FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, NOVEMBER 2010
Copyright © 1951 by William Heinemann
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain as Ruined City by Cassell & Co., London, in 1938. This edition published in Great Britain by William Heinemann in 1951, and subsequently published in Great Britain by Vintage, a division of Random House Group Limited, in 2009.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-47417-9
www.vintagebooks.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
CHAPTER I
DURING the winter the pace accelerated tremendously for Mr. Henry Warren. In spite of the depression the banking house of Warren Sons and Mortimer had never had so much to do; as his marriage slid away to nothing the work piled heavily upon him.
The last fortnight was a bad one. Monday began with two conferences in the morning on the Moresley Corporation (1933) Development Loan, followed by lunch at the Savoy with Plumberg to discuss the Silver Conservation Pact. From Mr. Plumberg he went to call on Mr. Heinroth in Copthall Avenue to enlist his aid in the matter of the Finnish Equalisation Account; he found Mr. Heinroth difficult and it was not until after six o’clock that some measure of agreement was attained. He reached his office at about six-thirty and telephoned his house in Grosvenor Square about dinner; his butler told him that Mrs. Warren would be dining out.
He worked till half-past eight and dined, alone and rather extravagantly, at his club.
Tuesday continued the business of the Moresley Corporation and the Finnish Equalisation Account; the latter robbed him of his lunch. From twelve till four he was speaking on the telephone or waiting irritably for calls, calls from Helsingfors, from Stockholm, from Berlin. At four o’clock he spoke to Heinroth on the telephone, and then settled down to earnest work with all his staff to clear himself of business for the next two days. He left his office at ten minutes to nine; by ten o’clock he was at Croydon boarding the night plane for Stockholm.
He slept fitfully in the plane during the long crossing to Amsterdam in spite of the rainy, squally night. In the early hours he was awake from Amsterdam to Malmo, but in the cold grey dawn he got a little sleep between Malmo and Barkaby, the airport of Stockholm. By half-past nine he had had a cup of coffee and a shave and was in conference in a banking house in Stockholm; by one o’clock he was in the air again and on his way to Helsingfors.
He was in conference in Helsingfors from five o’clock till midnight. All the negotiations took place in German; he spoke the language competently but not fluently, and by midnight he was very tired. He rested for a few hours then, but by eight o’clock he was in the air again on the short sea crossing to Tallin, on his way down to Berlin.
He met his agent on the aerodrome at Tallin and made him travel with him on the next stage; they talked in German for an hour down to Riga. Then he went on alone, through Kaunas and Königsberg on to Berlin. He managed to sleep a little on the latter stage, and got out of the machine at Templehof dazed and unwell.
An hour later, spruce and neat, he was in conference again with his associates in Berlin; by nine o’clock he was back at the Templehof to catch the night mail plane for England. He dozed fitfully to Amsterdam, where he drank a cup of coffee with a cognac in the middle of the night; then he slept soundly, if uneasily, to Croydon. He reached his house in Grosvenor Square before the milk, before his servants were awake, slept for an hour, had a bath and dressed, and went down to his office in the City.
He did not see Elise. She did not normally appear before he left the house.
That day, Friday, was an easy day. He had a talk with Heinroth in the morning; the Finnish business moved another step upon its way. His secretary told him the result of the Council meeting of the Moresley Corporation—not so good. The secretary had made an appointment for him to meet them that afternoon, at four o’clock.
Moody and depressed, he lunched alone. If they didn’t want the money, they needn’t have it. Corporations had to cut their coat according to their cloth, like other people.
They came to him in the afternoon, a deputation of three. He knew them well, these members of the Finance Committee—Sir Thomas Lambe, the chairman, whose grocer’s shops extended all around the city, Mr. Tom Bullock, who had been a petty officer in the Navy and now drove a tram, and the other one whose name he never managed to remember—Mr. Bung the Brewer. He greeted them courteously and settled them with cigarettes before his massive desk. The meeting was on.
A quarter of an hour later they had reached a deadlock.
“Taking it your way, Mr. Warren,” said the chairman, pink-cheeked and ruddy, “it’d mean another fourpence on the rates—after allowing for the Park receipts. The Council won’t like that.”
“Ratepayers won’t like it, neither,” said Mr. Bullock. “Not next November.”
Warren said quietly, “I’m sorry, gentlemen.”
There was a silence.
Mr. Bung the Brewer said wheezily, “But there’s the bottle factory waiting to come to Moresley, soon as we get these sites opened up with the Western Road. There’s seventy employed, right from the start.”
“That’s our point, Mr. Warren,” said the chairman. “The development of these roads, opening up these sites, will make this productive money. We shall be paying less in outdoor relief. We shall be getting an income from the factory sites. I cannot see that there will be any need for the special fund you have in mind.”
Warren said, “I appreciate all that, Sir Thomas. But if, in fact, this scheme can pay its way, I see no objection to making the interest chargeable upon the general rate.”
