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

“What do you want?” asked Bordington. “I presume you wish to sell me my signature?”

“Exactly. There’s nothing subtle about me. I’ve evolved no wonderful plot for your undoing. We’ll get down to tacks. Blackmail’s my game — and the price isn’t in cash. The money Trevelyan gave you enabled you to get into South Russian oils when the bottom was out of that particular market.

“You got in, my lord, because you knew in your official capacity that the Soviet at last intended to come to a real trading arrangement, and that South Russian oils would benefit. Well, the shares you bought at six or eight shillings each now stand at so many pounds. You’re a rich man. It was shrewd of you.

“Perhaps, I knew something, eh? Perhaps I was able to balance the offer and the exact opportunity so that the temptation was too strong for you. Which brings me to my point. Your Government — I acknowledge none — is concluding a treaty with a certain Eastern power which, of late, has been suffering from serious internal disturbances.

“The treaty is secret. Nobody is supposed to know of its existence. But it will restore order. It will set the finances of that country on a sound basis. It will do a lot of things — so rumor informs me. Unfortunately, I can get no details. Now, to speak more clearly, I will mention that Che Fiang Railways and Goldfields Limited, the mining company which owns its own railway to the sea, and has rights over a territory as big as Scotland. It’s good enough bust.

“It’s shares stand in pence — pound shares, mark you, quoted at pence. A man with my small capital could buy Che Fiang Railways almost clean out — provided he knew it was worth buying. If this treaty does all my rumor tells me, Che Fiangs are the swiftest road to fortune that this decade has shown us. I want you to supply me with the terms of the treaty, so that I can judge for myself; and in consideration thereof, you shall, with your own hands, burn that scrap of paper.”

As Bordington opened his lips, Smith held up his hand. “A moment, before you start in on the righteous indignation business. I’m not a spy. That old international guff is worked out. I’m a financier — a backer of long-priced starters on the stock markets of the world; and all I ask for is a little information straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I’m putting you in on Che Fiangs, mind you.

“There’s a tip for you in it, as well. And the treaty won’t be harmed in the slightest. I’m not selling it to Germans in disguise. I just want to know if your treaty will so far put things right that the richest gold district in the world will be permitted to get down to proper work. Once I know that, I’ll forget everything.”

Bordington shook his head. “You’re wrong, Smith. You’ve misjudged me. I shan’t do it.” He spoke evenly, but there was strain in his eyes.

Smith stared straight at him. “All right.” He seemed undisturbed. “I’m not going to jump at you, my lord. I’ll give you time. You’ve got a wife and a daughter, I think. Daughter’s likely to make a good marriage, I hear. You’ve got a name, and a family tree. I don’t go much on those things myself — but some folks think they count a hell of a lot.

“You’ve got all those — and I’ve got a newspaper. It’s only a little newspaper; but it’s good enough. I bought it cheaply. A provincial sheet of the type which I believe is usually designated ‘the local rag.’ I shan’t send your scrap of paper to the head of his majesty’s government. I shan’t send it to The Times.

“I shall reproduce it in my little newspaper. That’ll be enough. I shall keep on reproducing it in the middle of the front page until all the press of Great Britain starts wondering. Then I’ll sit back for you to take action.”

Bordington, of a sudden, took to walking about the room in swift, staccato movement. He stopped in the middle of this striding and wheeled passionately on Smith.

“One day,” he said tensely, “your sins will find you out, Smith.”

Smith nodded. “One day’s always a bit ahead, my lord. Now there’s that detective fellow — Murray — the secret service guy that’s supposed to be hunting down what you call the mysterious gang of criminals.” Smith’s eyes lighted. “By the way, who is he? Is it all bluff? Or is there such, a fellow?”

Bordington said shortly: “I don’t know anything, except that Murray actually exists; and I hope to God hell catch you.”

Smith examined him for a second, and was apparently satisfied that he spoke the truth. “Hm. Pretty close at headquarters, aren’t they, if a man like you doesn’t know Murray. Anyhow, if ever he has the luck to hit my trail he’ll find it the thinnest he’s ever followed.

“But to get back to business. I’m giving you forty-eight hours from now. At midnight two nights hence, you’ll come along with a rough copy of the provisions of the treaty. If you don’t, the following day my little newspaper puts a jolt into Fleet Street with the scoop of the season.”