Kindling

  In the morning Warren went down to talk to Mr. Heinroth. He proposed to him the flotation of an issue of preference shares in the Laevatian Oil Development, a company in which the whole of the ordinary shares would be held by the Laevatian Government.

  Mr. Heinroth gave him a cigar, and heard him attentively to the end. “You’d never put it over with a name like that,” he said. “Wants to be something short and snappy—something that the country clergymen can remember. I should call it Laevol Limited, or something like that.”

  Warren eyed him for a moment. “I don’t look at it like that,” he said. “I don’t put it forward in the trustee class, but it’s better than that. I’ve been out there for the last fortnight, and in my opinion it’s sound. In any case, I’m making myself responsible for twenty-five per cent of the underwriting.”

  There was a silence. Mr. Heinroth looked at him attentively. “You are?”

  Warren nodded.

  There was another silence. “It might be possible to get the market round to it,” said Mr. Heinroth at last. “The first reaction is bound to be unfavourable, of course. When we had that loan fiasco the year before last I thought that everything Laevatian was dead for the next ten years. They’re bound to bring that up, you know.”

  Warren nodded. “At the same time, it’s potentially a rich country.” Mr. Heinroth nodded slowly. “Provided that the proposition’s good business. I don’t see why that loan should interfere with it.”

  “There would have to be collateral security for the dividend, of course—and absolutely unimpeachable.”

  “Naturally. I’ve got the profit on the State Railway for that. For the last ten years it’s been well in excess of the sum required to guarantee this dividend.”

  “That sounds all right. But—I don’t know …”

  They discussed it together for another hour. At last Warren got up to take his leave. “Think it over.” he said, “and give me a ring in a couple of days. I’d like to have your support in this, because I think it may be the means of opening up development in general down there.”

  Mr. Heinroth nodded wisely. “That’s probably due. Well, I’ll go round my corner of the market and see what the reaction is, and you go round yours. And then we’ll have another talk.”

  Mr. Heinroth slept on it, and then put it to Mr. Todd and Mr. Castroni over the luncheon table. “If it was anybody else but Warren,” he said frankly, “I’d have nothing to do with it. After that loan was repudiated, I swore I would never touch Laevatia again. But with Warren behind it—well, it makes a difference.”

  Mr. Castroni sipped his coffee. “In the last ten years I’ve been in most of Warren’s things,” he said. “When I’ve used my judgment and stayed out, I’ve been sorry.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Heinroth. “I feel rather like that too.”

  “The country’s just about due to be opened up,” said Mr. Todd. “You’ve got to remember he did a good job with the waterworks out there. He knows what he’s up to, all right. Speaking for myself, I’d go with him.”

  “Maslin said much the same,” said Mr. Heinroth. “But I thought I’d like to know what you two thought about it.”

  That evening Warren dined alone at his club. In the smoking-room after dinner he saw Lord Cheriton sitting by himself; he strolled over and dropped into a chair beside him.

  “Evening,” said the young man. “I haven’t seen you here for some time. Been away?”

  Warren nodded. He selected a cigar carefully and poured out his coffee. “I got laid up soon after you had dinner at my place that night,” he said. “Had to have an operation. Since then I’ve been abroad.”

  “Are things getting any better, do you think?”

  Warren shrugged his shoulders. “The reactions from this gold business have done a bit of good,” he said. “You can’t say how long it’s going to last. I don’t see any sign of a general improvement yet.”

  “Pity.”

  Warren glanced at him. “Why?”

  “I want a job.”

  “You’re not the only one.” They smoked in silence for a little. Then Warren said:

  “Chucking up the Army?”

  The young man nodded.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “I want to do a spot of work before I get too old. I don’t mean selling motor-cars, or flying aeroplanes. A real job, that one could get one’s teeth into. There’s nothing like that for me in the Army.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  After a time Warren spoke again. “I was in Northumberland a little time ago—in Sharples. They told me at the local hospital about your mother—what a lot she does for them.”

  The young man nodded. “That’s not far from my home, of course—we own a lot of land around there. That place Sharples is in a terrible mess.”

  Warren nodded.

  The young man turned a little in his chair. “Mind you, it hasn’t been like that always. I remember it when I was a boy—in the War—when it was the devil of a place. Full of work, and the river full of ships. They built a lot of destroyers there, for the Admiralty. Foreign Governments, too. There were seven Barlow destroyers at the Battle of Jutland.”

  “So I heard,” said Warren.

  Cheriton glanced at him curiously. “What took you to Sharples?”

  Warren did not answer for a minute. Then he said “I was looking at the shipyard.”

  “Were you, by Jove. Are you going to do anything with it?”

  “I don’t know. If anyone wants a packet of grief, he can start building ships in a yard that’s been empty for five years.”

  The other thought about it for a minute. “I suppose you’re right. At the same time, that’s the sort of job I’d like to be in on.”

  “You would?”

  “Well, of course—that was always our family business, you know.” Warren nodded slowly, remembering. “Not Sharples, of course—Sunderland. My father sold out from the Sunderland yard in 1907 and after that he never touched shipbuilding again. But that was where my grandfather made his money.”

