Stone's Fall (58 page)

“The Royal Navy will thank you for that, I’m sure,” I said ironically.

Macintyre laughed. “They won’t. This will neutralise every navy in the world! No one will dare send their capital ships to sea, for fear of losing them. War will come to an end.”

I found his optimism touching, if misplaced. “That would kill off demand for your invention, would it not? How many of these could you sell?”

“I have no idea.”

I did. If it worked, and he could persuade one navy to buy them, then he would sell them to every navy in the world. Admirals are as discerning as housewives in a department store. They must have what everyone else is having.

“Does it work?”

“Of course. At least, it will work, when one or two problems are ironed out.”

“Such as?”

“It has to go in a straight line, as I say. That is quite straightforward. But it also has to propel itself at a constant depth, not rising and falling. Through the water, not over the top of it.”

“Why?”

“Because ships are plated above the waterline, but not so heavily below it. Shells burst when they hit the water, so there is rarely direct damage under sea level, and so little need to protect the hulls so far down.”

“How much does it cost to make these?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“And how much will you try to sell them for?”

“I haven’t thought about that.”

“Where would you manufacture them? You could hardly do it here.”

“I don’t know.”

“How much have you spent on developing it so far?”

All of a sudden the boyish look of enthusiasm which had animated his face since he began talking about his machine faded. He looked his age and more so, careworn and anxious.

“Everything I have, or had. And more.”

“You are in debt?” He professed to like direct questions. Normally I do not, except where money is concerned. There I desire absolute and unambiguous precision.

He nodded.

“How much?”

“Three hundred pounds. I think.”

“At what rate of interest?”

“I don’t know.”

I was appalled. However skilled Macintyre was as an engineer, he was no businessman. In that department he was as naïve as a newborn babe. And someone, I could tell, was taking advantage of that.

I do not object to such practises. Macintyre was an adult and far from stupid. He had entered into an agreement fully conscious of what he was doing. If he did so, that was his fault, not the fault of the person who was so exploiting his unworldly nature. It turned out, so he told me, that he had needed money, both to pay the wages of his men, and to buy the material necessary for his great machine, and had assumed he would be able to pay it off with a job he had taken on designing the metalwork for a new bridge to be thrown across the Grand Canal. But that project had collapsed, so no payment was forthcoming, and the debts had mounted up.

“I arrived in Venice with enough money, so I thought, to live in definitely. But this machine has been more difficult than I could ever have imagined. The problems to be solved! You cannot believe it. Building the case and ensuring it is watertight, designing the engine, the detonator, coming up with an entirely new device to regulate depth. It takes time and money. More money than I have.”

“So you are heavily in debt, with no assets to draw on, paying what I imagine is a high rate of interest. How long before you are unable to continue?”

“Not long. My creditors are pressing. They are insisting that the torpedo be tried out and quickly, otherwise they will call in their debts.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’m going to give a demonstration soon. If it works, I will be allowed to borrow more. But it is too early; much too early.”

He did not continue, and had no need to.

“I think you need a bookkeeper as much as you do a draughtsman or a machinist,” I said. “Money is as important a component as steel.”

He shrugged, plainly uninterested. “They’re thieves,” he said. “They’d steal my invention and leave me with nothing unless I was careful.”

“I hate to say it, but you are not being careful.”

“Oh, everything will be just fine next week. When the test is done.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked weary. “Any sort of calculation in engineering I can do. But show me a contract, or a page of accounts…”

“With me, it is the precise opposite. Listen. If you wish, I could look through that side of things, see what the situation is precisely, and tell you—in words even an engineer could understand—how you stand at the moment. Only if you wish. I do not want to interfere in any way.”

I was very reluctant to make this offer, as it is generally unwise to give financial advice unbidden. But the look of hopelessness on his face as he talked of his debts was beguiling. And my mind was racing. An entirely new class of weapon could be formidably profitable—witness Mr. Maxim’s rapid-fire gun, which, from small beginnings, rapidly became more or less obligatory equipment for every army in the world.

