Kindling (11 page)

He passed through Doncaster. There were fifty acres of the shipyard, more or less—one wouldn’t give a bean more than five thousand pounds for the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel. It wasn’t worth that—it wasn’t worth a halfpenny, because it wasn’t earning anything. He could do that himself. But one would have to get the public in on it—to pay the losses. No one man could support the loss that that shipyard would make if it built ships again.

He pulled himself up with a jerk. This was sheer madness. He was thinking Hatry stuff.

He passed through Newark. If that Yard ever was to start again, the difficulty would lie with the first order. The order would be obtained for such a place with difficulty; that probably would mean at a cut price. Therefore, it would probably be done at a colossal loss,
and the ship would be late in delivery. You would have to find a pretty complacent shipowner to order from a yard like Barlows. Somebody that you had some sort of hold upon, perhaps …

There was always a
quid pro quo
. One of the Latin countries, or perhaps the Balkans, now. One might be able to do something there. They were always pressing him to advance a little further than he cared to go. Perhaps, however, if they placed an order for a ship …

He thought of his old father, dead for many years. He closed his eyes, and he could see the old man sitting at his desk. “That stuff won’t do,” he muttered to himself. “That isn’t how our business was built up.”

Grantham swept past him, and away into the dusk behind. The yard employed three thousand men when it was working at full bore—a wage bill of perhaps seven thousand pounds a week. Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year. That meant, perhaps, that they would build ships to the value of seven hundred thousand pounds a year, allowing for materials and overheads. That meant at least six ships of ten thousand tons, or smaller vessels in proportion.

It was impossible. Nobody, in this time of depression, could find an order for one single ship of such a size—let alone a flock of them.

There was the staff. That might not be so difficult; most of the chief executives of the old team were working in the industry at lower salaries and many of them not so far away—at Wallsend and in Sunderland. He could probably get them together again at a twenty per
cent rise in salary—if they were any good. But how was he to judge of that?

The whole thing was impossible, sheer madness to attempt. He must be sensible, and put it from his mind.

He passed through Peterborough.

It would be damn good fun …

T
HREE
weeks later Barlows’ Yard became the property of Mr. Henry Warren.

He bought it through a solicitor; it was a long time before the news leaked out of the new ownership. He did not use his firm’s solicitors, which might have led the rumour straight to him, but used a firm called Matheson and Donkin who had done some work for him before. He summoned Matheson on the morning after he reached London, and gave him his directions.

Two days later Matheson reported back to Warren in his office. “The shipyard is the property of Mrs. Hector Barlow,” he said. “She’s in Le Touquet at the moment—or else the south of France. Jacobson and Priestly are acting for her. There’s a son, too. He’s something in the cinema industry, but I don’t think he comes into the picture.”

Warren nodded. “How much did they take out of the business?”

The solicitor glanced at a pencilled note. “It’s a little difficult to say. Between 1914 and 1929—not less than four hundred thousand pounds. Probably rather more.”

“Not very pretty.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I said,” said Warren grimly, “that it wasn’t very
pretty. If I understand you right, they took all the cash out of the business in the good years. When the bad years came they let it bust, and left the town to starve.”

“That’s broadly what happened,” said the solicitor. “They cashed in. Of course, it was their own business. Still, put in that way it’s not a very pretty story.”

“What do they want for it now?”

The solicitor picked up another paper. “I had an hour with Jacobson. He wants fifty thousand for the goodwill, and another twenty thousand for the property as it stands, the freehold site, buildings, plant, machinery, fixtures and fittings—as a going concern.”

“Does he expect to get that?”

“I don’t think so. It’s an asking price.”

“You’d better tell him to go to Sharples and have a look at it—and then come back and talk sense.”

“You’ve seen it, have you?”

Warren nodded.

“It’s very bad?”

“It’s awful—the worst you ever saw. They haven’t built a ship there for five years. There’s no goodwill. I won’t pay a sausage for that. There’s fifty acres of land encumbered with useless junk. I’ll give him three thousand for that fifty acres, and anything he wants to take away before he sells, he can.”

