Mystery of Mr. Jessop (39 page)

“What rule is that?” asked his host, Mr. Moffatt, a big, heavy-looking man with a general air of liking to do himself well and at the same time of trying to keep himself in condition by plenty of open-air exercise.

The other sipped his port again. His name was Pegley – Edward George Pegley, generally known as “Peg” or “Ted,” for he was a genial soul and hated all formality. He spoke with a faint American accent. Born in a London suburb, he had spent a good many years in Denver, Colorado.

“My first rule,” he explained seriously, “and I've never broken it yet, is that if I know a good thing, I offer it to my clients first. My first duty, I consider, is their interest. In that respect I rank myself with a lawyer, a doctor. The client comes first. Professional duty. Only if my clients pass it do I consider it for myself. Even then –” He shrugged his shoulders. “Lack of capital, and then again – not my business. I'm not an investor. I'm an adviser of investors. If my clients got the idea that I was nosing round for good things for myself, my standing would be gone.” He paused, grinned, winked. “But I own up,” he said, “if I had dreamed that that £20 – good thing though I knew it to be – was going to turn into a steady £20,000 a year, I should have advised it all the same, but when my client turned it down at first, perhaps I shouldn't have gone on pressing it quite so strongly. All the same, I do feel a bit pleased I can say my rule stands unbroken. I don't, for instance, own a single share in Cats Cigarettes, though I've advised three or four clients to make investments in Cats that bring them in at least a hundred per cent – more, when they bought early. I remember one man – a bank manager – was so impressed by what I told him that he went home, mortgaged his house, furniture, insurance policy – raised fifteen hundred, I think it was – sank the whole lot in Cats Ordinary. I was a bit taken aback myself; more than I had bargained for. His wife was furious; thought he was mad; wept, hysterics, threatened to leave him, sent me a letter from her lawyer threatening I don't quite know what. Then he died. Wife thought she was ruined. Talked about learning typing and shorthand.

“Now she draws a steady £3,000 a year from that investment, lives in a swell West End flat, learns contract bridge instead of shorthand and typing. I must say she sends me a case of whisky every Christmas and that's more than some clients do, no matter how much they've profited. Of course, I've had my fee, so that's all right.”

“It sounds like a fairy-tale,” said Mr. Moffatt, listening greedily, his eyes alight, his port forgotten – unprecedentedly.

There was a third man present, sitting opposite Mr. Pegley. He was tall, thin, active-looking, with a small head on broad shoulders and a large imposing Roman nose above the tiny moustache and the small pointed imperial that in these days of shaven chins helped to give him his distinctive and even distinguished appearance. His long, loose limbs ended in enormous hands and feet, and on one hand shone a valuable-looking diamond ring, a solitary stone set in platinum. He seemed between forty and fifty years of age, and at the back of his head was beginning to show a bald patch that he admitted smilingly worried him a little, so that, in an endeavour to cure it, he had taken to going about without a hat. He had a habit of silence that added weight to his words when he spoke; grey, keen eyes; an aloof, imperturbable, slightly disdainful manner; and, when he chose to produce it, a most charming, winning smile that seemed to show a store of geniality and friendliness behind his somewhat formal air. His name was Larson – Leopold Leonard Larson. He was in business in the City, and, though he had listened to Mr. Pegley's monologue in his habitual silence, he had stirred once or twice uneasily in his chair. He was spending the week-end at Sevens, Mr. Moffatt's place near the Berkshire boundary, and Mr. Pegley had not seemed best pleased to find him there when he himself arrived from London to dine and talk business. He was watching Mr. Larson now with eyes that had grown alert and wary as he went on chatting.

“More than I can understand,” he said, “especially after living so long in the States, the way people on this side leave their money as good as dead. An American would think himself crazy if he kept half his capital on deposit account or tied up in the good old two and a half consols that may have been all right in our fathers' time, when land was land and brought in a decent return, and all a country gentleman needed was a trifle of ready cash coming in twice a year to meet any delay in the payment of the rents, or any extra estate expense – a new row of cottages, a new wing to the house, or what not. But to keep good money tied up like that to-day – why, it's like a farmer keeping his seed corn in the barn instead of sowing it in the field. Safe in the barn, no doubt, but where's next year's harvest?”

