The Green Rust, Edgar Wallace [top fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

Heerden bought them in?" asked Beale eagerly; and Mr. White nodded.

"Doctor van Heerden, a remarkable man, a truly remarkable man." He shook his head as if he could not bring himself and never would bring himself to understand how remarkable a man the doctor was. "Doctor van Heerden has repurchased my shares and they have made me a very handsome profit."

"When was this?" asked Beale.

"I really cannot allow myself to be cross-examined, young man," he said severely, "by your accent I perceive that you are of trans-Atlantic origin, but I cannot allow you to hustle me--hustle I believe is the word. The firm of Punsonby's----"

"Forget 'em," said Beale tersely. "Punsonby's has been on the verge of collapse for eight years. Let's get square, Mr. White. Punsonby's is a one man company and you're that man. Its balance sheets are faked, its reserves are non-existent. Its sinking fund is _spurlos versenkt_."

"Sir!"

"I tell you I know Punsonby's--I've had the best accountants in London working out your position, and I know you live from hand to mouth and that the margin between your business and bankruptcy is as near as the margin between you and prison."

Mr. White was very pale.

"But that isn't my business and I dare say that the money van Heerden paid you this morning will stave off your creditors. Anyway, I'm not running a Pure Business Campaign. I'm running a campaign against your German friend van Heerden."

"A German?" said the virtuous Mr. White in loud astonishment. "Surely not--a Holland gentleman----"

"He's a German and you know it. You've been financing him in a scheme to ruin the greater part of Europe and the United States, to say nothing of Canada, South America, India and Australia."

"I protest against such an inhuman charge," said Mr. White solemnly, and he rose. "I cannot stay here any longer----"

"If you go I'll lay information against you," said Beale. "I'm in dead earnest, so you can go or stay. First of all, I want to know in what form you received the money?"

"By cheque," replied White in a flurry.

"On what bank?"

"The London branch of the Swedland National Bank."

"A secret branch of the Dresdner Bank," said Beale. "That's promising. Has Doctor Van Heerden ever paid you money before?"

By now Mr. White was the most tractable of witnesses. All his old assurance had vanished, and his answers were almost apologetic in tone.

"Yes, Mr. Beale, small sums."

"On what bank?"

"On my own bank."

"Good again. Have you ever known that he had an account elsewhere--for example, you advanced him a very considerable sum of money; was your cheque cleared through the Swedland National Bank?"

"No, sir--through my own bank."

Beale fingered his chin.

"Money this morning and he took his loss in good part--that can only mean one thing." He nodded. "Mr. White, you have supplied me with valuable information."

"I trust I have said nothing which may--ah--incriminate one who has invariably treated me with the highest respect," Mr. White hastened to say.

"Not more than he is incriminated," smiled Stanford. "One more question. You know that van Heerden is engaged in some sort of business--the business in which you invested your money. Where are his factories?"

But here Mr. White protested he could offer no information. He recalled, not without a sinking of heart, a similar cross-examination on the previous day at the hands of McNorton. There were factories--van Heerden had hinted as much--but as to where they were located--well, confessed Mr. White, he hadn't the slightest idea.

"That's rubbish," said Beale roughly, "you know. Where did you communicate with van Heerden? He wasn't always at his flat and you only came there twice."

"I assure you----" began Mr. White, alarmed by the other's vehemence.

"Assure nothing," thundered Beale, "your policies won't sell--where did you see him?"

"On my honour----"

"Let's keep jokes outside of the argument," said Beale truculently, "where did you see him?"

"Believe me, I never saw him--if I had a message to send, my cashier--ah--Miss Glaum, an admirable young lady--carried it for me."

"Hilda Glaum!"

Beale struck his palm. Why had he not thought of Hilda Glaum before?

"That's about all I want to ask you, Mr. White," he said mildly; "you're a lucky man."

"Lucky, sir!" Mr. White recovered his hauteur as quickly as Beale's aggressiveness passed. "I fail to perceive my fortune. I fail to see, sir, where luck comes in."

"You have your money back," said Beale significantly, "if you hadn't been pressed for money and had not pressed van Heerden you would have whistled for it."

"Do you suggest," demanded White, in his best judicial manner, "do you suggest in the presence of a witness with a due appreciation of the actionable character of your words that Doctor van Heerden is a common swindler?"

"Not common," replied Beale, "thank goodness!"


CHAPTER XXII

HILDA GLAUM LEADS THE WAY


Beale had a long consultation with McNorton at Scotland Yard, and on his return to the hotel, had his dinner sent up to Kitson's private room and dined amidst a litter of open newspapers. They were representative journals of the past week, and he scanned their columns carefully. Now and again he would cut out a paragraph and in one case half a column.