And the beauty of Macintyre’s machine was that it was so wasteful. Unlike a cannon, which was (so to speak) a fixed investment, with the cost of employment quite low—only the amount needed to buy the shell and the gunpowder—the torpedo could be employed once only. Once sent on its way, the whole thing would have to be replaced. The potential for replacement orders was considerable and (if I knew my sailors) in a conflict they would fire them off like rockets on Guy Fawkes night.

Regular orders from an organisation with bottomless pockets. The prospect was enticing. Not least because I was fairly certain that Macintyre’s aim, of eliminating war by making destruction certain, was as unlikely as it was noble. No weapon has ever made war less likely; they merely end wars more quickly by killing people at higher speeds. Until the mind of man invents something capable of killing everyone, that will not change.

But it seemed that the chances of Macintyre ever succeeding with his device were small to nonexistent. He barely had the resources to finish one, so what chance had he of producing them in bulk? Who would provide the capital to fit out a factory, hire a workforce? Who would run it, ensure that the machines were properly made, sold and delivered? Macintyre had no idea of any of this, nor did he even know how to find those who did.

The whole situation was full of possibilities. If the machine worked.

CHAPTER
8

He did not buy me lunch, or even share a meal with me, but I was quite content as I walked back to my apartment, taking diversions here and there, so that it was early evening by the time I finally returned. It had been a most interesting day, and my spirits were further buoyed by three messages that awaited my return. One from the Marchesa, saying that I should dine with her the following week, as she had a delightful entertainment for me; the next from Mr. Macintyre, containing a bundle of papers and a curt note, saying that here were his accounts, if I wished to look at them. And the last was from Mrs. Cort, saying that her husband had given his permission for her to guide me around the city. We could begin tomorrow, if I wished.

My stay in Venice was settling down to being remarkably enjoyable, and no small part of it was due to the surroundings. The quiet of the place has a wonderful appeal if you are receptive to it, the more so because it is so unnoticed. The effect of the light also really cannot be put into words. It is not the peace of an English Sunday, for example, when the quiet is almost total but there is always the knowledge of what came before and what will come the next day. There is always the faintest haze in Venice, suggesting to the mind that the moment will continue forever, that there never will be a tomorrow. It is hard to occupy yourself with the concerns of the world, for concerns are always about what will happen in the future, and in Venice the future will never come, and the past will never disappear. I find that I have only a small recollection of buildings and scenery from that time; I have no strong memories of views or vistas. I had reached a stage where I hardly noticed any of it; some of the greatest works of art and architecture made no conscious impression on me at all. The effect, however, was total and overwhelming. It was like being in a different world, where everything fitted together. An old woman sitting on a step, a palace, a waiter setting out tables, washing on a line, boats crossing the lagoon, islands hazy in the morning mist, seagulls in the sky, all of these were part of this whole, relating perfectly to each other and to my mood, which moved rapidly from dream to purposeful activity seamlessly.

I became a Venetian that afternoon, walking to a spot on the Riva with a book. I had intended to view something, but I do not even remember what, as I never got there. I sat down on the steps of a bridge, and watched the boats go by. A pretty girl was selling pears fresh from the tree. I wanted one, but had no money on me. But they were so luscious, so fat and juicy-looking, some bruised already and oozing sweet sticky liquid in the basket. And eventually, I leaned over, and took one, biting into it before she even noticed what I had done. Then she turned, and I shook my head. I couldn’t help it, my glance said. The girl, dark-haired and bright-eyed, smiled at my pleasure, then laughed and offered me another. Take, take, she said. Take what you want. And I did; I took another, bowing in acknowledgement, and not feeling in the slightest bit embarrassed about offering nothing in return. She waved her hand anyway. Don’t worry, you will pay later, was the sense of her smile. Everything is paid for, eventually.

