RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters."
"WHAT do you think of this flotation of Collingwood's, Gutch?"
Coverley Gutch was lolling lazily through the House, whistling carols softly to himself, with his hands deep in his pockets, when the speaker stopped him.
"My dear man," answered Gutch, pulling up abruptly in the middle of a pianissimo rendering of Good King Wenceslaus, "I have been refusing to think of him ever since they began publishing the size of his diamonds in the daily paper, and detailing in paragraph form the social successes of his wife."
"Great Scott, Gutch, to hear you talk one might think you were the reporter of an anarchist newspaper, instead of it being your business to buy and sell shares. Do you mean to say you haven't touched any of the Collingwood group?"
Gutch smiled blandly.
"Not one, ab-so-lute-ly," he answered.
The other man turned away with ill-disguised contempt.
And, indeed, he had some justification for surprise. Everybody was gambling in Collingwoods, and here was Coverley Gutch, who had been a member of the House for some years, refusing to touch them, because Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood had certain social ambitions and were able to pay for the advertisement of the fact. It seemed all the more surprising when it was considered that Collingwood's name had become an almost national institution.
Had not a junior member of the Government referred to him in a complimentary speech as "one of the pillars of the Empire's commerce."
Had not a popular paper, with enormous circulation, which published an article each week under the title of "Life Successes," called him "the master-mind of the world's finance"
Who John Collingwood was, nobody exactly knew. He had loomed abruptly upon the horizon of the City in his fortieth year. it was remembered by the above-mentioned paper that Julius Caesar had begun his career about the same age—but what he had been doing prior to that date was a mystery. He had come into life, so far as the world was concerned as the managing director of the Arawaki Gold Mine—a fever-stricken hole somewhere in West Africa, which had been promoted under different names by a dozen men on previous occasions to the great loss of hundreds of small shareholders. Nobody quite knew how it happened, but it may have been the discovery of some actual gold in the mine, which led to the great success of the company. Arawakis, at any rate, boomed, and if, eventually the venture failed, it laid the foundation of Collingwood's fortune. He became the most successful promoter of the year. Investors followed him blindly, under the impression that he could not go wrong. Their faith was so far justified that everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. The annual meetings of his companies were festivals rather than dry business gatherings. And his speeches on these occasions, delivered with a certain heavy-footed-humour and a quiet grandiose manner, fired the shareholders with enthusiasm and confidence.
He had gone from success to success. He had built himself a house which was a palace. His gold plate, bearing his crest of a stag's head with the suggestive motto on a scroll below, "What I have I hold" was talked about everywhere.
His wife entertained with sumptuous lavishness, and if she did not know all the titled persons who condescended to appear at her husband's board, were not their names published in the papers, together with interview with the chef and such interesting details as the cost of the repast per head.
As Gutch was travelling home in his motor-brougham the same afternoon, with an evening paper in his hand, he divided his attention between glancing through its columns, and gazing out at the snow which was falling heavily. Suddenly, his eye lighted upon a paragraph in the police court news which attracted his attention. It was headed "Christmas Charity." He read it through.
"The world is becoming accustomed to Mr. John Collingwood's many acts of munificent generosity. but nothing will be more appreciated than his kindly act to-day, with its touch of deep humanity, at the Mansion House, where Henry Turner, aged 43, of no occupation, was charged with using threats and creating a disturbance in Collingwood House.
"Several times before, Turner, under the influence of some imaginary grievance, had sent threatening letters to Mr. Collingwood. Yesterday he forced his way into the great financier's office and behaved so violently that he had to be ejected by the police. Giving evidence to-day, Mr. Collingwood implored the magistrate to deal leniently with the case.
"It's Christmas-time, and I would like to show a little Christmas charity towards the prisoner!"
As the result of this plea, Turner was bound over for six months.
"I wonder," said Gutch to himself, "I wonder whether the fellow manages to advertise himself in his bath.
When the car finally deposited Gutch on the steps of his house at Hendon. the snow lay so deep that the marks of the motor's wheels looked like furrows.
He found Walker in the hall on a pair of steps, with his coat off putting up festoons of holly while two small children, a boy and a girl, watched him with rapt interest. They were Walker's nephew and niece, whom Gutch had asked down to spend the Christmas with their uncle.