Kitson, who was dining with a friend in the restaurant of the hotel, came up toward nine o'clock and stood looking with amusement at the detective's silent labours.

"You're making a deplorable litter in my room," he said, "but I suppose there is something very mysterious and terrible behind it all. Do you mind my reading your cuttings?"

"Go ahead," said Beale, without raising his eyes from his newspaper.

Kitson took up a slip and read aloud:


"The reserves of the Land Bank of the Ukraine have been increased
by ten million roubles. This increase has very considerably eased
the situation in Southern Ukraine and in Galicia, where there has
been considerable unrest amongst the peasants due to the high cost
of textiles."


"That is fascinating news," said Kitson sardonically. "Are you running a scrap-book on high finance?"

"No," said the other shortly, "the Land Bank is a Loan Bank. It finances peasant proprietors."

"You a shareholder?" asked Mr. Kitson wonderingly.

"No."

Kitson picked up another cutting. It was a telegraphic dispatch dated from Berlin:


"As evidence of the healthy industrial tone which prevails in
Germany and the rapidity with which the Government is recovering
from the effects of the war, I may instance the fact that an order
has been placed with the Leipzieger Spoorwagen Gesselshaft for
60,000 box cars. The order has been placed by the L.S.G. with
thirty firms, and the first delivery is due in six weeks."


"That's exciting," said Kitson, "but why cut it out?"

The next cutting was also dated "Berlin" and announced the revival of the "War Purchase Council" of the old belligerent days as "a temporary measure."


"It is not intended," said the dispatch, "to invest the committee
with all its old functions, and the step has been taken in view of
the bad potato crop to organize distribution."


"What's the joke about that?" asked Kitson, now puzzled.

"The joke is that there is no potato shortage--there never was such a good harvest," said Beale. "I keep tag of these things and I know. The _Western Mail_ had an article from its Berlin correspondent last week saying that potatoes were so plentiful that they were a drug on the market."

"H'm!"

"Did you read about the Zeppelin sheds?" asked Beale. "You will find it amongst the others. All the old Zepp. hangars throughout Germany are to be put in a state of repair and turned into skating-rinks for the physical development of young Germany. Wonderful concrete floors are to be laid down, all the dilapidations are to be made good, and the bands will play daily, wet or fine."

"What does it all mean?" asked the bewildered lawyer.

"That The Day--the real Day is near at hand," said Beale soberly.

"War?"

"Against the world, but without the flash of a bayonet or the boom of a cannon. A war fought by men sitting in their little offices and pulling the strings that will choke you and me, Mr. Kitson. To-night I am going after van Heerden. I may catch him and yet fail to arrest his evil work--that's a funny word, 'evil,' for everyday people to use, but there's no other like it. To-morrow, whether I catch him or not, I will tell you the story of the plot I accidentally discovered. The British Government thinks that I have got on the track of a big thing--so does Washington, and I'm having all the help I want."

"It's a queer world," said Kitson.

"It may be queerer," responded Beale, then boldly: "How is my wife?"

"Your--well, I like your nerve!" gasped Kitson.

"I thought you preferred it that way--how is Miss Cresswell?"

"The nurse says she is doing famously. She is sleeping now; but she woke up for food and is nearly normal. She did not ask for you," he added pointedly.

Beale flushed and laughed.

"My last attempt to be merry," he said. "I suppose that to-morrow she will be well."

"But not receiving visitors," Kitson was careful to warn him. "You will keep your mind off Oliva and keep your eye fixed on van Heerden if you are wise. No man can serve two masters."

Stanford Beale looked at his watch.

"It is the hour," he said oracularly, and got up.

"I'll leave this untidiness for your man to clear," said Kitson. "Where do you go now?"

"To see Hilda Glaum--if the fates are kind," said Beale. "I'm going to put up a bluff, believing that in her panic she will lead me into the lion's den with the idea of van Heerden making one mouthful of me. I've got to take that risk. If she is what I think she is, she'll lay a trap for me--I'll fall for it, but I'm going to get next to van Heerden to-night."

Kitson accompanied him to the door of the hotel.

"Take no unnecessary risks," he said at parting, "don't forget that you're a married man."

"That's one of the things I want to forget if you'll let me," said the exasperated young man.

Outside the hotel he hailed a passing taxi and was soon speeding through Piccadilly westward. He turned by Hyde Park Corner, skirted the grounds of Buckingham Palace and plunged into the maze of Pimlico. He pulled up before a dreary-looking house in a blank and dreary street, and telling the cabman to wait, mounted the steps and rang the bell.

A diminutive maid opened the door.

"Is Miss Glaum in?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir. Will you step into the drawing-room. All the other boarders are out. What name shall I say?"

"Tell her a gentleman from Krooman Mansions," he answered diplomatically.

He walked into