Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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      At an hour when most of the Waldorf’s guests were still asleep, or, if they were unusually energetic, were thinking of ringing for their early morning tea, Mr Franklin was striding briskly east along Fleet Street. It would have interested that student of men and appearances, Inspector Griffin of Liverpool, to note that the clothes which had seemed a trifle incongruous among the Mauretania’s conservative passengers, were in no way out of place in cosmopolitan London, E.C.; but then as now, one would have had to be an eccentric dresser indeed to attract even a second glance in the English capital, which had seen everything. The inspector might also have noticed a difference in the American’s manner; the slightly hesitant interest of the tourist had gone, and Mr Franklin no longer lingered on corners or spent time glancing about him; it was as though the anonymity which the great city confers on visitors had somehow reassured him. Also, he walked like a man who is going somewhere, which a London tourist seldom does. Now and then he would refer to a pocket map and glance at a street sign, but he never asked his way.

      His first call was at the American Express Company’s office at 84 Queen Street, and Inspector Griffin might have been mildly surprised by the deference with which he was received there, once he had given his name and satisfactory proofs of identification – unusually conclusive proofs, as it happened. It was the manager’s private office for Mr Franklin, a comfortable chair, the offer of a cigar, and the exclusive attention of the manager in person, with his deputy standing by. Mr Franklin stated his requirements – and at that point Inspector Griffin’s jaw would have dropped as far as the manager’s did.

      “Fifty thousand pounds?” said the manager, staring. “In gold?”

      Mr Franklin nodded.

      “But,” said the manager, blinking. “But … but … I don’t quite understand …”

      “New York handled the transfer, surely. They told me everything would be in order.”

      “Oh, certainly, certainly!” The manager hastened to reassure him. “Your account is perfectly in order – no question about that. Your credit is … well, I don’t have to tell you, sir. But … gold. That’s rather – unexpected, sir. And such a vast sum … an enormous sum.”

      “You’ve got it, though?”

      “Got it? Why … why, yes … that’s to say, I can get it.” The manager shot a look at his assistant, and found his own astonishment mirrored on the other’s face. “But we’re not used … that is, it would take an hour or two … the banks … so forth. We don’t hold such a sum on the premises, you understand.” He hesitated. “You would want it in … sovereigns?”

      “Or eagles. I don’t mind. Just so it’s gold.”

      “I see,” said the manager, although plainly he didn’t do anything of the kind. “Well, now …” He frowned at his blotter and pulled his lip, “Uh … Mr Franklin … forgive me, but it’s an unusual request – most unusual. I mean, we like to help our customers every way we can – especially a fellow-American like yourself, you understand. We try to advise, if… what I mean is, if you want it in gold, fine – but if you’ll excuse my saying so, it’s a hell of a lot of hard cash, when I could arrange for a cheque, or a letter of credit, for any amount you like, at any bank in Great Britain.” He paused hopefully, meeting the steady grey eyes across the desk. “I mean, if you would care to give me some idea, you know … what you needed the money for …” He waited, looking helpful.

      “To dispose of,” said Mr Franklin amiably, and there was a long silence, in which manager and deputy stared at him baffled. Finally the manager said:

      “Well, sir, you’re the customer. I’ll get you the money, but … well, let’s see …” He scribbled hastily, calculating. “Fifty by ten by a hundred … holy smoke, there’s enough to fill a suitcase, supposing you could lift it – it’ll weigh about half a ton!”

      “Not nearly,” said Mr Franklin, rising. “When shall I call back for it?”

      He left a bewildered and vaguely alarmed American Express office behind him, and there was close re-examination of the credentials he had presented, and anxious consultation between the two officials.

      “Could we stall him and cable New York?” wondered the deputy.

      “No point,” said the manager. “They can’t tell us anything we don’t know already. There’s his letter, with McCall’s signature on it – and I know McCall’s fist like I know my own. He’s given us his thumbprint, and it checks; his description fits, he has the numbers right … New York couldn’t add a damned thing short of a reference from Teddy Roosevelt.”

      “But – gold?”

      “Why not? If you’re as rich as this bird – hell, he’s probably Carnegie’s nephew. Get me Coutts’, will you?”

      And such is the efficiency of the admirable American Express organization that when Mr Franklin returned shortly after eleven o’clock he found waiting for him four heavy leather handbags, their flaps open to reveal a tight-packed mass of dull gold coin in each, a manager in a state of bursting curiosity, a deputy still full of dark suspicions, and two burly civilians in hard hats. These, the manager explained, were ex-police officers who would escort Mr Franklin and his treasure to … wherever he wished to go.

      “Oh, they won’t be necessary,” said Mr Franklin. He handled a few coins from one of the bags, nodded, and replaced them. “If you could have a cab called, though, perhaps they’d be good enough to put the bags aboard.” And while the goggling deputy called a cab, Mr Franklin signed the receipt, and watched the burly pair hefting out the bags with some difficulty, while the manager drummed his fingers.

      “Mr Franklin,” he said solemnly. “Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing? I mean – well, dammit all, sir – that’s no way to treat money!”

      Mr Franklin looked at him. “I know exactly how to treat money,” he said. “And I know what I’m doing. Do you?”

      “How’s that? Do I – ?” The manager took a deep breath. “Yes, Mr Franklin, I do,” he said with some dignity. He thought of the letter, the proofs … I hope to God I do, he thought.

      “That’s fine then,” said Mr Franklin. “I’m obliged to you, sir; you’ve been most helpful.”

      Boarding his taxi, he waited until the ex-policemen and the nervously hovering deputy had reluctantly retired, and only gave the driver his destination when the cab was under way. But it was not an address: merely a street corner a half-mile away. There he swung his four bags out on to the pavement, paid off the taxi, waited until it had disappeared, hailed a passing hansom, reloaded his precious cargo, and drove to the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit. (It is a sad reflection on human nature that the taxi he had dismissed returned immediately to the American Express Company office, as the deputy had privately instructed the driver to do, and there was momentary blind panic when it was understood that Mr Franklin had disappeared with quarter of a million dollars’ worth of ready money, no one knew whither. There was frantic re-examination of the credentials, and the manager finally concluded that they were as СКАЧАТЬ