The Case of the Four Friends Page 3

  Habit was not the only characteristic of the man which his writing-table – and indeed the whole room – indicated. He was curiously, perhaps morbidly, susceptible to the stimulus of inanimate things which suggested special lines of thought to him. Friends had sometimes wondered why a photograph of a group taken at his wedding should hang on the office wall, but Sandham knew that a glance at it put him in the right state of mind when he was discussing the matrimonial troubles of a client. Other mementoes, in the true sense of the word, were scattered in the room, among them another weapon, as potentially deadly as the stiletto. This was a small revolver, so small as to appear almost a toy. It lay on the desk in a velvet case, and its butt was beautifully designed in mother-of-pearl. It had played a part in a crime passionnel of a few years before, a case in which Charles Sandham had not been implicated, but in which he had been a close friend of the parties concerned.

  He was a man of sixty-four, tall, spare, handsome, with greying hair, and with a pair of strong, well-cared-for and graceful hands. Indeed, perturbed though he was, he almost unconsciously admired his own hands as he toyed with the stiletto. Was he a little too good-looking, a little too much the always successful man of affairs, a little too much the actor cast exactly for the part which he had to play? One of his friends had once declared that he resembled John Galsworthy in later life; but a shrewder comment would have been that he resembled a successful lawyer as John Galsworthy might have described him. Even more nearly, perhaps, he looked like an actor-manager at the turn of the century (George Alexander perhaps, or Cyril Maude, or Godfrey Tearle); or a leading banker whose time was divided between the City of London and his own country estate. An observer meeting him for the first time might well have described him as a fine British type; intellectually alive, yet healthy and active, conventional no doubt, but conventional in the right way. It would be hard to picture him deviating from the course laid down for him by the social taboos of his generation and his class. Conservative certainly, and probably a sentimentalist, but courteous and unhurried and sympathetic; in short, a middle-aged English gentleman. There could be no other verdict.

  And yet, and yet – might not a doubt intrude itself into the observer’s mind? In the last analysis was not Charles Sandham almost too perfect a picture of what he aimed at being? Did he not dramatize himself too much? He could picture himself as the elder statesman, pointing the way to the younger men, or in moments of crisis exerting himself to act as a deus ex machina – making the final and decisive gesture. But was he not, in fact, unsure of himself; was he not always, consciously or unconsciously, playing a part? Yes – he was an actor, able, sensitive to impressions, but without the strength of firmly held opinion and fundamentally insecure.

  A full quarter of an hour had passed since he had entered his office before he could make up his mind to touch the bell which summoned his head clerk to his room.

  The head clerk who entered the room in reply to the summons was at least as remarkable as his master. No one knew with accuracy how old he was, but it was a standing tradition among his irreverent juniors that he had been born in the office of Sandham, Sandham and Bovis, and that he would deposit his ashes on the mantelpiece when he died. It was true, at least, that he well remembered Charles Sandham’s grandfather, and that his knowledge of the firm’s business and its clientele was profound.

  ‘Good morning, Chapman,’ Sandham said. ‘I hope that you enjoyed your Christmas.’

  The remark was too obviously a matter of routine courtesy to need anything more than a conventional answer.

  ‘Thank you, sir; I trust yours was equally agreeable.’

  ‘Oh yes, pleasant enough – I always enjoy Christmas. Has anything of importance come into the office these last few days?’

  Chapman cleared his throat. His reply when it came was delivered in the manner of an elderly schoolmaster reproving a small boy in his class – but with sorrow rather than annoyance.

  ‘You have not opened your letters yet, sir.’

  ‘No, that’s true, but there’s plenty of time for that. I really meant – has anything come in which I ought to see to at all myself?’

  Chapman cleared his throat once more.

  ‘I am informed, sir, that Sir William is sinking fast, sir. He is unlikely to survive for more than a few days.’ Sir William Merger was an elderly and very wealthy client of the firm.