  They smoked in silence for a little time. “I don’t know if anything will come of this thing in Sharples or not,” said Warren. “In any case, don’t talk about it. But if it should get along I’ll remember what you’ve said. That is, if you’re really going to chuck the Army.”

  “I sent in my papers last month.” The young man turned to him. “I’d like nothing better than to get dug in to that, if I’d be any good to you.”

  Warren eyed him for a moment. “I’ll let you know within a month if there’s anything developing up there or not,” he said.

  A week later he was waiting in the lounge of the Savoy grill room for Miss MacMahon. She came to him punctually, dressed quietly in grey. He guided her to a table. “Did you come up from Ealing?” he inquired.

  She nodded. “By the District Railway. I’ve been shopping all the morning.”

  He ordered lunch. “You said you’d been in Laevatia,” she reminded him. “Was that on business?”

  He nodded. “I was in Visgrad for a fortnight.”

  “I’ve never been in the Balkans. Are the people nice out there?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “A man like me, going on business, never meets the real people. If I had to judge the Visgrad people by the ones I’ve met I’d say they were a lot of sewer rats, but that may not be fair.”

  “Did you go out on shipping business?”

  “Not primarily. That may arise out of it.”

  She eyed him steadily. “Do you think there’s any chance for us up there?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But I promise you this—I’m doing my best.”

  Her eyes softened. “I knew you’d be doing that.”

  Lunch came to them. “I saw your man Grierson on Monday,” he said presently.

  She laid her fork down. “Where did you see him?”

  “In Glasgow.”

  “Did you go up there specially for that?”


  “Yes.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “I liked him very well. He’ll come to us when we want him.”

  “You mean—to Barlows?”

  He nodded.

  “But isn’t he in a good job now?”

  “He’ll be in a better one if we start up again.”

  “He wouldn’t be so secure.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.” He smiled, thinking of the finances of the Clydeside Ship and Foundry Company. “But anyway, he’ll take the risk of that—upon the terms I offered him. I believe he really wants to get back to Sharples.”

  “They all do that, Mr. Warren. You’ll have no difficulty to get them back again, once the Yard starts up. Sharples was a jolly little town before—before this happened to us. Everybody liked Sharples.”

  He glanced at her curiously, smiling a little. “I suppose it was always full of smoke and steam, and raining all the time?”

  “It wasn’t,” she said defensively. “And, anyway, the towns up there are all like that. But Sharples was a nice size, and people were happy there.”

  He said, “I know.”

  They continued with their lunch, chatting of other things. With the coffee, she said:

  “I’ve been thinking a lot since last we met, about what you told me of the difficulty of getting anyone to order the first ship.” He was silent. “Do you see your way to get over that now?”

  He smiled. “I suppose I must, mustn’t I? Otherwise I wouldn’t have gone to see Grierson.”

  She coloured. “I’m so sorry,” she said, a little stiffly. “I suppose that’s confidential.”

  He smiled. “Discreditable things are usually confidential,” he said. “I thought everybody knew that.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  He met her eyes. “Do you think I’m an honest man?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I’m not. Nor is anybody else who gets business out of Laevatia.”

  He turned, and called the waiter for the bill. “If you’ve got time this afternoon, I’d like you to come with me. I’ve got to do some shopping.”

  He paid the bill, and they went out into the clamour of the Strand. He hailed a taxi.

  “Where are we going to?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Old Bond Street,” he said to the driver. “Conolly’s—the jewellers, you know. On the right-hand side.”

  They got into the cab. The girl turned to him. “What are we going there for?”

  “To buy an umbrella,” he said shortly. She looked at him curiously, but did not ask any more questions.

  He took her into the shop. The manager came forward to meet them, bowing a little. “Everything is quite in order now, Mr. Warren,” he said quietly. “I think you will be satisfied this time.”

  Warren nodded. “May I see it?”

  The manager spoke quickly to an assistant, who vanished into the back regions. The girl turned to Warren. “This isn’t an umbrella shop,” she said. “What is this all about?”

  The assistant returned, bearing with him a red leather case some three feet long. He handed it to the manager, who laid it on a table in a shaft of sunlight. He opened it.

  The sun threw dazzling reflections from the jewels on the handle, the silver stick; the pale green silk lay there translucent, shimmering. The girl caught her breath. “But what a wonderful thing!” she exclaimed. “It is an umbrella, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly, Madam,” said the manager gravely. He lifted it from the case, undid the silk retaining band with delicate care, and opened it. Warren took it from him and examined it critically.

  “That’s all right now,” he said. “I’ll take it away with me. You cleared the cheque?”

  The manager bowed. “Everything is quite in order, Mr. Warren.” He took it from him, and began to fold it. “It is a beautiful piece of work, in its own style. The Maharajah of Bitapore was visiting our workrooms yesterday, and admired it very greatly. He wished to buy it, but I had to tell him that it was already sold. It is for an Oriental gentleman, I suppose?”

  Warren nodded. “That is so.”

  The umbrella was laid back on its bed of cream-coloured kid, and the lid closed down. The assistant hailed a taxi, and the case was carried out and installed ceremoniously with them in the cab. Warren gave the address of his flat.

