Mr American

The illogicality of this retort from a suffragette passed Mr Franklin by for the moment, but he was naturally intrigued, not having encountered nobility before. She looked expensive, but otherwise quite normal. The policeman blinked, but made a good recovery.

“That’s as may be,” he said. “You’re not wearing a uniform either. And entitled to sell you may be, but you’re not entitled to cause an obstruction, which is what you’re doing.”

It was true; a small group had formed on the already crowded Aldwych pavement, some amused, but most of the men, Mr Franklin noted, either contemptuous or hostile. Aware of her audience, the suffragette raised her voice again.

“Another example of police harassment! You are interfering with a public right! I am breaking no law, and you are deliberately seeking to provoke –”

“You’re creating a public nuisance,” said the sergeant brusquely. “Now you move along, or –”

“Move me along if you dare! I will not be bullied! Votes for women!”

“Really, sergeant, I wasn’t being bothered a bit,” Mr Franklin was beginning.

“Be quiet!” snapped the young lady, and to the sergeant: “Arrest me, if I have done wrong! If the peaceful distribution of literature has become a crime in England, let us see you punish it! Votes for women! End the tyranny of forced feeding! Votes for –”

“That’ll do!” shouted the sergeant, who was plainly reluctant to try the physical conclusions which this violent female was obviously bent on provoking. “I’ll warn you just once more –”

“Freedom and equality among the sexes!” cried the lady triumphantly.

“Officer, may I say a word?” interposed Mr Franklin, and the unaccustomed accent, in the gentle drawl which Inspector Griffin had found so attractive, caused the sergeant to hesitate, and even the flashing young lady, her sheaf of papers brandished to assist denunciation, paused in full flood. “This is probably my fault,” Mr Franklin explained. “The young … her ladyship, that is, asked me to buy a paper – very civilly, I’m sure – and I asked her what it was about. She still hasn’t told me,” he went on, with a slight bow in her direction, “and I’ld like to know. Really, I would. So I just wish to say to her, with your permission, that if she would do me the honour of accompanying me into my hotel there, I’ld be charmed to continue our discussion in a less public place.”

It was not, perhaps, the happiest way of putting it, but it might have passed if the cabby, a gleeful spectator, had not supplied his own ribald interpretation, with a raucous guffaw; someone in the crowd sniggered, and a voice chortled: “I’ll bet he will, too!” The lady, either genuinely indignant, or seizing another opportunity to take offence, flushed to her handsome cheekbones; then she went pale, a look of utter scorn came into her fine eyes, and before the sergeant could interfere she had exclaimed: “You insolent blackguard!” and slapped Mr Franklin resoundingly across the face.

The onlookers gasped. “Right!” roared the sergeant, lunging ponderously. “That’s assault!” His hand went out, but before it could grip her arm his own wrist was caught in sinewy fingers.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Franklin quietly. He inclined his head towards the lady, who was preparing to resist arrest. “I meant no offence, and I beg the lady’s pardon. She misunderstood me – but that’s a woman’s privilege, wouldn’t you say, sergeant?” He released the policeman’s hand, and smiled into her speechless glare. “You know – like hitting someone, without the risk of being hit back.” He held out the sixpence. “Now, may I buy a copy of your ladyship’s paper, please? If I can’t have the privilege of your personal explanation, I can always read about it.”

There was a pause, and someone in the crowd murmured sympathetically – though on whose behalf it was difficult to say. The sergeant hesitated. Not so, however, the militant scion of the aristocracy, who could see herself being baulked of martyrdom by this odiously placatory colonial. She drew herself up with that icy dignity which only generations of aristocratic breeding and nursery teas can produce.

“You can have the bloody lot for nothing!” she snapped, throwing the bundle of papers at him, and before the sergeant could react to this further outrage against public order, she had turned on her heel with a swirl of expensive fur and vanished into the crowd.

“Here!” exclaimed the sergeant, and half-started to follow her, but thought better of it: arresting suffragettes was no fun at the best of times, and he honestly doubted his capacity to handle that one without considerable loss of dignity and possibly some tufts of hair as well. He turned reprovingly to Mr Franklin. “That’s what you get for being tolerant! You shouldn’t encourage ’em, sir; they’re a dam’ nuisance. She’ll be smashin’ shop windows with a hammer tomorrow, like as not. Vicious little hooligans. She didn’t cut your face, sir? Some of ’em ain’t above using brass knuckles.”

Mr Franklin, who had been gazing thoughtfully along the pavement where the lady had disappeared, became aware of his questioner. “No – no, I’m fine. Curious, though.” He frowned. “I thought they liked to fight it out. She didn’t. I wonder why?”

The sergeant gave him a hard stare, shrugged, and moved off heavily along the pavement. Mr Franklin stood for a moment, sighed, shook his head, pocketed his sixpence, stooped to pick up one of the fallen papers, folded it, and walked into the Waldorf Hotel.