"Yon's lad and t'lass," said Walker, taking the nails from between his teeth, "Anna-Maria's the name o't girl; George Henry the boy's called. After me."
After the manner of Yorkshire children, the two looked with sturdy, grinning defiance at Gutch. Gutch patted them both on the head and hoped they would enjoy themselves.
"We're rale glad to coom, mister,' said Anna-Maria, stoutly.
"Where's tha tongue gone to, George Henry?" ejaculated Walker, encouragingly.
The boy hung on to the end of the banisters on one leg, his face scarlet.
"It's just champion," he said at last.
THAT night as Gutch sat in his study smoking a pipe, and deep in the latest
book on "Intensive Culture," he had forgotten almost the existence of his two
little guests. He was reminded of them with almost dramatic suddenness. It
was just half-past twelve and he was lazily filling his pipe from his pouch,
when a slight movement on the handle of. the door attracted his attention. He
sat still, watching it.
Slowly it turned, and then, cautiously, the door began to swing open. Presently a queer little figure, in a long flannel nightshirt and bare feet, slid into the room. It was George Henry, very pale and clearly very frightened, but with a certain stubbornness about his little mouth and blue eyes which denoted that he had made up his mind to some act which went much against his grain.
"'Ush! mister," he said, putting his chubby little fingers to his lips, "there's a chap, got into the house by passage window. I coom to tell you, as I could not find Uncle Walter."
Gutch stretched out two big arms and took the little shivering, boy up and deposited him in a big chair by the fire...
"You're a good plucked 'un, absolutely," he whispered. "You stay here George Henry, and I'll go and settle with the chap in the passage."
Kicking off his shoes, he paused just a moment to take a revolver from one of the drawers of his writing-table, and then, with the light step of an athlete, hurried out of the room.
In the hall all was darkness. He took the steps to the passage on the first floor without a sound. Once there he felt for the electric light switch, and, holding it in his hind, waited, listening. There was no question that somebody was in the house. He could hear him moving about, and the cold wind that blew down the passage showed that the window at the end was pulled up. A door near him opened cautiously, and somebody, trying to stifle breathing, came out.
Gutch pulled the switch down, and at the same moment presented his revolver at the figure of a man which suddenly sprang out of the darkness.
He was a man of middle-age, with a face so cadaverous and hunger-stricken that Gutch, with a feeling of shame, put the revolver in his pocket As he went towards him, the man stood stock still, offering no resistance. Gutch took him by his coat collar.
"Why, bless my soul," he said, "you're a burglar. What do you mean by it?"
"I've a wife and two children who are starving," the man. said, in a monotonous voice.
"Oh, yes, the old, old story," answered Gutch,
"It's an old story," replied the man. with a touch of spirit, speaking in an educated voice, "and it's an old complaint—starving is. You've never tried it, sir."
At that moment, Walker, who had been awakened by the sound of voices, came tumbling down the stairs. Gutch pointed to the burglar, and told him how George Henry had come to warn him.
"What's your name ?" he said to the burglar, as Walker, conducted him downstairs to the study.
"Henry Turner," replied the man.
"I know that name, but I can't recollect where I have seen it."
"Perhaps you read, it in the paper to-day, sir." said the burglar. "I was bound over at the Mansion House for creating a disturbance and using threats against John Collingwood—curse him."
He uttered the last words in the same dreary monotone, so that they seemed to have an almost dreadful significance.
"Ah," ejaculated Gutch; then pointing to George Henry, who sat warming his bare toes by the fire, he added, "take that little hero to bed, Walker, and come back-here. I'm going to have a talk with this man."
WHEN Walker returned, after having tucked George Henry safely away in his bed, he found Gutch walking up and down the floor of the room, while the burglar sat on the edge of a chair looking fixedly into the glowing coals.
"Let's see," Gutch. was saying, "your story is that three years ago, when John Collingwood was a nobody, he borrowed all the capital you possessed—four hundred pounds. With this money, you allege, he bought in the old Arawaki Company, and floated the new one, which turned out trumps, and laid the foundations of his fortune. He then, according to you, pretended that he could not pay back the four hundred pounds, but gave you instead four hundred Arawaki shares. That's right isn't? Tell me if I'm going wrong."