“Ah,” breathed Mr. Moffatt, and he pushed his glass of wine away – a thing that he had never done in all his life before – and he forgot to pass the decanter to Mr. Larson, ruefully aware his own glass was empty, and had been for some time. “Ah,” said Mr. Moffatt again.

“I don't know why they do it,” Mr. Pegley protested earnestly. “I don't know even how they meet their liabilities in these days, with all the taxes they clap on land. Why, to-day, the five thousand acres in a ring fence our fathers used to dream of – more a liability than an asset.”

“Pretty heavy liability, too,” declared Mr. Moffatt, still neglectful of that excellent and sound port of the 1904 vintage, still forgetful of Larson's empty glass, “and you've got to pay taxes on that liability, too – talk about four and six in the pound! Jolly lucky if you get off with double that.”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Pegley, with a world of sympathy in his soft, caressing tones.

“I admit,” said Mr. Larson, but a little as if he deeply regretted having to agree with anything Mr. Pegley said, “I admit the landed classes are at present most unfairly taxed. The trouble is, Moffatt,” he told their host, with one of his rare and charming smiles, “you country gentlemen don't command votes enough. I was dining” – he paused, checked himself on the edge of what would evidently have been a breach of confidence –”I have personal knowledge,” he went on, “that the Chancellor has been told so himself in the plainest language. He admitted it; all he said was, he could do nothing. As the – the person I am speaking of said afterwards, ‘Politicians never can do anything.'”

Mr. Moffatt expressed a brief but lurid hope anent the future of all politicians.

Mr. Larson, twiddling his empty glass, for his host was still far too absorbed to remember the port, relapsed into his accustomed silence. Mr. Pegley went on talking. Mr. Moffatt continued to listen, to listen as uncertain heirs listen to the reading of a rich man's will.

“I mustn't give names,” said Mr. Pegley smilingly, “but I can assure you for one list of investments my clients show me that I can O.K., take my fee for examining, and never worry about again, I get half a dozen that are simply deplorable in their neglect of opportunity, and at least one or two where a very slight readjustment can treble the return. Even in a really good list there is often opportunity for a change that may mean a few hundreds extra with equal security – not to be sneezed at these days. I remember after the war – I had just come out of hospital and was trying to pick up the threads again – I was shown a list; £50,000 capital. A lump in the two and a half's – good enough if two and a half suits you and you can meet your social position on it. Another lump in the five per cent war loan – good enough then, but, as I told my client, liable to a cut as soon as the Government was ready.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Moffatt again, thinking ruefully of his comfortable little £100 a year from war loan abruptly and bewilderingly turned into £70.

“The rest,” Mr. Pegley went on, “the weirdest stuff you ever saw. I remember one item. Three thousand in a dead alive old family business that just about kept itself going but had a valuable freehold that made the capital safe. Well, I drew up a scheme for that man. No. Thanked me, but wouldn't change a thing. His look-out. I got my fee. Whether he acted on my advice or not was his affair. I met him a few months back. He was getting twelve hundred a year from his consols. His thousand from war loan had been cut to £700. The rest of his capital brought him about £500. His estate in the Cotswolds put him in wrong a tidy sum every year.”

Mr. Moffatt groaned sympathetically. His own land did not “put him in wrong” by any means, but when he looked at his yearly outlay he often believed it did.

“Meant he had under a thou, to keep up his position on couldn't be done, of course. Well, believe me or not,” said Mr. Pegley, using a favourite expression of his, “that man still had by him the list of suggested investments shown in the scheme I drew up for him. The first item had gone down the drain – total loss. It happens even with a deal you feel sure of, though I had marked it ‘Speculative.' But the rest showed a return for that year of grace as near £17,000 per annum as makes no difference. I admit that was partly because the other item I had marked ‘Speculative' had turned up trumps – much better than I expected, though I thought it good. That happens, too. It was bringing in more that year than the whole of the poor devil's actual income – and then some. Not so bad, eh? I agree it was a gold-mine, and therefore a wasting asset. But, all the same, good for another twenty years in full yield and for another twenty tailing off. Besides the chance of another strike. ‘If I had done as you advised' he told me, looking a bit thin about the gills; and then the bus he was waiting for because he couldn't afford a taxi came along, and he jumped on. I felt a bit sorry for him – and sorry there wouldn't be any Christmas whisky turning up from him either. I own up, I do appreciate it when clients show they haven't quite forgotten.”

