status was.”

So Franklin had vouched for the firm; it looked like being a great deal worse than he had suspected.

Before seeing his brother he decided to have as much evidence as possible. He went into the accounts department. Pilcher's son was occupying the same high stool that his father had before. The son was over thirty, had been in the army in the war and had got commissioned. He had hoped presumably that he would find, when he was demobilized, a job more in keeping with his raised social status: he had failed to do so, and no doubt resented having to return to the same post he'd left. He had married during the war and could not risk starting anything upon his own. He was a tall spare man: he wore his clothes well, and had a short black military moustache. He was not unlike Michael Drummond in appearance; the essential difference lay in voice. Pilcher's was a filtered voice, as though some accent had been ironed out. He was very punctilious in manner towards the directors. He called Guy ‘sir' at some point in the course of every sentence. Guy did not see how he could avoid this without suggesting that they drop the ‘Mr.' or resort to the practice that was become increasingly general of using Christian names, but he could imagine how the rest of the staff would welcome that. He made his meetings with young Pilcher as brief as possible. “Have you got the address of that firm I asked about?”

“Certainly, sir. I'll fetch it.” Did a quick gleam come into Pilcher's eyes? He fancied so. Pilcher flicked through a file. “Yes, here we are, sir, 15A Boyne Mews.”

“Where's that?”

“Off Macclesfield Street, I think, sir.”

Within a few yards of the Flamingo. Guy located in the Post Office directory the precise position of Boyne Mews. He might well do worse than call on them. It was less than five minutes walk away.

Boyne Mews was a small cobbled yard, untended and malodorous. Mayfair had not bothered to convert any of its upper stories into modern flats. No. 15 was a side door beside a garage. There were three bells. He rang the one marked A, but received
no answer. The front door was open and he went upstairs, a dark and dusty stairway. Facing him on the landing was a big handwritten notice,
‘IF NO ANSWER PLEASE DELIVER GOODS AT THE FLAMINGO
, 18
COLONY COURT.'
He knocked on the door: there was no answer: and at half-past eleven in the morning. He knelt down and tried to peer through the keyhole: it was too dark to see anything. He gauged the position of the windows: straight over the former stables. He looked up at them from the cobbled courtyard. They were uncurtained. What explanation would Franklin have for this.

He went straight to his brother's office. ‘If I ring first,' he thought, ‘he'll be on his guard.' He inquired whether his brother was engaged; learnt that he wasn't and knocked on the door.

The ‘come in' came right away. Franklin was reading the first issue of the
Evening Standard.
“Any news of the raid in yet?” Guy asked. Franklin shook his head.

“Not yet. But when they get your name we'll make the headlines. ‘Old Rugby International in Court.' What a dreary climax to a first-class party. I've never thanked you for it properly. We did enjoy it. Particularly Barbara. She wouldn't have missed that raid for anything.”

“I wonder how comrade Masterman feels this morning.”

They laughed at that. “I fancy that he'll feel rather ashamed of himself for quite a while.”

They gossiped about the party casually; with an intended casualness on Guy's part. He wanted to lull his brother into a false security. It was at a tangent that he put his question. “By the way, what exactly is your connection with Frisby and Dunkin?”

Franklin smiled. “I thought you'd be asking me that, old boy. As a matter of fact I'm both.”

“You're what?”

“I'm the entire firm.”

“But who are the other directors?”

“There aren't any.”

“There must be. You couldn't be a limited company if there weren't.”

“I know. It isn't a limited company.”

“You put ‘Ltd.' on your order forms.”

“Naturally, nobody would have dealt with me unless I had.”

“Have you had dealings with any other firms?”

“No, only with us. Other wine merchants would have wanted cash.”

“You bet your eyes they would. Why didn't you make yourself a company?”

“Too many questions, too much supervision, and if things go wrong, it's just as well not to involve one's friends.”

He could not have been more composed. His manner baffled Guy. Was this brother of his completely unscrupulous? “Hadn't you better tell me all about it?”

“There isn't much to tell. Michael told me that he had a chance of running the Flamingo. He asked if I'd come in with him. He needed capital. Of course I haven't any, but I told him that if all the wine was bought from a friend of mine, I'd be able to split the commission and that I could make it. I had to make a small deposit on account of my investment. I arranged that with the bank. It took some wangling, but the name of Duke and Renton carries weight. Then I took a room near the Flamingo: had some stationery printed and some order forms. Thank heavens I can type, so the letter that I had to show old Pilcher looked businesslike. Then we started in. Our takings were pretty good. I explained to Michael that Frisby and Dunkin were giving us especially favourable terms so that they would need to be paid cash. Within a fortnight Frisby and Dunkin had been paid enough for me to complete my payment to the Flamingo.”

“So that's where the money's gone.”

“That's where it's gone.”

“And what about Duke and Renton?”

“I didn't think that they were in any hurry for their money.”

“They expect to be paid some day.”

“And so they will be, or rather so they would have been but for this little contretemps.”

Contretemps; that was his word for it. “Surely you knew this was against the law: trading in liquor without a liquor licence. How long did you think you could have kept it up? All kinds of people would have been asking questions. The Income Tax authorities for one.”

“By the time they'd got around to asking questions, I'd have got myself organized: you always have to run a risk when you
are beginning: that's how fortunes are made. No one has the time in a single lifetime to make a fortune by straightforward methods. He has to take a short cut, he either does something criminal or he runs a risk that the conventional-minded would consider unjustified. That's all I've done.”

Once again, Guy found himself astounded. Which in heaven's name did Franklin imagine he had done; run an unjustifiable risk or done something criminal? Franklin always talked as though he knew exactly what he was doing, as though it were all planned out; yet always at a certain point he ceased making sense, crossed over the borderline into insanity. Guy was reminded of the fantastic financial ventures of Balzac's heroes, of Rastignac explaining to Raphael the technique of ‘the English system'.

