Swirling Waters Part 21

It was clear to Riviere that he must make the journey to Paris if he were to unravel the mystery of that astounding statement. The dead Clifford Matheson mentioned authoritatively as Chairman of the new company! Why should such an impossible story be set afloat, and what was the "reliable source" spoken of? He knew that the _Europe Chronicle_ though a sensational paper, would not print self-invented fiction on its financial page.

"I have an urgent call to Paris," he told Elaine. "I hope you will excuse my running away so brusquely? I'll be back before the day of your operation."

"Of course, I excuse you," she replied readily. "I know that something very important is calling you. And in any case, what right would I have to say yes or no to a private decision of your own?"

There leapt in her a sudden hope that he would answer from the heart.

But his reply held nothing beyond a bare statement. "This matter is extremely urgent. I propose to catch a night train to Paris and be back by to-morrow evening. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

"I have everything ... but my sight."

"And that, Dr Hegelmann will give you within the month!" he affirmed.

In Paris early the next morning, Riviere sought out the financial editor of the _Europe Chronicle_. At a face-to-face interview, Riviere's personality impressed, and the newspaper man showed himself quite willing to prove the _bona fides_ of his journal.

"If you will step into the adjoining room," he said, "I'll send you the reporter who brought us the information. Ask him any questions you like.

I've perfect confidence in him, and I stand by any statement of his we print. I don't think people realize how careful we are on financial matters--they seem to think that a popular paper will print any sort of _canard_ offhand."

There followed Riviere into the next room a tubby rosy-faced little man, brisk and smiling. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" he rattled off cheerfully. "The financial editor tells me that I'm to preach to you the gospel of the infallibility of the _Chronicle_. What's the particular text you're heaving bricks at?"

Jimmy Martin's infectious good-humour brought an answering smile from Riviere. "I'm not casting doubts on the modern-day Bible," he replied.

"I'm seeking information. I want to know who told you that Clifford Matheson, my half-brother, is to head the Board of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd."

"I have it straight from the stable--from Lars Larssen."

Riviere's face did not move a muscle--he was still smiling pleasantly.

"Larssen and I are old pals," continued Martin briskly. "So when he was pa.s.sing through Paris the other day he 'phoned me to the effect of come and crack a bottle with me, come and let's reminisce together over the good old days. I went; and he gave me the juicy little piece of news you saw in yesterday's rag. We saved up some of it for to-day--have you seen? Clifford Matheson heads the festal board, and the other revellers at the guinea-feast are the Right Hon. Lord St Aubyn, Sir Francis Letchmere, Bart., and G. Lowndes Hawley Carleton-Wingate, M.P. Lars Larssen sits below the salt--to wit, joins the Board after allotment.

The capital is to be a cool five million, and if I were a prophet I'd tell you whether they'll get it or not."

"Thanks--that's just what I wanted to know."

"You withdraw the bricks?"

"Unreservedly.... By the way, do you know where my brother is at the moment?"

"Vague idea he's in Canada. Don't know where I get it from. Those sort of things are floating in the air."

"Where is Larssen?"

"He was going on to London--dear old foggy, fried-fishy London! Ever notice that London is ringed around with the smell of fried fish and naphtha of an evening? The City smells of caretakers; and Piccadilly of patchouli; and the West End of petrol; but the smell of fish fried in tenth-rate oil in little side-streets rings them around and bottles them up. In Paris it's wood-smoke and roast coffee, and I daresay heaps healthier, but I sigh me for the downright odours of old England!

Imitaciong poetry--excuse this display of emotion."

When Riviere left the office of the journal on the Boulevard des Italiens, he made his way rapidly to No. 8 Rue Laffitte, second floor.

There he inquired for Clifford Matheson, and was informed that the financier was in Winnipeg.

"You're certain of that?" asked Riviere.

"Quite, sir!" answered the clerk in surprise. "We get cables from him giving addresses to send letters to. If you'd like anything forwarded, sir, leave it here and we shall attend to it."

It was now clear beyond doubt that Lars Larssen was playing a game of unparalleled audacity. He had somehow arranged to impersonate the "dead"

Clifford Matheson, and was using the impersonation to float the Hudson Bay scheme on his own lines.

Riviere flushed with anger at the realization of how Lars Larssen was using his name.

But that was a trifle compared with the main issue. When he had fought Lars Larssen, it was not a mere petty squabble over a division of loot.

The Hudson Bay scheme was no mere commercial machine for grinding out a ten per cent. profit. If successful, it meant an entire re-organization of the wheat traffic between Canada and Great Britain. It meant, in kernel, the control of Britain's bread-supply. It affected directly fifty millions of his fellow-countrymen.

For that reason Riviere had refused to lend his name to a scheme under which Lars Larssen would hold the reins of control. He knew the ruthlessness of the man and his overweening l.u.s.t of power, which had pa.s.sed the bounds of ordinary ambition and had become a Napoleonic egomania.

In refusing to act on the Board, Riviere had made an altruistic decision. But now the same problem confronted him again in a different guise. If he remained silent, the scheme would in all probability be floated in his name to a successful issue. If he remained silent, he would be betraying fifty millions of his fellow-countrymen.

He had thought to strike out from the whirlpool into peaceful waters, but the whirlpool was sucking him back.

Weighing duty against duty, he saw clearly that he must at once confront Larssen and crumple up his daring scheme. And so he wired to Elaine:

"An urgent affair calls me to London. Shall return to you at the earliest possible moment. Address, Avon Hotel, Lincoln's Inn Fields."

CHAPTER XVIII

NOT WANTED!

In the train Calaiswards, Riviere felt as though he had just plunged into an ice-cold lake fed by torrents from the snow-peaks, and had emerged tingling in every fibre with the glow of health.

The course before him was straight; the issue clean-cut. He had only to confront Lars Larssen to bring the latter to his knees. If there were opposition, the threat of a public prosecution would brush it aside.

He must resume the personality of Clifford Matheson; return to Olive; settle a generous income on Elaine. He must wind up his financial affairs and devote himself to the scientific research he had planned.

A straight, clean course.

He looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would walk into Larssen's private office and smash a fist through his hoped-for control of Hudson Bay. Until that moment, he would keep outwardly to the ident.i.ty of John Riviere. But already he was feeling himself back in the personality of Clifford Matheson--the hard, firm lines had set again around his mouth, the look of masterfulness was in his eye.

The Channel was in its sullen mood.

Overhead, skies were grey with ragged, shapeless cloud; below, the waters were the colour of slag and slapping angrily against the plates of the starboard bow under the drive of a wind from the north-east. The ashen cliffs of Dover came to meet the packet reluctant and inhospitable. By the harbour-entrance, a petulant squall of rain beat upon them as though to shoo them away. The landing-stage was slippery and slimy with rain, soot, and petrol drippings from the motor-cars shipped to and fro. Customs-house officers eyed them with tired suspicion; porters took their money and hastened away with the curtest of acknowledgments; an engine panted sullenly as it waited for never-ending mail-bags to be hauled up from the bowels of the packets and dumped into the mail-van.

England had no welcome for Riviere at her front door.

Through the Weald of Kent, where spring comes early, this April afternoon showed the land still naked and cold. On the coppices, dispirited catkins drooped their ta.s.sels from the wet branches of the undergrowth, but the young leaves lurked within their brown coverings as though they shivered at the thought of venturing out into the bleak air.

On the oaks, dead leaves from the past autumn clung obstinately to their mother-branches. The hop-lands were a dreary drab; hop-poles huddled against one another for warmth; streams ran swollen and muddy and rebellious.

"The Garden of England" had no welcome for Riviere.