He sighed sentimentally and lapsed into silence. Mr. Moffatt continued to stare solemnly at his glass of port, still forgetting to drink it, still forgetting to pass on the decanter. He was lost in dreams, dreams of golden streams pouring automatically into his banking account, enormous ceaseless quarterly dividends declared by benevolent directors for the benefit of their shareholders. Why not? he thought. Mr. Larson, with the regretful look at the motionless decanter of one who finally abandons hope, took a pencil and card from his pocket and began to write in his small, precise hand. Mr. Pegley watched him sideways, scowling a little. Mr. Moffatt woke suddenly from his abstraction. 

“Shall we go into the drawing-room?” he said. “I expect Ena's got the coffee waiting for us.”

They all three rose, Mr. Moffatt still forgetful of his port he left untouched in its glass on the table – a circumstance that made the pale, thin, softly moving butler, a man named Reeves who had not been long in his present situation, lift his eyebrows in surprise before he drank it off himself, and another to keep it company.

In the drawing-room, Mr. Moffatt's daughter, Ena, was sitting alone, waiting for them. She was small, slim, with small, attractive, well-shaped features, solemn eyes, about her a general look of health and the outdoors that went oddly enough with her reddened lips of an unnatural crimson, her painted finger-nails, the plucked ugliness of her eyebrows whereby she claimed her right to share in all the bored sophistication of modern youth. She was dividing her attention between her own thoughts, a Persian kitten – named Gwendolene – a cigarette she had allowed to go out because really she hated the things, a new novel, a magazine that told how to knit jumpers of incredible fascination, and a small table on which stood a coffee-pot, a spirit-lamp, a kettle, cups, and so on. In another part of the room stood a bridge-table, with cards and scoring-pads all ready. Mr. Moffatt was, somewhat unexpectedly, a keen and successful bridge-player who had even taken part in tournaments. Remarkable to see how neatly and swiftly those big, rather clumsy-looking hands of his could shuffle and deal the cards.

The coffee was already brewed, and Ena began to pour it out as the three men came in.

“Where's Noll?” her father said to her.

“Messing about with the snaps he's been taking,” Ena answered. “Wants to develop some of 'em.”

 “Better tell him the coffee's ready,” suggested Mr. Moffatt.

“He can come for it when he wants to,” replied Ena with sisterly indifference.

Mr. Pegley, sipping his coffee, began to praise it. Ena listened indifferently. She knew she could make coffee as it should be made and so seldom is. Now, if anyone had praised a cocktail of her mixing – but, then, no one ever did, nor even drank it if that extremity could be avoided.

“There's a legend,” Mr. Pegley was saying, “that you only get good coffee in Turkey, the States, and France. In France it's half chicory, in Turkey it's just mud, and in the States it's all cream. Now this is the real thing.”

Then he began to talk about a coffee-making machine about to be put on the market, for which, he said, he was providing the finance.

“Speculative side-line,” he explained; “not the sort of thing I could recommend to the clients who do me the honour to consult me about their list of investments.”

Apparently with this machine you put the raw beans in at one end, touched a button, and in a minute or two a stream of perfect coffee poured into the waiting cups at the other end.

Ena listened, polite but bored. She hated machines. She felt they had a secret grudge against her. Whenever she went near one, it always refused to work, while her brother, Noll, had only to touch the wretched things and at once they would purr away contentedly. Ena felt it was hardly fair. She said:

“How lovely, Mr. Pegley, but it wouldn't do for us. We haven't electricity. Dad says he can't afford to install it.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Mr. Pegley agreed. “Unfortunately, there is that.” He paused. “So unnecessary,” he murmured, as if to himself; “so very unnecessary.”