  ‘Ah well, Chapman, we cannot last for ever. After all, Sir William has lived his life, and I believe enjoyed it. And he will leave no near relatives, I think.”

  ‘A great-niece, sir, who is already married but has no children, and a first cousin once removed who is resident – or was when we last had information – in Madeira. Not, I am led to understand, in all respects a wholly satisfactory person.’

  There was a pause, but Sandham did not seem anxious to continue the conversation. Chapman, however, had other ideas. He shuffled his feet, looked reprovingly at the unopened letters, and then continued.

  ‘We are responsible for all Sir William’s affairs, sir, and we hold a great many of his securities.’

  ‘Ah yes, we do. But I’ve not looked into them for some time. You know that I’ve left most of that sort of business to Mr Barrick of late years.’ Charles Sandham was the only one of his name in the firm, and the late Bovis had died without children some seventy years before; but Toby Barrick was connected both with the Sandham and Bovis families, and had been taken into partnership a few years previously and immediately after his demobilization. Since that he had exercised more and more responsibility, whereas the senior partner had resigned himself, and gladly, to taking a passive and honorific part in the firm’s affairs.

  ‘Yes,’ Sandham repeated, as though he was giving himself information for the first time. ‘I have left most of such things to Mr Barrick of late.’

  He spoke quietly, almost indolently, but Chapman’s response caused him to become suddenly alert.

  ‘Your father would not have resigned such things to anyone, sir, if I may say so.’

  Sandham looked with curiosity and some anxiety at his clerk.

  ‘You may be right; I do not think he would have. And perhaps I have allowed too many things to slip out of my personal control. But Mr Barrick is young and energetic, and I’ve no reason at all to doubt his ability.’

  ‘Mr Barrick – and I beg your pardon for mentioning it – has a great many social commitments, and they make it difficult for him to devote his entire energies to the firm.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But, well, you see, he’s likely to be engaged soon to be married – to Miss Dahlia Constant, the great heiress. You must have read about her in the paper – “the fair millionairess” is the singularly blatant expression that one of what I still call the half-penny papers uses in describing her doings. I imagine that we shall certainly have to administer her affairs. That would be a good thing for the firm, Chapman, eh? Don’t you think so? And a man who is arranging his marriage can’t give all his attention to business. No doubt he will be more assiduous after he is married.’ Sandham spoke as though he was pleading a case, but Chapman refused to be placated. Marriage and giving in marriage were small things, to his mind, when balanced against the interests of the firm.

  ‘That is as it may be, sir, but the fact remains that some of our business does not receive the attention that it did in your father’s day, or your grandfather’s for that matter. And we are a family firm.’

  The pride in his voice was unmistakable, but there was anxiety as well.

  ‘Yes, yes. But we mustn’t exaggerate any minor difficulties. I’ll have a look myself at the Merger papers. Let me see, we hold most of his securities, and we administer those two trusts for him, and look after his own private interests. Isn’t that so? Come, Chapman, don’t look so reproving, I’ll really go into it all as soon as I can. Perhaps I ought to have done so before, and I’m quite ready to agree with you that I may have handed over too much to Mr Barrick. But then – my wife, you know.’ He b
ent his head over the letters on his desk.

  No one knew Charles Sandham so well, or indeed half so well, as did Chapman, and he was entirely conscious of the fact that the mention of Sandham’s wife was the signal for his dismissal. Ten years before Charles Sandham’s wife, a very beautiful and talented woman, had had a serious accident; since then she had led the life of an almost helpless cripple, though she had never lost her spirit or her lively interest in all that went on around her. Her husband had spared no pains to make her life as bearable as it could be made. He left her but seldom, and never for long; he discussed everything with her; he kept alive all her interests. Yet an unkind critic might have pointed out that, true to his usual habits, he had dramatized himself as the loyal and loving husband, who, struck by the blows of fate, remained staunch and unbroken, a Job whose head was unbowed and whose patience was inexhaustible. It was one of his finest parts, and he had played it to universal admiration for the last ten years. When, therefore, he mentioned his wife in the office it was a signal to those who knew him not that he must be commiserated with, for he could himself shoulder his own burden of care, but that in common humanity he must not be troubled with other and more mundane matters.

