Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

The price of the shares had risen from eight pence to one shilling and sixpence — eighteen pence — bid. The general consensus of opinion seemed to be that somebody with more money than sense was indulging in a thousand to one against gamble. There still appeared to be plenty of sellers.

Smith tossed the newspaper aside. In the morning he would be able to secure more detailed news of what was going on. It was rather curious — this rush on Che Fiangs — but— His telephone bell rang. “Mr. Mallison” wished to see him. Mr. Mallison was Lord Bordington.

Smith ordered that he should be shown up at once. He waited. The room was very still. Through the wide open window no breath of air came. He had the door of his bedroom closed, and the door to the valet’s room on the other side of the room was also closed. Besides these communicating, interior doors, each of the rooms had an outer door leading into the usual small lobby, which, again, had a main door giving on to the corridor of the hotel. Outside each window a balcony stretched.

Bordington came into the room, and Smith went to meet him with hand outstretched.

“How do, my lord,” he said. “I’m pleased to see you behaving sensibly.”

Bordington looked down at his hand, and then into his eyes.

“This seems entirely unnecessary,” he said curtly. “I haven’t long to spare, and I don’t propose to waste time by indulging in ridiculous expressions of esteem. Have you the paper you promised?”

“I sure have. But sit down. If we’re not going to fall on each other’s necks, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t behave like human beings. Have a drink?”

A whisky, Bordington decided, would not hurt him. Smith splashed out a couple of stiff pegs, and, lifting his glass, squinted through it at the light.

“Here’s to honesty,” he said. “It’s the best policy — when the other fellow practices it.” He pushed across a box of cigars. “By the way. You’ve seen the evening papers to-night?”

Bordington shook his head. “I hardly ever read an evening newspaper.”

Smith grinned. “Don’t come that House of Commons stuff here, for God’s sake,” he pleaded. “Is it a fact, you haven’t seen ’em?”

“I have said so.”

“Hm.” Smith considered him closely, and decided that he was telling the truth; also, he decided something else — something the denial was intended to make him decide — that Lord Bordington had nothing to do with the purchase of Che Fiangs during the day.

Had Bordington been the buyer, and knowing to what interview he came that night, he would most certainly have studied the evening papers in order to discover what comments they had to make on the day’s dealings. Smith was making the little error that so many very clever men make.

He forgot — to paraphrase the bon mot of a famous figure in history — that a clever man can be more clever than his neighbors most of the time, but not more clever than they all the time; that, in fact, to everybody of intelligence come moments when they are far above the average in perception and swiftness of thought.

Smith added: “Somebody’s been getting into Che Fiangs up to their neck.”

Bordington permitted a little flicker of indifferent surprise to show in his eyes. “Is that so?”

“I said it,” retorted Smith. “Who d’you reckon it ’ll be?”

Bordington shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell. What does the House say?”

Smith indicated the Evening Standard. “Nothing much. No sensational rise in price — considering. The Times might have more to say to-morrow. They’ll have all night to think about it. An evening paper can’t be expected to hand up so much stuff. I wonder what the extent of the purchases are?”

Bordington finished his drink. His hand was quite steady.

“May I be permitted to remind you that I didn’t come here to discuss stocks and shares?” he asked. “If you’ll carry out your part of the bargain, I’ll carry out mine. I’m rather anxious to get the thing over and bid you good-by. I don’t find your company or your conversation very entertaining.”

Smith laughed. “That’s it,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t mind me. Well — let’s have a look at that treaty.”

“Where is my note?” asked Bordington.

“Here.” Smith tossed a folded paper On to the table. Bordington reached out to get it, but Smith’s hand dropped across it. “A moment, my lord. Business is business. Stand back a bit. Thanks” — as Bordington got to his feet. “Look at it.” He spread the paper flat, so that Bordington, out of reach, could see it quite plainly. “Genuine?” he asked.

“Yes.” Bordington was displaying his first signs of agitation.

“Right. On that sideboard is a candle and matches. I’m going to lay this paper on the sideboard. You’ll lay the treaty copy on the table. While you’re burning your note, I’ll pick up the treaty. Is it suitable?”

“Yes.”

Bordington was very tense. He half suspected and expected treachery. The elaborate precautions against trickery further heightened his nervousness.