“We don’t get nowhere, way you look at it,” said Mr. Bullock. “To develop the factory sites we’ve got to put up the rates, and if we put up the rates nobody won’t come to take up factory sites, and money’s gone for nowt.”
“That is a risk, of course,” said Warren. “But that’s your speculation.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Bullock, “I noticed that. You get your money any road, even if whole of Moresley’s on the dole.”
Warren bent forward, leaning both his elbows on the desk. “This is a bank,” he said. “I think I may say, a bank of good repute, Mr. Bullock.” A wintry smile moved across his face. “Otherwise, I am sure you gentlemen would not be here this afternoon. We take in money on deposit, and it is my business to keep that money safe. We lend it out again at small interest on good security. It is no part of our business to take risks, or to make speculations with the money deposited with us. That is not our understanding with our depositors, and that is not our policy.”
Mr. Bullock drew himself up with a certain dignity. “That’s right, Mr. Warren,” he said. “You’re a bank, and you don’t take no risk. We’ve come to you rather than to one of them fly-by-night financial houses because we’re prudent business folk in Moresley, and we knew you did the loan in Staventon. But I want you to see it as we see it in the Council chamber.”
He paused for a moment, and considered. “Three years ago we hadn’t more than fifteen hundred unemployed in all Moresley,” he said. “Last year we had seven thousand. This year, nine thousand five hundred. That’s over twelve per cent of the people of Moresley on the dole, Mr. Warren—and still going up.” He stared at him earnestly. “Moresley’s a working town—always has been. We’ve never been what they call a depressed area, or anything of that. And Moresley’s not going to become a depressed area, neither. We’re out to fight that on the Council—we won’t let that happen. But we want some help from the Bank to tide us over, help us get these sites attractive for new factories. In Moresley we don’t call that speculation. Normal development, that’s what we call it. In Moresley we reckon it’s the job of everyone to do what he can to get the lads back to work. Banks, and all.”
There was a pause.
Warren leaned back in his arm-chair and said, “I’m sorry.”
Sir Thomas said, “Um—I am afraid the Council will have difficulty in proceeding on these lines. Let me be quite clear upon the matter. You require that provision should be made for the interest to be guaranteed from the general rate, in preference to all other payments. And that a resolution should be passed by the Council to that effect before the matter can proceed further.”
Warren inclined his head. “That is so, Sir Thomas. Given that resolution we can at once proceed to the details of the finance you will require.”
Mr. Tom Bullock got up from his chair and stood erect. “My bloody oath,” he said quietly, but firmly. “And then they write this stuff about the banks helping industry. All the bloody banks do is to help themselves.”
The chairman was distressed and fluttered. “Councillor Bullock—please …” he said. The deputation rose to take their leave.
Mr. Warren showed them courteously to the door. “You may be right,” he said to the tram driver. “But I think the business of helping the distressed areas lies more with the Government than with the banks.”
He turned back into his room alone, tired and stale. He wondered what would happen at their Council meeting; he did not greatly care. He would proceed with the matter if they wished; old Mortimer, moribund in his house at Godalming, liked Corporation loans and would be pleased. Warren himself had no objection to them provided that the money were very safe; that was the main thing in these times. But he could use the money better on the Continent.
His mind dwelt with pleasure on the Visgrad Waterworks, in Laevatia. Better than all the Corporation loans put together.
The buzzer on his desk sounded a low note. He pressed a switch, and the voice of his secretary spoke from the instrument.
“Mrs. Warren was on the telephone, sir. I told her you were in conference. Shall I get her now?”
“Please.” He was desperately tired. While he was waiting for his call he felt for a cigarette in the silver box upon his desk, fumbled a little, and dropped one upon the floor. He left it there, too tired to pick it up, took and lit another, and sank into his chair. The telephone bell rang.
His wife’s voice spoke to him. “Oh, Henry—is that you? It would be nicer if you answered me when I rang up, dear. I rang you up over half an hour ago.”
He said patiently, “I’m sorry, but I was in conference. Didn’t Miss Stephens tell you?”
“She may have done—I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to Miss Stephens, dear. Henry, wherever have you been all this time? I haven’t seen you for eight days.”
He thought for a moment. “So long as that? Well, you were in Scotland last week, weren’t you? I was at home Monday and Tuesday nights. Then I had to go to the Continent. I’ll be dining in to-night.”
“To the Continent? Was it amusing?”
He said, “Not very. I had to go to Helsingfors—and to Berlin.”
“Oh. Such a tiresome place, Helsingfors. All trees and water, and all those Finnish people so dull. I didn’t bother to go on shore—they told me it simply wasn’t worth it. I remember we played contract all afternoon. Tommy Samson won fifteen pounds off Violet. She was furious.”
He said patiently, “I’ll be dining in to-night, dear. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”
She said, “Oh yes. I’ve asked one or two people in to dinner, so you can tell us all about your trip.”
His face fell. “Who’s coming?”
“Only Violet and Mary, and Sir John and Lady Cohen, and Pamela Allnut. And Jerry Shaw and Lord Cheriton.”