  “Is that where you live?” asked the girl.

  He nodded. “If you don’t mind coming along, I’ll take this thing up there.”

  In the flat he laid it on the table of his sitting-room. The girl fingered the case. “May I see it again?”

  “Of course.”

  She lifted it from the case and opened it again; the jewels gleamed brightly in the sunlight. “It really is a beautiful thing,” she said at last. Who is it for?”

  “It’s for the Treasurer of Laevatia. We should call him the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Opposite number to Mr. Neville Chamberlain.”

  She stood for a moment. “Do you mean you’re giving it to him as a present?”

  “That’s right. Quite a nice one, isn’t it?”

  “It must have cost an awful lot of money.”

  “About three hundred pounds.”

  “Is it because he’s helping you to get an order for the ships?”

  “Yes. It’s a bribe.”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I’ve heard about this sort of thing, of course. Do you have to do a lot of it in your business?”

  “I’ve never done it before.”

  She stared at him in wonder. “Are you having to bribe anyone else?”

  He smiled. “One or two. But we don’t use the word bribe, much. We say, satisfy them.”

  “What else have you had to give?”

  “Let’s see. So far it’s about four thousand pounds in cash, this umbrella, and a case of Worcester sauce.”

  She laid the umbrella down, and turned towards the window. “You don’t like doing this business, Mr. Warren, do you?”

  “No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

  “It doesn’t fit in with your reputation, either.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  She smiled. “We asked the auditors, Mr. Williams and I. And they found out from London, and told us who you were.”

  He stared at her. “You mean you got a confidential report on me?”

  She nodded. “It didn’t say anything about bribing the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

  “I should hope it didn’t.”

  She eyed him for a moment. “Why are you doing all this, Mr. Warren?”

  “Because I want to see Sharples get cracking again.”

  There was a silence.

  “I asked you to come and see this thing this afternoon,” he said, “because I wanted you to understand. It’s not going to be very easy to get Sharples going. I’d go so far as to say it can’t be done by ordinary business—I told you that from the first.”

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “It can’t be done in kid gloves. Nobody’s going to get that Yard working again and keep his hands clean.”

  There was a long silence after he said that. The girl moved over to the window and stood looking out upon the traffic of the street below, the sunlit pavements. Warren remained standing by the table; he picked up the umbrella and rolled it, and put it carefully in its case.

  “That’s not very nice,” she said at last.

  “No. But it’s true.”

  She turned towards the door. “I must be going on. It’s been terribly good of you to give me lunch, and tell me what you have, Mr. Warren.”

  “That’s nothing,” he said gravely. “But—be discreet for a bit longer. I’ll tell you when you may begin to talk about it in Sharples.”

  She nodded. “I understand.” She turned to him, and held out her hand. “Good-bye. And all the luck in the world.”

  He took her hand. “Good-bye,” he said, and stood for a few moments after she
had gone. Then he went down to the office.

  Heinroth rang him up on the next day. “I’ve been going round about,” he said. “That Laevatian Government thing of yours. It’s not an easy proposition—as, of course, you know. But there’s a certain amount of interest, after all. If you like, I’ll come along to you and we can have a talk.”

  “How much can your lot write?” asked Warren directly.

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk about. I should think another twenty-five per cent.”

  Warren nodded. “Come right along. With what I’ve got we’re practically home upon the underwriting then.”

  He rang off and sat for a time in thought. Morgan, his secretary, slipped in.

  “The solicitors rang up while you were away,” he said. “They rang again this morning—yes, Page and Mayne. They wanted to serve some papers. I said that you would get in touch with them.”

  “Lord, yes,” said Warren. “I’ll do that at once.”

  He had forgotten all about his divorce.

  CHAPTER IX

  THREE days later, his underwriting tentatively arranged, Warren left for Visgrad via Berlin by air. In that three days he had registered the Hawside Ship and Engineering Company Ltd., with a nominal capital of one hundred pounds and seven clerks as its subscribers. His own name did not appear.

  He reached Visgrad late one evening, dined at his hotel, and went out to the Gonea.

  Pepita greeted him effusively. “M’sieur, you are returned! I declare, I am very content. It has been dull here in the evenings since M’sieur went back to London. Only a fat Austrian, who made a proposal so rude—you understand, M’sieur, quite intolerable. I have hit him on the face, and broken his spectacles.”

  “That must have been amusing, Mademoiselle.”

  She gave him one of her brilliant smiles. “He was so angry. He has made complaint to the management, but I have told them—” she leaned forward volubly—“I have told them—I am artiste—I do not sleep with the clientèle. It is not in my contract, that.”

  He nodded. “Quite right. It would not be dignified for an artiste to be like a common girl.”

  She smiled again. “M’sieur, you understand so well. I declare, I am very content that you have returned. And, M’sieur, I have received a letter from Sulina, from the Sister of the Annunciation. She has said that my little one has been enchanted with her presents, and with the perambulator. All day she has promenaded in the garden of the convent, M’sieur, to play that she was nurse—you understand? And, M’sieur, the Sister has said that it has been necessary that the perambulator should be at the side of her bed so that she would sleep content. It was well thought of, that, M’sieur.”