“How much by the way did you have to put up to become a director of the Flamingo?”

“A monkey.”

“But that's only five hundred pounds.”

“I know.”

“You're in debt over two thousand to Duke and Renton.”

Franklin laughed. “Getting engaged's a very expensive job, old boy, as you'll find when your time comes.”

It was the same kind of explanation that Franklin had given at Oxford three years ago. The leopard did not change its spots. There was a pause.

“How much did Michael Drummond know about all this?”

For the first time, but only momentarily, Franklin looked embarrassed. “One can't very well keep one's partner in the dark,” he said.

There was another pause. As always Guy felt at a disadvantage with his brother. Franklin left him to do the talking, to make the attack. Franklin never argued, never excused himself; appeared unaware of criticism.

“This may turn out more serious than you think,” Guy said.

“Isn't it best to wait till one reaches rivers? If there isn't a bridge, there's usually a ford.”

“Are you going to tell our father?”

“He knows about the raid.”

“What about Frisby and Dunkin?”

“Why worry him before we need?”

That evening Guy had a half-past five date with Renée. They had not been alone now for ten days; thank heaven, he thought, as he sat waiting for her car to swing out of Cheval Place, that she was someone who would guess his mood, to whom he could talk quietly over this present problem. ‘I'm lucky,' he thought. ‘Every day I realize more how lucky.'

The case followed its expected course; two days later they appeared in court. Thirty of them were fined ten shillings. The Flamingo was ordered to be closed and proceedings were instituted against its directors. The magistrate displayed an unwelcome interest in the activities of Frisby and Dunkin. “I am not at all satisfied with the credentials of the firms who supply these clubs with wines and spirits. I doubt if any reputable house would deal with them. I will expect the police to prepare a full report on the status of Messrs. Frisby and Dunkin. I want to know the names of their directors. I want to see a copy of their last balance sheet. I want to have some details about their other clients.” It was worse than Guy had feared. He caught Drummond's eye. Drummond nodded back. They allowed the others to disperse.

“I don't like the look of this,” Guy said.

“Do you think I do?”

They went into a Lyons teashop; took a table in a quiet corner, ordered themselves a coffee. “You know all about Frisby and Dunkin, don't you?” Guy asked.

Drummond nodded.

“You didn't at the start though, did you?”

“Is that important?”

“Not to the magistrate.”

“That's all that matters, isn't it?”

“In one way yes. The Flamingo will go bankrupt, won't it?”

“Of course.”

“How'll that affect you?”

“I've got no actual funds invested there. I'm not the kind of person who has capital. That's why I roped in Franklin. But the Flamingo was a source of income to me. I shall miss it.”

“If the Flamingo goes bankrupt, Frisby and Dunkin won't get a penny.”

“I don't see how they can. They've no right to be doing
business. They're an illegal firm. They couldn't enter a claim. The landlord, the decorators, all the small people that we owe money to would protest it.”

“Are there any documents to suggest your own connection with Frisby and Dunkin?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Have you kept the returned cheques that you made out to them?”

“Of course.”

“It would be quite easy to find out the account that they were paid into. It's bound to be Franklin's bank. There's probably his signature on the back. As Franklin was one of the directors of the Flamingo and as he was a friend of yours, it'll be difficult for you to prove that you weren't involved with him in that as well.”

“I daresay it will.”

“I'll tell you what I think we ought to do.”

“What's that?”

“Get Franklin out of England till the thing blows over.”

“You might do worse.”

“We might do a great deal worse.”

More clearly than Drummond could begin to guess, they might do a good deal worse. It had been one thing to hush up those Oxford bills, but this was different. There was a risk of scandal. There was no way moreover of keeping the matter secret. Too many people in the firm would know. Young Pilcher was suspicious. Old Duke would be inquisitive. It couldn't be kept hidden. On his way back from lunch, Guy read in the evening papers the expected headlines. ‘Former Rugby International in Court.' It was only a small paragraph, but it contained the essential facts. It had even the name of the firm ‘Frisby and Dunkin' in addition to the magistrate's remarks. Young Pilcher would see this all right. Everyone would see it. A column article on the leader page might pass unread, but a tiny paragraph tucked away at the foot of a back page about a raided night club or a divorce suit was read by everyone. He'd been a fool to give his real name, but how could he have known; he had thought he might be doing Drummond a service. He'd been a fool to let old Duke know about the wine, but how could he have foreseen that Franklin would be involved in that way? He
had fancied that he was making things easier for everyone. He couldn't have been more wrong.

There was a board meeting that afternoon. His father was lunching Duke. They would arrive in a mellow mood. It would be just as well. On his way up to the board-room, he passed through the accounts department. “I'd like to know exactly how much Frisby and Dunkin owe us.” Young Pilcher had the figure. He handed Guy the slip. £2,137 10
s
.
6d.

Young Pilcher said nothing, but there was a look in his eye that reminded Guy of that tag in the Latin grammar, the classic example of the conditional—
etiamsi tacent, satis dicunt:
even though they are silent, they say enough. No, there was no question of hushing this up.

As he had expected, his father and the senior partner arrived at the board table in a mellow mood. Duke shook Guy's hand warmly. “Congratulations on making the headlines again. It's always pleasant to be reminded that one's not forgotten. Your father and I have been chuckling over that unpaid wine account. A partner in Duke and Renton paying twice for the same bottle of wine and then being fined ten shillings for drinking it. It's going to be my pet dining-out story for a long, long while. How much by the way did this firm owe us?”