That evening, I settled down to read Mr. Macintyre’s accounts. Some may consider this a dull way of spending time, even an anticlimax after a day such as I had just enjoyed. I know that it is an unusual pleasure and that account books are a byword for spiritless, mechanical drabness, but that is said by those who do not understand them. In truth, a set of accounts can be as full of drama and passion as any novel. A whole year, more than that, of human endeavour is abbreviated, compressed down into a page of hieroglyphics. Add understanding, and the story bursts forth, rather as dried fruit expands when water is added to it.

Macintyre’s accounts were a particular challenge because they were so sloppy, and did not conform to any rules of accountancy that I had ever come across. What Italians consider expenditure or income is very different. For some items there seemed to be no fixed definitions at all; had they been deliberately designed to confuse, then they could not have been better constructed.

But eventually I teased out their secrets. Macintyre had run out of money about a year previously, and had had to prepare approximate accounts of the previous few years’ endeavours to back his application for a loan. These showed that he had started with £1,300; and he had spent it at about £500 a year. Since taking the loan, he had spent a further £300, which, with accumulated (and unpaid) interest, meant he was now £427 in debt. That is, he was paying interest at about 37 per cent a year, which was quite enough to sink any project.

Most of the money had gone on machinery (part of which was recover able if necessary), wages and materials for building his machine. His net position was in fact not as bad as it looked at first sight—if all the machinery had been sold at a reasonable price, he would be able to pay off most of his debts. But not all; he would be left with nothing at all for his efforts, except for his invention.

At this point, we entered the land of fantasy. Macintyre had essayed a guess about bringing his torpedo into production, but it was so devoid of any common sense or knowledge that it was almost laughable. I swiftly enough made my own calculations. Purchase of a suitable premises would cost around £700, the necessary machine tools about £6,000, a workforce of about forty to begin with would mean running costs of about £7,000 a year, which would have to be borne out of initial investment as it was unlikely to produce any revenue for at least that time. Plus the cost of material, which would be about £30 for each machine. Say another £3,000 for the first year. A required initial investment, therefore of £16,700 before a single torpedo was carried onto its first ship, or the first request for payment sent out.

And Macintyre could not even manage a debt of £300 without sinking into near bankruptcy. What was worse, he had been obliged to offer security for the loan and had nothing to give. Instead, he had in effect handed over the patent. Not outright for cash, but merely for permission to borrow. Possibly the most foolish, thoughtless bargain any man has ever made. He no longer owned his own invention.

This part of the paperwork took me some time to get through, as it involved a considerable amount of legal jargon with which I was unfamiliar. Besides, I could not initially believe it, even when I had managed to make it out. But it was all too true. If the torpedo failed, Macintyre would suffer, as his debt would be called in. If it succeeded, he would not benefit, as the machine was not his.

I could only conclude that he did not care: that he was so unworldly that all he wanted was to perfect his invention, to show the world his ability. Macintyre did not want to manufacture his torpedo or make money out of it. Once it was finished, he would probably lose interest. Judging by how he had talked about ending war, it was quite possible he would be almost pleased not to have anything more to do with it. He wanted to show it could be done. That was all.

But why? Why so obsessed, why so careless? Here the limitations of accounts come into play. They can tell of the movements of men, of their money, but rarely give much of an insight into their motives—although Macintyre’s fanaticism was written into every column of payments. He bought the best of everything: the highest quality steel; the most expensive German precision instruments. Materials he had imported from Sweden or England, when I was sure perfectly reasonable local substitutes were available at a fraction of the price he had paid. Bills were settled promptly when he had the money. He could not be bothered with the minor savings a delay of a week or a month might bring.

I sat on a chair on my balcony, looking down at the quiet of the canal below, dreaming peacefully. I was calculating fast, something I can do without the need for actual thought. Numbers, money, take shape in my head, and flow into new forms without the need to consider it at all actively. A woman was slowly propelling a barge down the canal, talking loudly to a little girl perched in the front of the boat. They were cheerful, even though it was the end of what had probably been for them a day of long labour. She was in no hurry; would give the oar a twitch, enough to make the boat spurt forward, then rest as it slid along and almost stopped, before twitching it again. By the time she had rounded the corner halfway down, into a tiny side canal I had not noticed before, I had the entire plan laid out in my head.