  All that was well known to Chapman, but he stood his ground and made no attempt either to withdraw or to change the subject.

  ‘I think you ought to look at the Merger papers,’ he said, ‘and I do not think that you should lose any time in doing so. Shall I ask Mr Barrick for them and have them sent up to you?’

  ‘When I get back from my holiday,’ Sandham replied a little testily.

  ‘You are going on your New Year’s holiday, then, sir?’

  ‘Of course I am. You know that as well as I do. Why shouldn’t I go? I’ve taken that holiday every year, except in the war, for the last thirty years. You know that very well.’

  ‘I thought, perhaps, that as Mr Cripley was ill you might put it off.’

  ‘Nonsense, Chapman, you thought nothing of the sort. Mr Barrick goes with me, of course. We are going this year to the Magnifico. I spoke to Mr Bannister some time ago, and he will bring someone else in Cripley’s place.’

  Sandham was growing irritated, and it was indeed true, as Chapman very well knew, that nothing short of a national catastrophe would have stopped him from taking his New Year’s holiday. A good family man, he always spent Christmas at home, but thirty years earlier he had begun the practice of going away for four or five days over the New Year with three of his friends to play golf and bridge. The origin of the party dated back to the conclusion of the First War, when Sandham and three of his brother officers had decided to meet together for an annual winter holiday as long as they were all alive and vigorous. Casually started, the New Year’s party had become an institution, and Sandham had never failed, except during the Second War, to arrange it. In the early days they had sampled many of the golf-courses of southern England and Wales; as time went on they tended to meet in rather more luxurious hotels, even if the golf was a little less attractive. When one member of the original four had dropped out in 1946, Sandham had replaced him by Toby Barrick, his partner, but the other two original members, Bannister and Cripley, had rejoined as soon as the Second War was over. Now Cripley was ill, but that did not mean that there would be any question of abandoning the party. Though they seldom visited the same place twice, the general picture of the holiday was unvarying. Sandham prided himself on his ability at sixty-four still to play his thirty-six holes without undue fatigue, and in the evening he was always ready for ‘a last rubber’. His oldest friend, Evelyn Bannister, had always been of the party, and so indeed had John Cripley, to whose illness Chapman had referred. The original fourth had gone to live abroad, and Sandham had persuaded his partner to fill the vacant place. Barrick had not at first gone very willingly, but he was alive to the desirability of keeping in with his chief, and after a couple of years it had become an accepted fact that he would accompany him.

  Chapman still looked dissatisfied, but it was difficult for him to persist.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ he said at length. ‘I will bring you all the papers connected with Sir William’s estate and his business interests as soon as you return on, I imagine, the fourth or fifth of January?’ He turned to go, but Sandham stopped him.

  ‘There is one other matter about which I wished to speak,’ he said in rather hesitating tones. ‘It may be – I don’t say that it will – but it may be necessary for me to raise a comparatively large sum of money in the near future. Would there be any great difficulty about that? You see, my daughter’s marriage will put me to a lot of expense and, and – ’

  ‘But all the settlements for Miss Enid have been arranged, and if I may say so, sir, everything is most satisfactory.’ Chapman was plainly puzzled, for he knew all that was to be known about the head partner’s affairs. To his knowledge Sandham’s position was financially as sound as a bell; he could afford a handsome settlement for his only child, and no sort of difficulty had been made in providing for her. Besides, her approaching marriage in the spring had filled Sandham with satisfaction. He liked his son-in-law to be, he doted on his daughter, and was indeed in the enviable position of a father wholly in agreement with his child’s plans. Of course, taxation was heavy and no one could live in the style to which Sandham was accustomed without occasional calls on capital, but the capital was there, and – for the life of him – Chapman could not understand why Sandham should need any large sum of money at that moment.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Sandham said hastily. ‘But it’s not only the wedding. I have some – well, private commitments which I must meet in the near future, and I may need a largish sum rather quickly. I’m not anxious to sell securities.’