The burglar nodded gloomily.
"Almost immediately afterwards," went on Gutch, "the company went into liquidation and you found that the shares were worthless. You asked for your money back, and were met with the reply that you must take your chance with the rest of the shareholders. You considered yourself robbed, went and made a fuss at Collingwood House, lost your temper, and got run in. Having been robbed yourself and having a wife and children who wanted food, you came and tried to rob me: that's about the size of it isn't it?"
"That's it," said the burglar with a gulp.
"Well, your logic is immoral, ab-so-lute-ly. You're a danger to society, you're a burglar, and what's more, if you'll forgive me saying so, a jolly rotten burglar. Ab-so-lute-ly rotten. You don't even know the first principles of the game. Why, I really believe you haven't even got a jemmy and a mask. Look here, before I hand you over to the police, will you tell me what proof you've got of your story?"
"None," said the burglar, "except Collingwood's letter saying that be couldn't pay back the four hundred pounds in cash, but had registered my name as the holder of four hundred Arawaki shares."
"And the certificates?" queried Gutch.
"I never had them. I trusted Collingwood," he added, with a bitter laugh,
Gutch walked up and down for some time in silence. Finally, he stepped in front of the burglar.
"Look here." he said, "I've got to give you up to the police—duty to society, and all that sort of thing—but I'll see that letter of yours first. I'm going to lock you in this room for to-night, and to-morrow you can take me down to your place and show me the letter."
THE burglar was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted when Walker woke him the
following morning at half-past seven and gave him his breakfast. He ate it
ravenously and as soon as he had finished, he accompanied Gutch to his motor
car. Walker took the wheel and they drove off at a rapid pace towards
Child's' Hill, Here, in front of a wretched house, they stopped at the
burglar's direction, and going up a flight of dirty-steps, came to a garret.
The room Gutch found himself in was spotlessly clean, but almost denuded of
furniture. On the one chair that it possessed a woman was sitting, holding a
child in her arms. Another child, who was standing by her side, ran forward
to greet the burglar with cries of delight.
"Father's come back, mother. I knew he would," he cried.
The woman looked anxiously at Gutch and then inquiringly at her husband.
"You'd better tell her, sir," the burglar muttered, "and get it over."
Gutch stooped down and picked the little boy up in his arms.
"What a fine little chap you have here, Mrs. Turner," he said. "Forgive me calling at this early hour, but I met your husband last night, and as we had a little business matter to settle, we thought we had better get it through us quickly as possible. Have you got that letter, Turner?"
The burglar went to a dilapidated tin box in the corner of the room, and, after turning over some papers selected one, which he handed to Gutch. It was the letter from Collingwood stating, as Turner had declared, that he could not pay back the four hundred in cash, but had registered him as the proprietor of four hundred Arawakis. Having read it, Gutch folded it up, and put it in his. pocket.
"If Mrs, Turner will excuse you," he said to the burglar, meaningly, "we had better get on."
With a look of despair at his wife and children the man passed out of the door. Gutch following. As they emerged into the street, Gutch gave vent to an exclamation of annoyance.
"Get into the car," he said to the burglar, "and don't attempt to escape. I've left my gloves upstairs and I must go up and get them."
With long strides he retraced his steps to the garret. The door was still open and, with an apology, he walked in.
"Mrs. Turner," he said, "your husband, who has had to hurry off, asked me to come back and give you this."
He turned quickly and went downstairs again, leaving Mrs. Turner gazing with feelings of mingled astonishment and joy at two five-pound notes.
THERE is a room in Somerset House where are preserved the dreary records of all the companies, dead or alive, that have been formed under the Limited Liability Act. Here Gutch, having sent the burglar back to his house under the guard of Walker, spent two hours that morning. For the payment of one shilling he was allowed to search the register containing the names of the shareholders in the last Arawaki Field Mine Company. Four times he went through that list, but nowhere could he find the name of Henry Turner. When at last he passed out into the Strand, he called a taxicab and was driven direct to Collingwood House.
As he passed through a pair of mahogany swing-doors, a cleric came forward fussily and asked him his business.
"Take my card to Mr. Collingwood and tell him I want to see him at once—don't forget the at once."
