“Is your uncle a keen politician?”
“Keen as mustard,” Van Teyl answered.
“So’s my aunt. She’d give her
soul to have the old man nominated for the Presidency.”
“Any chance of it?”
“Not an earthly! He’ll come a mucker,
though, some day, trying. He’d take any
outside chance. For a clever man he’s the
vainest thing I know.”
Lutchester smiled enigmatically as he followed the
example of the others and rose to his feet.
“Even in America, then,” he observed,
“your great men have their weaknesses.”
Fischer, exactly one week after his nocturnal visit
to Fourteenth Street, hurried out of the train at
the Pennsylvania Station, almost tore the newspapers
from the news stand, glanced through them one by one
and threw them back. The attendant, open-mouthed,
ventured upon a mild protest. Fischer threw him
a dollar bill, caught up his handbag, and made for
the entrance. He was the first passenger from
the Washington Limited to reach the street and spring
into a taxi.
“The Plaza Hotel,” he ordered. “Get
along.”
They arrived at the Plaza in less than ten minutes.
Mr. Fischer tipped the driver lavishly, suffered the
hall porter to take his bag, returned his greeting
mechanically, and walked with swift haste to the tape
machine. He held up the strips with shaking fingers,
dropped them again, hurried to the lift, and entered
his rooms. Nikasti was in the sitting-room, arranging
some flowers. Fischer did not even stop to reply
to his reverential greeting.
“Where’s Mr. Van Teyl?” he demanded.
“Mr. Van Teyl has gone away, sir,” was
the calm reply. “He left here the day before
yesterday. There is a letter.”
Fischer took no notice. He was already gripping
the telephone receiver.
“982, Wall,” he said—“an
urgent call.”
He stood waiting, his face an epitome of breathless
suspense. Soon a voice answered him.
“That the office of Neville, Brooks and Van
Teyl?” he demanded. “Yes! Put
me through to Mr. Van Teyl. Urgent!”
Another few seconds of waiting, then once more he
bent over the instrument.
“That you, Van Teyl?... Yes, Fischer speaking.
Oh, never mind about that! Listen. What
price are Anglo-French?... No, say about what?...
Ninety-five?... Sell me a hundred thousand....
What’s that?... What?... Of course
it’s a big deal! Never mind that. I’m
good enough, aren’t I? There’ll be
no rise that’ll wipe out half a million dollars.
I’ve got that lying in cash at Guggenheimer’s.
If you need the money, I’ll bring it you in
half an hour. Get out into the market and sell.
Damn you, what’s it matter about news!
Right! Sorry, Jim. See you later.”
Fischer put down the telephone and wiped his forehead.
Notwithstanding the fatigue in his face, there was
a glint of triumph there. He laid his hand upon
Nikasti’s shoulder.