3 (#ulink_720fc183-b1ae-5de6-9512-edc71318fc70)

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 watertight as he had originally supposed. Even so, he re-examined them several times during the course of the day, and the deputy did not sleep well for a week.)

At the Safe Deposit the well-respected manager, Mr Evans, personally rented to Mr Franklin a private strong room for five guineas per annum. For an additional guinea he was given one of the company’s reliable safes, into which the bags were packed; the safe was then man-handled into the strong-room, securely locked, and Mr Franklin presented with the key.

After such an important morning’s work he might have been forgiven for relaxing and basking in the reflection of treasure stored up upon earth, but he showed no such inclination. After a brisk bite at a public house he was afoot again by noon, to the biggest estate agent’s he could find; the senior partner, whom he asked to see in person, was engaged, and Mr Franklin spent the time of waiting in acquainting himself with the town and country properties advertised on the office walls.

There was to be had, he noted, in the reasonably fashionable area of Cadogan Square, S.W.1, a Gentleman’s Apartment comprising a Full Ground Floor; Mr Franklin stood absorbed by the catalogue of luxury – the fitments and furnishings by Liberty, the crockery by Doulton with which the kitchen and pantry were stocked, the fine master-bedroom with its private dressing-room and bathroom, the cosy panelled study, the opulent drawing-room with its Afghan carpeting and French chandelier, the elegant breakfast-room with furniture by Chippendale, the spare bedroom and second bathroom, the servants” room at the back, the excellent storage space, the polished cedar floors, the embossed wallpaper, the newly-installed silent flush toilets from Stoke-on-Trent, the electric lighting throughout at 1,000 candlepower for a penny, the patent boiler ensuring constant hot water … and all for the moderate sum of £200, a mere thousand dollars, per annum …

… Twelve cents a night for twelve square feet of Yancy’s shack in the Tonopah diggings and a place at the communal table, bring your own grub. fifteen cents if your space was against the wall – old Davis had rated a wall space, being over sixty, with Franklin on his unguarded side so that Yancy’s clientele couldn’t come creeping in the night to untie the blanket lashed around the old boy’s ankles and remove the precious poke from beneath it. One thing about London, S.W.1, you probably didn’t need to sleep with your goods tied to your legs. Twenty-seven cents a night all told, more than they could afford, but the old fellow’s chest couldn’t take the weather any longer; just a week in the mud under the tarpaulins would have curled him up for keeps – and even if it hadn’t, it would have left him unfit to dig on the ledges. And life without the ability to dig his stint wouldn’t have been worth living to Davis – “Hell, boy, I’m just an old gopher; ‘less I’m grubbin’ up the dirt I feel all deprived like. I shifted so much shit offn Mother Earth, she’s got a permanent tilt. Seen ’em all – Comstock, Australie, Cripple Creek, Sierra Madre, Klondyke – ten thousand dollars Jocky Patterson an ‘ me took into Dawson City, nuggets an ‘ dust, an ‘ the little bastard lost the whole dam ‘ pile in a stud game while I was drunk. Never did touch liquor since, ’cept for medicinal purposes…” And his old croaking voice had trailed into sleep, gradually murmuring into gentle snores in Yancy’s mouldy, flea-ridden, sweat-stinking shack, packed with scratching bodies, wet and filthy, and the Mex came slithering like a rattler, eyes glinting in the moonlight from the window, hand out towards old Davis’s blanket until Franklin’s Remington was thrust into his face, the muzzle resting on the olive cheek, and the eyes widened in terror, with gasping breath as the hammer clicked back: “Si, si … campadre!” Si, si, campadre, your greasy dago ass, stir a finger and I’ll blow your black head off! Vamos! Twelve cents a night for the privilege of lying awake against verminous thieves while old Davis babbled in his sleep in that leaky shed under the Big Smokies – and fifty dollars a night at the Bella Union after they came down singing together from the mountains with their saddle-bags plump with silver, soaking off the grime of months in their own private bath-tub, with French champagne being poured over old Davis’s matted grey locks by a squealing twenty-dollar whore, and the waiter feeding the old rascal cream cakes as he wallowed in the tub, yelling at the girls to get in beside him ’cos he was the richest son-of-a-rich-bitch and he was going to blow the whole danged pile in one riotous night and die in the morning, see if he wasn’t, and Franklin sitting on the tin trunk that held their goods, the Remingtons handy beneath his jacket and an eye on the waiters and bar-flies and raddled strumpets who abetted old Davis’s hooting celebrations and drunken staggerings – the wreckage of their private room had cost them a mint in damages, on top of the fifty-dollar rent for that single carousing night … Two hundred pounds a year in Cadogan Square, cheaper than the Bella Union, dearer than Nancy’s, and with silent flush toilets from Stoke-on-Trent thrown in …