He got up from his desk. “Tell him that. Tell him to go and have a look at what he’s selling. And tell him to remember that there’s somebody fool enough to offer him three thousand pounds for what he’s looking at.”

He paid five thousand five hundred in the end.

Matheson bought it for him in his own name, transferring it next day to Lisle Court Securities Ltd., the company which represented Warren’s personal fortune. Robbins the watchman continued to receive his weekly wage from Jacobson, as formerly. The deal concluded, Warren placed it in the background of his mind and plunged into the arrears of his work.

He left the house in Grosvenor Square and went to live in chambers in Pall Mall, opposite his club. His divorce proceeded on its way; he treated it as a matter of minor business, to the distress of his solicitor. It seemed to Warren that his divorce was an affair of little consequence; he had started it off, and it would happen; let the lawyers get on with it. His entire waking thoughts were centred in his work, but with an added interest. He was looking for ships.

In the next few weeks he learned a good deal about ships. With ships laid up in every creek and every river in the country, orders for new ships were a rarity. He heard of empty shipyards everywhere, of a few scattered orders bitterly competed for, and taken at prices that meant certain loss, but less loss than an empty yard. He heard of Government-assisted German and Italian yards competing in the slender markets that remained, content to make a loss on every ship to take the opportunity of world depression to build up their industry. He heard of queer ships for queer trades, and of rum runners.

In the office one day Morgan said, “The Laevatian Oil Development, sir. You remember you said it could wait over. Colonel Mavrogadato was on the telephone about a week ago. He wanted to talk it over with you.”

“Elias Mavrogadato? The one who was Minister for Home Affairs?”

“No, sir. This is Demetrios Mavrogadato. I think he’s a cousin—a cousin or a nephew. He’s over here with the Commission.”

Warren nodded. “I remember. How long was the pipe line going to be?”

“About forty-eight miles from the wells to the coast, at Pitlonas.”

Warren raised his head. “What were they going to do with the oil then?”

“Ship it, I suppose. They can place the greater part of the output in Italy.”

“They’d want tankers.”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

Later that day Warren rang up Colonel Demetrios Mavrogadato and invited him to lunch at the Savoy.

Colonel Mavrogadato was pleased to detach himself from the Commission and to accept the invitation. It pleased him to lunch at the Savoy. He prided himself on his capacity as
un homme d’affaires;
he considered the language of his country to be uncouth, and endeavoured to avoid the use of it. He had travelled widely. He had been to Belgrade twice and several times to Sofia; his brother had been to Berlin. With this wealth of experience behind him he knew exactly what was implied by the invitation; he would be expected to eat in one meal the value of his salary for a month, and it would cost him nothing at all. It would cost him less than nothing, in fact, since by common consent the Laevatian Commission had resolved that private hospitality could not affect expense accounts. He was
pleased, too, at the prospect of lunching alone with Mr. Henry Warren. It must be that the banker required his help. On his side, Colonel Mavrogadato was willing, nay, even anxious to assist Mr. Warren. In the nature of things, he could hardly expect to serve upon another Commission for some years, and he must make sufficient out of this one to augment his salary till Fortune’s wheel came round again.

They met in the entrance hall. “My dear Colonel,” said Warren in French. “This is indeed a pleasure.”

The swarthy features broke into a smile.
“Enchanté, cher monsieur,”
said the colonel, and bowed stiffly from the waist. They went down into the dining-room, talking amiable politenesses in bad French, and having some little difficulty in understanding each other.

Warren, who had had some experience of the Balkan peoples, was nevertheless surprised at what the colonel put away. He began, reasonably enough, with a plate of iced melon, followed by hors d’oeuvres and caviar. At Warren’s suggestion he followed this up with a couple of dozen oysters and half a bottle of Chablis. He then expressed a preference for turtle soup and
sole meunière
, and was so delighted with pheasant that Warren had little difficuty in inducing him to consume a second portion. With the tournedos they broached the second bottle of champagne. The sweet demanded serious concentration; the colonel took the card and studied it.

