Peter Jameson. Gilbert Frankau
I came to ask you about the financial position. This war, you know. The papers talk about a moratorium. I understand that to mean a suspension of credit. …”
“Only in extreme cases, Mr. Jameson. Only in extreme cases. Of course, we are not desirous, at the moment, of increasing facilities. We are, if I may use the expression, sitting on the fence. But my directors—I have a letter from them before me now—are anxious for me to impress on all our clients, that they do not anticipate any financial crisis. Measures, as I am given to believe, have been taken; temporary expedients adopted; by which. …” He went on to explain them, at some length.
“Then I take it,” said Peter, “that on the resumption of banking-business. …”
“Matters will be exactly as they were a week ago.” Mr. Davis rose again, shook hands, made his point courteously. “Naturally, Mr. Jameson, as Nirvana Limited will not be under the necessity of making payments, they will not require any addition to the overdraft which you have guaranteed for them.”
“Of course not,” said Peter. The interview had turned out according to anticipation. If Nirvana wanted any more money, it would have to be found in cash.
He stood for a moment on the steps of the Bank. London had not altered in a night. The straight aristocratic thoroughfare seemed a little busier than usual. That was all. Then he looked for the gaudy sentries outside Marlborough House; saw that they were in khaki!
“The factory, please, Murray; and as fast as you can,” said our Mr. Jameson. …
| [1] | “No more. No more. Not a word more. It is the Day.” |
§ 3
To describe “Pretty” Bramson as nervous, would be a gross understatement. The man was scared stiff; had been for two days. Peter found him wandering about the half-empty building—(the English workman does not usually put in an appearance till twenty-four hours after “Bank Holiday”)—damp cigarette between his lips, white about the gills, alternatively fidgeting and depressed. The famous black moustaches were distinctly out of curl: the brilliantined hair lacked its usual polish.
“Morning, Bramson. You look rather out of sorts.”
Bramson led melancholy way into the private office.
“It’s all U P with us now,” he said. “We’re ruined. That’s about the long and short of it.”
“Rats!” snapped Peter, lighting a cigar.
“The Bank will be down on us for that overdraft. …”
“Don’t be a fool. To begin with, they can’t call in any loans. There’s a moratorium. Secondly, if they do want their money, I can pay it. Do you really think I guarantee liabilities I can’t meet?”
“I hadn’t thought of the moratorium,” began Bramson, plucking up courage.
Peter, puffing slowly at his cigar, got over the flash of temper.
“Worried about that thousand of yours?” he queried suddenly.
“No-o. Not exactly. But. …”
“You are worried. Of course you’re worried. So am I. So’s everybody else. Let me remind you that I’ve got twelve thousand pounds in the concern, in addition to that confounded overdraft. But we shan’t either of us save our money by worrying. For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, man. Let’s have a look at last month’s figures. …”
Bramson went to the safe; opened it; took out some papers “Get a pencil,” said Peter, “and write down what I tell you. … Ready. … Right. … Now then: Assets …” He dictated steadily; picking out the amounts from the big type-written statement. “Liabilities. …” The dictation continued. “That’s the lot, I think. Add them up please.”
Bramson read out the figures: “Assets £27,862, Liabilities, including overdraft, £22,396.”
“Which means,” commented Peter, “that your thousand and my twelve are worth—about five between them. Roughly forty cents on the dollar. If we could sell the factory as a going concern.”
“You haven’t taken anything for the good-will of the business,” put in Bramson.
“Of course I haven’t. That’s the whole question. Up to the end of last month, we were making profits. That was why you bought Turkovitch’s shares, wasn’t it? Do you think we’re going to make a profit this month?”
“We might.”
“Forget it,” said Peter genially. “The best we can hope for is to nurse the show through this damned war—if it doesn’t last too long. Now listen to me. …”
He plunged into details, giving his orders succinctly. This must go: that be curtailed. Publicity account, selling expenses, manufacturing charges, clerical work—Peter dealt with each seriatim, hardly referring to the figures on the table. “As for the finance,” he concluded, “I’ll deal with that myself. But mind you, the whole thing’s a gamble … Play poker, Bramson?” he asked suddenly.
“Occasionally.”
“Well, if you ever put up your last table-stake to bluff the jack-pot on a busted flush—you’ll understand the present position of Nirvana Limited.”
Two minutes later the car was purring Citywards.
§ 4
Passing over London Bridge, through Gracechurch Street and Fenchurch Street, Peter saw that the City had in no wise altered. The same drays, motor-omnibuses, taxicabs and motor-cars fought their way through its streets. The same bareheaded clerks hurried along its pavements. The same hawkers proffered the same wares. Only the closed doors of the banking-houses portended the unusual.
In his own office at Lime Street nothing spoke of world-crisis. Parkins still sat at the enquiry desk. Old George was still dusting cigar boxes. Miss Macpherson’s typewriter clicked and tinkled from the clerks’ office beyond the stock-rooms. Simpson, just back from his chop at “The George and Vulture” showed no signs of depression. He, too, had interviewed his bank manager.
“And what did Smollett say about Beckmann’s bills?” asked Peter.
“It looks as though we shall have to meet them after the moratorium,” said Simpson. “You see they’ve been discounted through an English bank. As far as I can make out, Beckmann’s aren’t technically Germans at all. The firm’s domiciled in a neutral country—so Smollett says. …”
“Do you mean to say we shall be allowed to go on importing the brand?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Simpson.
That there could be any patriotic reasons for not trading with Beckmanns, did not strike them. The war was not yet twenty-four hours old; and neither the obtuse Simpson nor the concentrated Peter had realized it as more than a disturber of business.
“Elkins and Beresford will be sure to try and use this to prejudice customers against the brand,” suggested Peter.
“Let them.” Somehow, the crisis seemed to have nerved Simpson. Peter never remembered him so decided.
“We must go slow,” was his verdict. “Of course trade will absolutely disappear for the first week or so. Then it’ll begin to pick up again. There’ll be no difficulty about supplies. Whatever happens on land, our Navy’s got the Germans beaten at sea.