  Chapman’s face showed his surprise, but he did not hesitate to reply.

  ‘Our reputation as a firm is such that we could raise any sum within reason at the shortest notice. Shall I ask Mr Bannister to arrange it for you?’

  ‘No,’ said Sandham explosively, and then wished that he had not spoken so quickly. ‘That is to say, the matter is rather outside Mr Bannister’s province, and I should prefer to go elsewhere. But we can discuss that, too, after my holiday. You are sure that there will be no difficulty if I need a few thousands rather quickly and – er – privately?’

  ‘Of course it can be done, sir,’ Chapman replied stiffly.

  ‘Very well, then, I think that is all we have to talk about this morning.’

  Chapman turned towards the door, but seemed to change his mind and returned to his place by Sandham’s desk. It was now his turn to appear embarrassed. He looked very old and very tired, and very obstinate and rather unhappy.

  ‘There is one other thing, sir,’ he said at length. ‘I think that I should like to retire in the New Year.’

  ‘What!’ shouted Sandham. ‘Retire? You can’t do that. You must be mad. Leave the firm – it’s impossible. Why in Heaven’s name do you make such a preposterous suggestion? Whatever are your reasons?’

  Chapman shook his head obstinately.

  ‘I’ve thought over it a lot lately,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure that I am doing what is right. I’m not so young as I was and – well, sir – I don’t think the firm is quite what it was either. I am making no criticisms, but things aren’t done now in the way they were in your father’s time, and I don’t seem able to adapt myself to changes.’

  With a conscious effort Sandham pulled himself together to face this new – and to him totally unexpected – problem. Nor was he without resources, for all his instincts as an actor told him exactly the part which he had to play, and told him, too, that it was a part eminently suited to his histrionic gifts. The head of the family firm – sitting in the place of his father and grandfather before him – and the old, faithful family servant, slightly disgruntled but surely easily to be swayed by sentimental impulse. A fine scene for the stage, and one that could only have a happy ending!

  ‘Come, Chapman,’ he began, ‘be as frank a
nd free with me as you wish. We’ve always stood together and had no secrets from one another. And we’ve solved a few knotty problems together, too, haven’t we? Surely we can find a way out this time, too? You’ve been happy here, haven’t you? Or are there things which the firm ought to have done for you which have been forgotten? I’m sure that Mr Barrick would agree with me that anything which can be done for you should be done – if only you’ll tell me what the trouble is.’

  Chapman slowly shook his head.

  ‘No, Mr Charles,’ he replied (and Sandham felt vaguely irritated that the clerk should use the mode of address which he had employed in earlier days). ‘No, Mr Charles, I’ve always been satisfied. There was a time years ago when your father talked of giving me my articles; he thought, you know, that I might pass the examinations and be qualified, and then he’d make me a partner. But we talked it over, man to man, and we both thought that I was better as I was. I think he liked to have me always at hand and in the position for which he trained me. And he was right – for I was more useful to him like that than I should have been as a partner. I never regretted it except – except – ’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Except just recently when things have changed. It hasn’t seemed the same firm the last two or three years.’

  Sandham allowed a charming smile full of tolerance and wisdom and human understanding to play over his features. None of the great actors of his youth could have done it better.

  ‘My dear old friend,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you have ever realized what you have meant to my father and to me. You are the backbone of the firm, we’ve always depended on you. Why, Mr Barrick or I myself might fall out tomorrow and the firm would go on just as before – I’m sure of it – but if you desert us, Chapman, that would be the end of everything. The firm couldn’t get over a blow like that. You can’t realize what you’re suggesting. Come, shake me by the hand as you used to do when I was still an undergraduate and came to see my father here (do you remember?), and tell me that you’ll never leave us whilst you’ve got your health and strength.’