Macintyre needed to be rescued from himself. In effect, his foolishness had done me a great favour. I would have never even considered trying to wrest control of his invention from him, of forcing my assistance on him against his will or without his knowledge. But it was no longer his; he had sold it. And I had no qualms about taking on his bankers. They were opponents for whom one needed to feel little sympathy, if I could triumph over them.

Cardano would help, I felt sure. He would be able to back a private loan, so that I would retain absolute control and be able to pay off the debt when profits began to rise. I knew exactly the man who could help me set up the enterprise, could put me in touch with land agents to find a site. I would put in six—perhaps five—thousand of my own money, depending on the terms that Cardano could get. A limited company to protect myself. By carefully not paying any bills unless forced to do so, it would be a simple matter to make the suppliers in effect pay for the loan itself. They would get their money eventually, or we would all sink with the torpedo.

I found it all very relaxing, although I knew I would have to revisit my figures the next day, to see whether they were still realistic, or whether I had constructed too optimistic an outlook—underestimated costs, overestimated possible revenues. And I would wander down to the foreign library near San Marco, to see what, if any, information could be had on the world’s navies.

I emerged from the library the next day feeling even more cheerful. The main navies of the world were the Royal Navy (everyone knew that) with the French next. After these two came Austria, Italy, the United States, Russia. After them a few South American countries had ideas and ambition, as did Japan. All in all, the world could boast, if that is the right word, some 700 capital ships, 1,400 medium-sized vessels which could be used for fighting, and another 4,000 used for coastal protection and so on. Say fifteen torpedoes for the first category, five for the second, one for the third. A possible world market of more than twenty thousand torpedoes, and I reckoned I could charge £300 each. Possible revenues of more than six million pounds. Assume only half of the potential was turned into orders over a period of ten years, and replacement orders of 1/20th part of the total per year. That would suggest recurrent orders of about a thousand a year, and revenue when properly under way of more than £300,000. Possible profits per year of about £100,000, for an initial investment of £5,000. Assuming the business would be valued at fifteen years’ purchase, then that would create an enterprise of about one and a half million pounds.

Navies would order, if it worked. But would it? Macintyre was confident, and I was sure his acumen as an engineer was greater than his skill as a businessman, but even so obsession—and he was surely a man obsessed—leads to cloudy judgement.

Then there was the issue of wresting control from his creditors who, I was sure, had a better notion of his machine’s financial potential than he did. They would not give it up for a paltry sum, and I did not wish to pay high. The whole point of the game is to get a bargain. Anyone can pay a full price.

How was this to be done? First, know your opponent, and here, much to my surprise, my landlady proved to be a fount of useful information. Ambrosian, the head of the bank that had made the loan, was, she told me, highly respected as a man who had stayed in Venice during the Austrian occupation, but who had refused to have many dealings with Vienna. He had done most of his business with Venetians, and forged contacts with banking families in Italy, France—anywhere but Austria. Like most patriotic citizens, he had refused all invitations to official functions, refused to go to the theatre or opera, refused to sit in a café where an Austrian was sitting and (so it was said) subsidised forbidden groups of nationalists to annoy the foreign oppressors. He was something of a hero; whether he was any good as a banker was another matter entirely. Such information as I could gather from newspapers suggested a well-bottomed, but somewhat unimaginative, operation, which was good. Such people do not like risks. But newspapers are often wrong.

I did wish communications were better. I had sent off a letter to Cardano shortly after I arrived, and had mentioned Macintyre and also Cort, but had received no reply—even going by express mail, it would take a week for a letter to arrive in London, a week for the reply to come back. Better than it had been only a few years previously, no doubt, but in London I could have found all the information I needed in a morning. Now the telegraph crisscrosses the world, telephones are becoming common, and people take instantaneous communication for granted. They should try to imagine a world where a letter—to California, or Australia or India—could take up to a month, even at speed.