Alderley?'
His listener, the laziest member, and the only one who hadn't made a hasty withdrawal within moments of Algy's appearance, yawned and shook his head.
'Oh, it's an absolutely topping place. The Earl and Countess are ripping people. So's Gerry, their daughter. I met the Earl at Lord's the other day. He almost begged me to go down. They're having quite an exclusive party, and he said that it wouldn't be the same without me at all.'
'I'm sure that's true.'
'I had several other invitations outstanding, of course, including one to Cliveden. I was tempted, but when it came to making a decision, Alderley won. The grub there's ripping. The cook does a perfectly spiffing steak and kidney pie - and she's a dab hand at soufflés, too, don't you know. The only possible fly in the ointment is that a little bird tells me there are going to be a brace of foreigners there. Some Americans, too, but I don't bar Americans. No these are a couple of real foreigners. Of course, if they turn out to be too hairy at the heel, one can steer clear of them. It's a pretty big place. But the danger is that Lady Burford might be tempted to dish them up some of their national dishes. I was staying once at a place in Norfolk, don't you know. Of all things they had a bally Arab staying there. A sheikh or something. Well, you know, the chief delicacy among those johnnies are sheep's eyes. Well, would you believe it - I say, old man, are you all right?' But the laziest member was asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Richest Man in Europe
In a large house on the outskirts of Paris, in a big curtained room lit only by a flickering log fire, a little wizened, bald old man sat in a high-backed armchair. He was holding an open atlas and studying a map of Africa. Eventually he raised his head, revealing a hooked nose and deep set eyes, which burnt with a fierce light. His lips were thin and his jaw long and pointed. His hand, which now moved slowly to press an electric buzzer set into the low table beside his chair, was scrawny, like a claw. The old man looked frail, almost lost in the big chair, dwarfed further by the high vaulted room, and by the huge old-fashioned grate, the flickering light from which barely reached the distance recesses of the room. Yet in spite of his frail appearance, there was strength in the old man - strength in the talon-like hand, strength in the jaw, above all strength in those dark and darting eyes. The old man dominated his surroundings, as for forty years he had dominated the lives of thousands of people all over the world - people who had never even heard his name.
That name was Jacob Zapopulous. It was a name which was spoken of with something like awe in the financial centres of the world; the name of a man who, through a combination of financial genius, treachery, graft and blackmail, had made himself the richest man in Europe.
Jacob Zapopulous had no friends and no partners, for he trusted nobody. There were, however, half a dozen men in his employ in whose efficiency and sense of self-interest he had confidence, and it was one of these who now entered the room in response to the buzzer. He was a man of about forty, with a pale face, light blue eyes, and blond, short - cropped hair. He was a Dane and his name was Bergsen. He crossed the room silently, his feet sinking into the sumptuous Persian carpet, stopped in front of his master, and stood waiting impassively. Thirty seconds passed. Then in a high-pitched, cracked voice, Zapopulous spoke - slowly, quietly, and distinctly.
'I have a task for you. It is for you alone. Succeed in it and you will become a rich man.' He held out the open atlas. 'Take this.'
Bergsen did so.
'Look at the territories shaded blue.'
'May I switch on a light?'
'Yes, yes.'
Bergsen crossed to the mantelpiece, switched on a lamp, and stood under it with the atlas in his hands. 'Yes?'
'How many are there?'
Bergsen was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: 'Thirteen.'
'Yes, thirteen -
His listener, the laziest member, and the only one who hadn't made a hasty withdrawal within moments of Algy's appearance, yawned and shook his head.
'Oh, it's an absolutely topping place. The Earl and Countess are ripping people. So's Gerry, their daughter. I met the Earl at Lord's the other day. He almost begged me to go down. They're having quite an exclusive party, and he said that it wouldn't be the same without me at all.'
'I'm sure that's true.'
'I had several other invitations outstanding, of course, including one to Cliveden. I was tempted, but when it came to making a decision, Alderley won. The grub there's ripping. The cook does a perfectly spiffing steak and kidney pie - and she's a dab hand at soufflés, too, don't you know. The only possible fly in the ointment is that a little bird tells me there are going to be a brace of foreigners there. Some Americans, too, but I don't bar Americans. No these are a couple of real foreigners. Of course, if they turn out to be too hairy at the heel, one can steer clear of them. It's a pretty big place. But the danger is that Lady Burford might be tempted to dish them up some of their national dishes. I was staying once at a place in Norfolk, don't you know. Of all things they had a bally Arab staying there. A sheikh or something. Well, you know, the chief delicacy among those johnnies are sheep's eyes. Well, would you believe it - I say, old man, are you all right?' But the laziest member was asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Richest Man in Europe
In a large house on the outskirts of Paris, in a big curtained room lit only by a flickering log fire, a little wizened, bald old man sat in a high-backed armchair. He was holding an open atlas and studying a map of Africa. Eventually he raised his head, revealing a hooked nose and deep set eyes, which burnt with a fierce light. His lips were thin and his jaw long and pointed. His hand, which now moved slowly to press an electric buzzer set into the low table beside his chair, was scrawny, like a claw. The old man looked frail, almost lost in the big chair, dwarfed further by the high vaulted room, and by the huge old-fashioned grate, the flickering light from which barely reached the distance recesses of the room. Yet in spite of his frail appearance, there was strength in the old man - strength in the talon-like hand, strength in the jaw, above all strength in those dark and darting eyes. The old man dominated his surroundings, as for forty years he had dominated the lives of thousands of people all over the world - people who had never even heard his name.
That name was Jacob Zapopulous. It was a name which was spoken of with something like awe in the financial centres of the world; the name of a man who, through a combination of financial genius, treachery, graft and blackmail, had made himself the richest man in Europe.
Jacob Zapopulous had no friends and no partners, for he trusted nobody. There were, however, half a dozen men in his employ in whose efficiency and sense of self-interest he had confidence, and it was one of these who now entered the room in response to the buzzer. He was a man of about forty, with a pale face, light blue eyes, and blond, short - cropped hair. He was a Dane and his name was Bergsen. He crossed the room silently, his feet sinking into the sumptuous Persian carpet, stopped in front of his master, and stood waiting impassively. Thirty seconds passed. Then in a high-pitched, cracked voice, Zapopulous spoke - slowly, quietly, and distinctly.
'I have a task for you. It is for you alone. Succeed in it and you will become a rich man.' He held out the open atlas. 'Take this.'
Bergsen did so.
'Look at the territories shaded blue.'
'May I switch on a light?'
'Yes, yes.'
Bergsen crossed to the mantelpiece, switched on a lamp, and stood under it with the atlas in his hands. 'Yes?'
'How many are there?'
Bergsen was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: 'Thirteen.'
'Yes, thirteen -
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