Claude Staffen, and the illustration was apt, for there was something very fishlike about this young man with his dull eyes and his permanently opened mouth.
Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a sideline, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.
Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.
He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he would imagine dark caves stumbled upon by accident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Monte Carlo Casino, with immense piles of mille notes before him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians – in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him for the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer – this was his considered view.
When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sitting-room, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.
Mr Staffen took off his light overcoat and, walking to the table, inspected the ore with sober interest.
‘I’ve had the assay,’ he said. ‘The Johnny who did it is a friend of mine and didn’t charge a penny; his report is promising – very promising.’
‘The company–’ began Art, but Mr Staffen raised a warning finger.
‘I think you know, and it is unnecessary for me to remind you, that I do not intend speculating a dollar in this mine. I’m putting up no money. What I’m prepared to do is to use my influence in the promotion for a quid pro quo . You know what that means?’
‘Something for nothing!’ said Art, and in this instance was not entirely wide of the mark.
‘Well, no – stock in the company. Maybe I’ll take a directorship later, when the money is up and everything is plain sailing. I can’t lend my name to a – well, unknown quantity.’
Art agreed.
‘My friend has put up the money,’ he said easily. ‘If that guy had another hundred dollars he’d have all the money in the world – he’s that rich. Stands to reason, Mr Staffen, that I wouldn’t come over here tryin’ to get money from a gentleman who is practically a stranger. We met in Canada – sure we did! But what do you know about me? I might be one large crook – I might be a con man or anything!’
Some such idea had occurred to Bertie Claude, but the very frankness of his friend dispelled something of his suspicions.
‘I’ve often wondered since what you must have thought of me, sittin’ in a game with that bunch of thugs,’ Art went on, puffing a reflective cigar. ‘But I guess you said to yourself, “This guy is a man of the world – he’s gotta
Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a sideline, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.
Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.
He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he would imagine dark caves stumbled upon by accident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Monte Carlo Casino, with immense piles of mille notes before him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians – in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him for the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer – this was his considered view.
When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sitting-room, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.
Mr Staffen took off his light overcoat and, walking to the table, inspected the ore with sober interest.
‘I’ve had the assay,’ he said. ‘The Johnny who did it is a friend of mine and didn’t charge a penny; his report is promising – very promising.’
‘The company–’ began Art, but Mr Staffen raised a warning finger.
‘I think you know, and it is unnecessary for me to remind you, that I do not intend speculating a dollar in this mine. I’m putting up no money. What I’m prepared to do is to use my influence in the promotion for a quid pro quo . You know what that means?’
‘Something for nothing!’ said Art, and in this instance was not entirely wide of the mark.
‘Well, no – stock in the company. Maybe I’ll take a directorship later, when the money is up and everything is plain sailing. I can’t lend my name to a – well, unknown quantity.’
Art agreed.
‘My friend has put up the money,’ he said easily. ‘If that guy had another hundred dollars he’d have all the money in the world – he’s that rich. Stands to reason, Mr Staffen, that I wouldn’t come over here tryin’ to get money from a gentleman who is practically a stranger. We met in Canada – sure we did! But what do you know about me? I might be one large crook – I might be a con man or anything!’
Some such idea had occurred to Bertie Claude, but the very frankness of his friend dispelled something of his suspicions.
‘I’ve often wondered since what you must have thought of me, sittin’ in a game with that bunch of thugs,’ Art went on, puffing a reflective cigar. ‘But I guess you said to yourself, “This guy is a man of the world – he’s gotta
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