The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      “It is this African affair,” said the clerk.

      Lambaire stood by the door, his head sunk in thought.

      “I suppose you told them — ?”

      “I told them the usual yarn — that our surveyor was visiting the property, and that we expected to hear from him soon. One chap — Buxteds’ clerk — got a bit cheeky, and I—” he hesitated.

      “Yes, and — ?”

      “He said he didn’t believe we knew where the mine was ourselves.”

      Lambaire’s smile was a trifle forced.

      “Ridiculous,” he said, without any great heartiness. “As if one could float a diamond mining company without knowing where the property is — absurd, isn’t it, Grene?”

      “Very, sir,” said the secretary politely.

      Lambaire still stood by the door.

      “The map was in the prospectus, the mine is just on the edge — Etruri Forest — isn’t that the name?”

      The secretary nodded, watching him.

      “Buxteds’ man, eh?” Lambaire was perturbed, for Buxteds are the shadiest and the sharpest solicitors in London, and they did not love him.

      “If Buxteds get to know,” he stopped—” what I mean is that if Buxteds thought they could blackmail me—”

      He went out, thinking deeply.

      There is nothing quite as foolish as floating a company, and by specious advertising to attract the money of the speculating public, when the very raison d’être of the company is non-existent. If there is one thing in the world that is necessary for the prosperity of a diamond mining company it is a diamond mine, and there were reasons why that couldn’t be included in the assets of the company. The first reason was that Lambaire did not know within a hundred leagues where the property was situated; the second — and one not without importance — he possessed no certain knowledge that he had the right to dispose of the property, even if he knew where it was.

      Yet Lambaire was not the type of enthusiast who floats diamond mines on no more solid basis than his optimism. To be perfectly candid, the Great Forest Diamond Mining Company had come into existence at a period when his cash balance was extremely low; for all the multiplicity of his interests, such periods of depression came to him. It may be said of him, as it was said, that he did not go to allotment until he realized that there was some doubt about the possibility of ever discovering this mine of his.

      That it was a dream mine, the merest rumour of an Eldorado, unconfirmed save by the ravings of a dying man, and a chart which he did not possess, and by no means could secure, he did not admit in the florid little prospectus which was distributed privately, but thoroughly, to the easy investors of Britain. Rather he suggested that the mine was located and its rights acquired. The prospectus had dealt vaguely with “ certain difficulties of transport which the company would overcome,” and at the end came a learned and technical report from the “resident engineer” (no name), who spoke of garnets, and “pipes,” and contained all the conversational terminology of such reports.

      No attempt need be made to disguise the fact that Lambaire was without scruple. Few men are wholly bad, but, reading his record, one is inclined to the judgment that such good seed as humanity had implanted within him never germinated.

      He had descended to the little vestibule of the building, and was stepping into the street without, when a taxicab drove up and deposited the dapper Whitey.

      “I want you,” he piped.

      Lambaire frowned.

      “I haven’t any time—” he began.

      “Come back,” urged Whitey, catching his arm, “come back into the office; I’ve got something important to say to you.”

      Reluctantly the big man retraced his steps.

      Mr. Secretary Grene had a narrow shave, for he was examining a private drawer of his employers when the footsteps of the men sounded in the stone-flagged corridor without.

      With an agility and deftness that would have delighted Lambaire, had these qualities been exercised on his behalf, instead of being to his detriment, the secretary closed and locked the drawer with one motion, slipped the key into his pocket, and was busily engaged in reading his notes when the two entered.

      “You can go, Grene,” said Lambaire. “I’ve got a little business to transact with Mr. White — have your lunch and come back in half an hour.”

      When the door had closed on the secretary, Lambaire turned to the other.

      “Well?” he demanded.

      Whitey had taken the most comfortable chair in the room, and had crossed his elegantly cased legs. He had the pleasant air of one who by reason of superior knowledge was master of the situation.

      “When you have finished looking like a smirking jackass, perhaps you will tell me why you have made me postpone my lunch,” said Lambaire unpleasantly.

      Whitey’s legs uncurled, and he sat up.

      “This is news, Lambaire.” His impressive hand, upraised, emphasized the importance of the communication he had to convey.

      “It’s an idea, and news together,” he said. “I’ve seen the Suttons.”

      Lambaire nodded. The audacity of Whitey was a constant surprise to him, but it was the big man’s practice never to betray that surprise.

      Whitey was obviously disappointed that his great tidings had fallen so flat.

      “You take a dashed lot for granted,” he grumbled. “I’ve seen the Suttons, Lambaire — seen ’em after the affair at the Whistlers; it wanted a bit of doing.”

      “You’re a good chap, Whitey,” soothed Lambaire, “a wonderful chap; well?”

      “Well,” said the ruffled man in the chair, “I had a talk with the boy — very sulky, very sulky> Lambaire; huffy, didn’t want to have any truck with me; and his sister — phew !”

      He raised his two hands, palms outwards, as he recalled the trying interview.

      “She gave me the Ice,” he said earnestly, “she was Cold — she was Zezo; talking to her, Lambaire, was like sitting in a draught! Br-r!” He shivered.

      “Well, what about the boy?”

      Whitey smiled slyly.

      “Huffish, haughty, go to — you know where — but reasonable. He’s got the hang of the Whistler. It was like catching a kicked cat to get him back. He put on his dam’ Oxford and Eton dressing — haw — haw! — you know the voice. Awfully sorry, but the acquaintance had better drop — he’d made a mistake; no thank you, let the matter drop; good morning, mind the step.”

      Whitey was an СКАЧАТЬ