The imperative tone had its Influence on the clerk, who hurried off immediately with the piece of paste-board. A few moments later Coverly Cutch found himself in the presence of the great financier.
John Collingwood's features were formed in the mould which the public imagination has prescribed as the ideal for the business man. He had a square, heavy, jaw, truculent lips and nose, a bulging forehead, and a head formed on the Napoleonic model. He was a complete contrast to Gutch himself. The one looked an easy-going good-natured, country gentleman; the other almost fiercely strenuous and concentrated.
"What is your business, Mr. Coverly Gutch?" Collingwood, said,swinging round on the pivot of his chair. "I shall be obliged if you will state it quickly, as my time is valuable."
Gutch sank slowly back into an easy chair, with the air of one who has come for a long stay.
"Well. I'm going to spend some of it, Mr. Collingwood, in the most valuable way in which it could be spent;" he said, crossing his legs. "Firstly," Mr. Collingwood, let me tell you that I don't like you; your type I have always held in particular abomination, and, really, your advertisement of your gold plate and your wife's diamonds and your sham crest have got on my nerves."
Collingwood's bulldog, face flushed scarlet. He made a movement as if to ring the bell in front of his desk.
"I shouldn't ring that if I were yon', said Gutch. "It's always unpleasant for one's clerks to know what one's really like: besides I've got a lot more to tell you."
"What the deuce do you mean by this infernal impudence?" blurted out
"Just this, Mr. Collingwood. You're a thief, and a mean thief."
The great financier sprang to his feet tempestuously.
"Leave. this office at once, or I'll have you thrown out." he raged.
Gutch laughed, as if he had heard one of the finest of jokes.
"Not until I've got that money of which you robbed Henry Turner, together with reasonable interest, Mr. Collingwood. Incidentally, also, I may mention that I take a lot of throwing."
"That ridiculous story again," roared Collingwood, "Perhaps, my man, you didn't see what happened to Henry Turner yesterday at the Mansion House?"
"Oh, yes, I did, Mr. Collingwood. I read all about your idea of Christmas charity. You had your sentimental innings yesterday. This is a hard business transaction! I have here a letter, written by you, in which you acknowledge your indebtedness to Henry Turner for the sum of four hundred pounds, and declare that, being unable to pay it off in cash, you have registered him as the proprietor of four hundred shares in the Arawaki Company."
"Well, that is quite true," said Collingwood, turning a little pale. "What of it?"
"Only this, that you never registered him as the proprietor of four hundred shares."
"That's an infernal lie!"
"I have just come from spending an interesting two hours at Somerset House. Perhaps you would like to come back with me and explain the absence of Henry Turner's name from the registered list of shareholders?"
John Collingwood had suddenly become very limp; he held on for support to the marble mantelpiece. His face was grey with terror. All the arrogant assertiveness had vanished.
"What do you want?" he said in a shaky voice.
"Four hundred pounds," replied Gutch calmly, "with interest for three years—I'm not good at arithmetic—let's call it six hundred pounds—together with another two thousand as compensation."
Without a word, Collingwood went over to his desk, and, unlocking one of the drawers, took out his cheque-book.
A few minutes later, Gutch was speeding northwards in a taxicab.
Although it was only one when he left the City, it was almost seven before he reached his house at Hendon. To the surprise of the neighbours in Child's Hill, Mrs. Turner and her two children were seen to enter a taxi and drive off. They were still more surprised when five hours later, she returned laden with boxes and parcels, and an hour after that, while the taxi waited outside, emerged from her attic dressed out "like a real lidy" with her two children in perfectly new suits.
When Gutch finally arrived at home, he went straight to his study, where the burglar sat waiting patiently for his doom.
"Turner," he said, in a stern voice, "you're wanted out in the hall. Take this envelope with you. You had better show it to them."
Limply, Turner rose from his feet and walked across the room. The end had come, he thought, and the police were there to take him away.
For five minutes Gutch waited discreetly in the study: then he suddenly burst out upon the little group, composed of a woman who was weeping upon her husband's shoulder with joy, and two little children who were dancing about in a state of the wildest spirits. Gutch refused to listen to a word that Turner had got to say.
"Walker," he roared, shaking the burglar's hand, "where's George Henry and Anna-Maria? I want to introduce them to two new little friends who are going to spend Christmas with us."