of asking such a fool question, and he could have kicked himself for the stupid impulse which, in one fraction of a second, had thrown out of gear the delicate machinery of investigation.
Not a muscle of Stratford Harlow’s face moved.
‘Marling?’ he repeated. His black brows met in a frown; the pale eyes surveyed the detective blankly.. ‘Marling?’ he said again. ‘Now where have I heard that name? You don’t mean the fellow who was my tutor? Good God! what a question to ask! I have never heard of him from the day he left for South Africa or somewhere.’
‘The Argentine?’ suggested Jim.
‘Was it the Argentine? I’m not sure. Yes, I am-Pernambuco—cholera—he died there!’
The underlip came thrusting out. Harlow was passing to the aggressive.
‘The truth is, Marling and I were not very good friends. He treated me rather as though I were a child, and I cannot think of him without resentment. Marling! How that word brings back the most uncomfortable memories! The succession of wretched cottages, of prim, neat gardens, of his abominable Greek and Latin verses—differential calculi, the whole horrible gauntlet of so-called education through which a timid youth must run—and be flayed. Why do you ask?’
Jim had his excuse all ready. He might not recover the ground he had lost, but he could at least consolidate himself against further retirement.
‘I have had an inquiry from one of his former associates.’ He mentioned a name, and here he was on safe ground, for it was the name of a man who had been a contemporary of Marling’s and who was in the same college. Not a difficult achievement for Jim, who had spent that morning looking up old university lists. Evidently it had no significance to Harlow.
‘I seem t remember Marling talking about him.’ he said. ‘But twenty-odd years is a very long time to cast one’s memory! And very probably I am an unconscious liar! So far as I know’—he shook his head—‘Marling is dead. I have no absolute proof of this, but if you wish I will have inquiries made. The Argentine Government will do almost anything I wish.’
‘You’re a lucky man.’ Jim held out his hand with a laugh.
‘I wonder if I am?’ Harlow looked at him steadfastly. ‘I wonder! And I wonder if you are, Mr Carlton,’ he added slowly. ‘Or will be!’
Jim Carlton was not in a position to supply an answer. His foot was on the doorstep when Harlow called him back. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said.
Jim supposed that he was talking about the offer he had made, but this was not the case.
‘It was a crude and degrading business, Mr Carlton—but I have a passion for experiment. Such methods were efficacious in the days of our forefathers, and I argued that human nature has not greatly changed.’
Carlton was listening in bewilderment.
‘I don’t quite follow you—’
Mr Harlow showed his teeth in a smile and for a moment his pale eyes lit up with glee.
‘This was not a case of your following me—but of my following you. A crude business. I am heartily ashamed of myself!’
Jim was halfway to Scotland Yard before the solution of this mysterious apology occurred to him. Stratford Harlow was expressing his regret for the attack that had been delivered by his agents in Long Acre.
Jim stopped to scratch his head.
That man worries me!’ he said aloud.
CHAPTER 15
THE NEWS that Mr Stratford Harlow was entertaining the Middle East delegates at his house in Park Lane was not of such vital importance that it deserved any great attention from the London press. A three-line paragraph at the foot of a column confirmed the date and die hour. For Jim this proved to be unnecessary, since a reminder came by the second post on the following day, requesting the pleasure of his company at the reception.
‘They might have asked me to the dinner,’ said Elk. ‘Especially as it’s free. I’ll bet that bird keeps a good brand of cigar.’
‘Write and ask for a box; you’ll get it,’ said Jim, and Elk sniffed.
‘That’d be against the best interests of the service,’ he said virtuously. ‘Do you think I’d get ‘em if I mentioned your name?’
‘You’d get the whole Havana crop,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve got a pick. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of cigars for you on the night of the reception.’
‘Me?’ Elk brightened visibly. ‘He didn’t send me an invite.’
‘Nevertheless you are going,’ said Jim definitely. ‘I’m anxious to know just what this reception is all about. I suppose it’s a wonderful thing to stop these brigands from shooting at one another, but I can’t see the excuse for a full-scale London party.’
‘Maybe he’s got a girl he wants to show off,’ suggested Elk helpfully.
‘You’ve got a deplorable mind,’ was Jim’s only comment.
He was not the only hard-worked man in London that week. Every night he walked with Elk and stood opposite the new Rata building in Moorgate Street. Each room was brilliantly illuminated; messengers came and went; and he learnt from one of the extra staff whom he had put into the building, that even Ellenbury, who usually did not allow himself to be identified publicly with the business, was working till three o’clock every morning.
Scotland Yard has many agencies throughout the world, and from these the full extent of Rata’s activities began dimly to be seen.
‘They’ve sold nothing, but they’re going to sell’, reported Jim to his chief at the Yard; ‘and it’s going to be the biggest bear movement that we have seen in our generation.’
His chief was a natural enemy to the superlatives of youth.
‘If it were an offence to “bear” the market I should have no neighbours,’ he said icily. ‘Almost every stockbroker I know has taken a flutter at some time or other. My information is that the market is firm and healthy. If Harlow is really behind this coup, then he looks like losing money. Why don’t you see him and ask him plainly what is the big idea?’
Jim made a face.
‘I shall see him tonight at the party,’ he said, ‘but I doubt very much whether I shall have a chance of worming my way into his confidence!’
Elk was not a society man. It was his dismal claim, that not in any rank of the Metropolitan Police Force was there a man with less education than himself. Year after year, with painful regularity, he had failed to pass the examination which was necessary for promotion to the rank of inspector.
History floored him; dates of royal accessions and expedient assassinations drove him to despair. Sheer merit eventually secured him the rank which his lack of book learning denied him.
‘How’ll I do?’
He had come up to Jim’s room arrayed for the reception, and now he turned solemnly on his feet to reveal the unusual splendour of evening dress. The tail coat was creased, the trousers had been treated by an amateur cleaner, for they reeked of petrol, and the shirt was soft and yellow with age. ‘It’s the white weskit that worries me,’ he complained. ‘They tell me you only wear white weskits for weddin’s. But I’m sure the party’s goin’ to be a fancy one. You wearin’ a white weskit?’
‘I shall probably wear one,’ said Jim soothingly. ‘And you look a peach, Elk!’
‘They’ll take me for a waiter, but I’m used to that,’ said Elk. ‘Last time I went to a party they made me serve the drinks. Quite a lot never got by!’
‘I want you to fix a place where I can find you,’ said Jim, struggling with his tail coat. ‘That may be very necessary.’
‘The bar,’ said Elk laconically. ‘If it’s called a buf-fit, then I’ll be at the buf-fit!’
There was a small crowd gathered before the door of Harlow’s house. They left a clear lane to the striped awning beneath which the guests passed into the flower-decked vestibule. For the first time Jim saw the millionaire’s full domestic staff. A man took his card and did not question the presence of Elk, who strolled nonchalantly past the guardian.
‘White weskits!’ he hissed. ‘I knew it would be fancy!’
The wide doors of the library were thrown open and here Mr Harlow was receiving his guests. Dinner was over and the privileged guests were standing in a half-circle about him.