“Qu’est celui-là?”
he enquired. “Jam Roly Poly?”

“C’est un plat du pays,”
said Warren,
“avec confiture. C’est bien délicieux—mais solide.”

“Bien,”
said the colonel.
“J’ai encore un peu de faim.”

Coffee and kummel; with the blue smoke wreathing up from their cigars Warren approached the subject of their business. “It has been a great sorrow to me,” he said in French, “that I have been unable to see more of your beautiful country. Two visits only I have made there, for the business of the Visgrad waterworks.”

“The Visgrad waterworks,” said the colonel, a little thickly. “That was a very good business, I think. For everybody, that was very good business.” He leaned a little towards Warren. “But our oil development—that will be a good business too, I think.”

“I understand,” said Warren, “that it is the intention of your Government to raise the finance for the oil development from external sources. It is for this reason that I ventured to ask if you could spare the time to talk the matter over with me, as between two friends, or business associates.” The dark eyes watching him narrowed a little. “As I understand the matter, it is not the intention of your Government to seek a loan?”

They’d never have the nerve to ask for a loan, thought Warren to himself. Not after what happened to the last one.

The Laevatian leaned a little closer to him. “Not a loan,” he said. “There will be a company, an incorporated company of the highest integrity, supported by our Government. There will be two classes of the shares. The first class will be held entirely by the Laevatian Government. The second class will be issued to the public in London, perhaps also in Paris and in New York. But London alone, I think, is better.”

They know it’s the only place where they could raise money for a thing like this, thought Warren. I’d like to see them try it on in Paris.

Aloud, he said, “The Laevatian Government, will they subscribe in cash for any portion of their shares?”

He knew the answer before he asked the question.

“It is not necessary,” declared the colonel. “The Laevatian Government is the owner of all the oil that is in the land. It is not necessary that they should give money also to the company, besides the oil. That is for the public to subscribe.”

Warren nodded slowly. He sat there smoking meditatively for a few minutes. In the course of his working life he had examined many such proposals for Government-controlled companies, and he thought little of them. His experience warned him at the outset that this was probably a wrong ’un. It might not be consciously fraudulent in its inception, though he would not rule that out, but in the end the investors would probably lose their money.

He turned to the colonel. “It may be that it would be possible to float such a company,” he said. “But, as a first step, I think it would be necessary to offer some collateral security to the investors.”

The other nodded. “That might be arranged,” he said. “For example, the profit from the railways.”

Warren nodded. This thing had been carefully prepared; his sense of the unsoundness of it grew stronger. He had successfully avoided the railways as a security when he was dealing with the waterworks; in his view they were no security at all. But they would do to dress up a prospectus with.

God, he couldn’t touch this thing. He must be crazy to be thinking of it.

“As I understand it,” he said, “the proposal is that a pipe line should be laid from the wells to Pitlonas, on the coast, to get the oil to the coast for shipment. I take it that you have had suitable consultants on that portion of the project?”

“Everything,” said the colonel, “has been examined with a care that is incredible. Everything is in order for the work to begin now. The reports of the engineers are at your disposal.”

Warren nodded. That part of the thing was probably all right; it was not there that the swindle would lie.

He thought for a minute, and then said, “After the oil reaches the coast, how is it transported? In whose ships?”

The colonel shrugged his shoulders, and spread his hands. “You understand—that is a concern of detail, for the management of the company.”

Warren considered for a moment. He decided that there was no objection to indicating his line, even at this early stage. This would be a long business, and must be shortened as much as possible. “My dear Colonel,” he said. “You must understand the position of our finance in this country. In this time of depression, our business in the financial world is so to direct the facilities that we offer that they produce the greatest assistance to the trade of this country—in which also we have great interests.”