His brows contracted in a frown. “What do you want young Cheriton for? I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Violet says he’s terribly fun-making. And besides, Sir John wants to meet him.”
It had been in Warren’s mind to tell his wife that he was dropping with fatigue, that he would dine quietly at his club, perhaps sleep there. He changed his mind. If Cohen had chickens to pluck, let him pluck them in his own house.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be home about half-past six. Who’s the other man?”
“What other man, dear?”
His face hardened. “You’ve told me four women, and three men. You’re not having an odd number?”
“Why, no, dear. There’s Lord Cheriton, Sir John, Prince Ali, and Jerry Shaw.”
“Prince Ali Said is coming?”
“Yes, dear. I asked him.”
His face was very hard. “All right. I’ll be home at half-past six.”
He laid down the receiver and pressed the button for his confidential secretary, Mr. Thomas Morgan. “I’ve got to go over and see Heinroth, Morgan,” he said. “I shan’t be back to-day.”
He went walking down Throgmorton Street towards Heinroth’s office, tired and depressed. Two young jobbers on the steps of the exchange stopped tossing for half-crowns to watch him as he made his way through the crowd.
“Who’s that?” said one.
“That’s Henry Warren—Warren Sons and Mortimer. One of the soundest little houses in the City. He runs the business now. Don’t you know him?”
The other shook his head. “Looks as if he’d swallowed a bad oyster,” he remarked.
The other spun a coin into the air, and smiled. “So would you,” he said, “if your wife was sleeping with a black man every other night.”
His dinner party passed before Warren in a blur of fatigue. With Lady Cohen on the one hand and Pamela Allnut on the other he talked mechanically, alternately, and competently about hunting and glass furniture, about schools and ski-ing. At the far end of the table his wife sat facing him, fair, slender and vivacious, between the subaltern callowness of young Lord Cheriton and the grave dignity of the Arab in tails and white waistcoat. Both of them, he reflected, worth half a million—more perhaps. Lord Cheriton he could tolerate, but he disliked the Arab very much indeed.
He roused himself a little with the brandy, when the ladies had left the room. Cohen had moved up to Cheriton and was talking about industry. “Wonderful opportunities just now,” he was saying. “In almost every line. Every day. One can’t take all of them.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Cheriton. “You think this is the time to buy.”
“I do, most certainly. With discretion—of course.”
Warren set his glass down carefully. “You may be right,” he said carefully. “But it seems to me that you want the discretion of a nun and the vision of an archangel to buy these days.”
“I don’t agree at all,” said Cohen. “Look at gold.”
“No good looking at gold now,” said Warren. “Tell me what to look at now—not what I might have looked at six months ago.”
A shadow passed quickly across Cohen’s face. Warren thought. That got him. He’s got those Bulongo mines on his hands. I wonder if he wanted to shove those off on Cheriton? He might be able to. That boy is fool enough for anything.
Prince Ali Said coughed delicately. “For myself,” he said, “I do not understand the Stock Exchange. I prefer to play with horses. I find that I can m
ake money more certainly in that manner.”
Warren nodded. He could respect competence in all forms. “That is because you act upon your own knowledge. It’s when you start taking tips that the trouble starts.”
Cheriton laughed. “Either on horses or the Stock Exchange,” he said fatuously.
Warren nodded. “I’m a banker, of course. I don’t take tips, and I don’t make any great killings, but in my quiet way I get along all right—even in these times. But I wouldn’t say this was the time to buy.”
“What would you do?” asked Cohen sullenly.
Warren smiled. “I’d get a very big safe, and put it all in that—in gold—and sit on it,” he said. “But real gold, I mean—none of this paper stuff.”
In the dim light beyond the shaded candles, at the back of the room, Evans his butler laid silver noiselessly upon a tray, covered it with green baize, and moved silently, unnoticed, from the room. He took the tray down to his pantry, transferred it to the silver cupboard, locked it up and pocketed the key. Then he went to the housekeeper’s room.
Elsie, the housemaid, was sewing by the fire. “Where’s Mrs. Higgins?” he asked.
“Gone out to the pictures. Did you want her?”
He took down his pipe from the mantelpiece. “I want a box of matches.”
“I’ve got some, Mr. Evans.” She watched him while he lit his pipe. “Get any tit-bits?”
“They’re trying to swindle that young Cheriton again.”
“Not Mr. Warren?”
“No, Cohen.”
She dropped her sewing on her lap. “What did they want him to do?”
“Buy some dud mining shares, I think. Warren was trying to stall them off.”
“I’d believe anything you told me of that Cohen,” she said. “I think he’s horrible.”
He nodded slowly. “They’re a useless crowd,” he said. “I’ve been in service nearly forty years, ever since I was a little nipper in the stables. But I’ve never been in such a place as this.”
There was a little silence.
“That black man,” she said presently. “He was up there again this afternoon. With the door open, too. I do think it’s beastly.”