“Money? How much money?” Clarence asked, instantly-suspicious.
“I believe in the usual agreements, it is normal to place a small percentage of the sum involved in the joint venture, donated in equal parts by each of the partners, in someone’s safekeeping. Should, then, any partner fail to demonstrate his good faith, his portion is forfeit, to be divided between the others.”
“Yeah,” Clarence said, his eyes narrowed, “but how much?”
Sir Percival considered.
“Let me see... In this case, since we are discussing a matter of approximately twenty million dollars, or about seven million dollars plus to each party, I would suggest we each put up half-of-one per cent of our share.”
Clarence frowned darkly.
“That’s over thirty-five grand! That’s a lot of dough.” His eyes narrowed as he added the most important thing. “And exactly who holds all that dough?”
“Anyone can hold it,” Sir Percival said, and added modestly, “I’ll hold it, if you wish.”
“Wait a second—”
“Or,” Pugh said, “if this presents itself to you as a problem, you can hold it. It really makes little difference.” He frowned as he made a calculation. “Let us make it an even forty thousand dollars each, or twenty thousand pounds. I see you have a safe here. In that case I suggest you take charge of the money. I assume that is agreeable?”
Clarence thought about it. Despite his natural tendency to be suspicious, he could see nothing wrong with the arrangement, as long as the money was in his safekeeping.
“Yeah. Well, all right.”
“That is, if you have your share to begin with,” Pugh added significantly.
Clarence glanced at Harold and wished the large man was out of the room. But he could not let the opportunity pass; old O would never forgive him if he did. “I’ve got my share right here in the house,” he said. “What about you?”
“My bank has a branch at East Westerly, which is not far,” Sir Percival said. “If you care to drive me there, I can easily arrange the money in a matter of minutes.”
Clarence still saw flaws. “What about the old men? You got real generous and cut them in, but they can’t come up with the ante. They’re broke. So how about cutting them right out again?”
Sir Percival looked at Clarence pityingly.
“You are obviously not familiar with Mr. Carruthers and his rather odd sense of humor,” Sir Percival said, and smiled brightly. “I am sure he was pulling your leg when he said they were without funds. It’s a habit of his, you know, especially where money is concerned.” He looked at Carruthers a trifle sternly. “You really shouldn’t do that, Carruthers. It’s bad form, you know.”
“I—” Billy-Boy was looking confused.
“And don’t try to look as if you didn’t know exactly what I’m speaking of! Tell the truth, Carruthers! Do you deny that you invested the money you gained from the Jarvis award in Namibian Chartered Mines, Limited?”
“No. I mean, I don’t deny it,” Carruthers said, amazed at Pugh’s knowledge, “but—”
“I thought so,” Pugh said rebukingly, interrupting smoothly. “And am I mistaken that you have a mistrust of banks, so that you normally carry the certificates on your person in a money belt?” His eagle eye had noted the slightly larger bulge at Carruthers’ stomach and had instantly fed it into the computer.
“Why, yes,” Carruthers said, finally beginning to get the message. He only hoped that Briggs and Simpson would also see the light and keep their mouths shut. He opened his shirt, raised the flap of the money belt, and withdrew the certificates. “Here they are.”
“So you three clowns were broke, huh?” Clarence was fuming. “You double-crossing, lying, cheating!” He grabbed the certificates from Carruthers’ hand, studied them a moment, and then looked up, his eyes hard. “Who’s got a newspaper?”
“By the oddest of coincidences,” Sir Percival said, pleased to contribute, “I just happen to have one in my bag.” He brought it forth and handed it over, adding a bit apologetically, “I’m afraid it’s a few days old...”
“If it’s got the stock market reports, that’s all I want,” Clarence said brusquely, and leafed through the pages until he found the one he wanted. His finger slid impatiently down the long column of figures. “Namibian Chartered Mines, Limited. Listed at eighteen shillings. And you’ve got—” He counted and looked up, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “These certificates are worth over forty grand! And you said you were broke!”
Carruthers shrugged philosophically.
“Wealth,” he said, with a professorial air, “is a relative matter. To one person forty thousand dollars may be a veritable fortune, beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. To another, more fortunate one, forty thousand dollars, particularly in today’s economy, may be a mere bagatelle.” He frowned thoughtfully. “What was it Shakespeare said?”
“You mean, ‘a rose by any other name’?” Simpson asked.
“Or ‘a fool and his money’?” Briggs asked.
“Or ‘no profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en’?”
“Or, ‘our purses shall be proud, our garments poor’?”
“Something like one or all of those,” Carruthers said, “or possibly not. No matter.” He pointed to the certificates in Clarence’s hand. “That is our share in the venture. Consider us in.”
“And if you’ll be so kind as to drive me to the bank,” Sir Percival said, “I shall add my widow’s mite to the pile, and then we’ll be off and running.”
“Okay; but Hal, you keep an eye on these chiseling sharpies until we get back, huh?” Clarence said, and sneered inwardly. So much for all the newspaper talk about the loyalty of one of the old buzzards for the others! He had seen the look of shock on the open countenance of Simpson; it was obvious old skinny had not known the value of those stock certificates; old baggy-pants was simply a crook! Well, when this was over and he snatched Carruthers a second time, there was no doubt of what he would do with the old man once he had stripped him clean. It was going to be down the well or under the barn, one or the other. Definitely! Lie to him, would they? They must think they were dealing with some clod from the corn belt!
Carruthers cleared his throat, this time suggestively.
“While you are gone,” he said, a tentative note in his voice, “since we are now working together for the common weal, I don’t suppose you could ease up a bit on the alcohol restrictions...?”
Clarence stared a moment, and then, with a sigh, he tossed the key to the cupboard in Harold’s direction. What were a few drinks when a fortune was to be made? Besides, it would likely be the old buzzard’s last meal — or last drink — before he went down the hall to the little green door. Once Pugh had been paid off and went his way, it was going to be bread and water for old fatso until D-Day; which would actually be a break for Harold. There would be less excavation to dig the old buzzard’s grave. He turned to Sir Percival.
“Okay,” he said flatly. “Let’s go.”
Sir Percival stacked the forty thousand dollars that Clarence had given him, added his own twenty thousand pounds fresh from the bank — they had decided not to be picayune regarding the difference in exchange rates — placed the stock certificates from Carruthers on top, and neatly wrapped the entire amount in some brown paper taken from his bag.
“There,” he said with satisfaction, and turned to Clarence. “And now, since it is your desire to be the guardian of the funds, if you would be so kind as to open the safe?”
“Sure,” Clarence said, and bent to fiddle with the dial, making sure that his back blocked out any possibility of any of the others noting the combination. He pulled back the outer door, took the packet from Pugh, slid it into an inner alcove, and closed the heavy outer door of the safe.