The Profiteers. E. Phillips Oppenheim

They own a majority of shares in each, without a doubt, but they conduct their transactions as though they were absolutely independent concerns."

      Wingate studied the figures in the document he was holding for some minutes in thoughtful silence. The telephone rang at Kendrick's elbow. He picked up the receiver and listened.

      "That Kendrick?" a voice enquired.

      "Speaking," Kendrick answered.

      "This is Peter Phipps, from right away opposite. Say, I am told that John

       Wingate of New York is a client of yours."

      Kendrick passed across the spare receiver to Wingate and paused for a moment whilst the latter held it to his ear.

      "He is," Kendrick admitted.

      "Well, I am given to understand that he is coming into the City to do business," Phipps continued. "If he is in any way disposed to be a seller, we are buyers of wheat for autumn delivery at market price, perhaps even a shade over."

      "Any quantity?" Kendrick enquired.

      "A hundred thousand—anything up to a million bushels, if Mr. Wingate feels like coming in big. Anyway, we're ready to talk business. Will you put it up to your client?"

      "I will."

      "Shall you be seeing him soon?"

      "This morning, probably."

      "Thought you might," the voice at the other end of the telephone observed, "as I saw him step into your office half an hour ago. Give him my compliments and say I hope we may make a deal together."

      "Certainly," Kendrick promised. "Good morning."

      The two men laid down their receivers. Kendrick's eyes twinkled.

      "Well, that fellow's a sport, anyway," he declared.

      "I suppose in one sense of the word he is," Wingate admitted. "So he wants me to sell him wheat, eh? It looks a good thing at these prices, Kendrick, doesn't it, and a normal harvest coming along on the other side?"

      "That's for you to say," was the cautious reply. "These big deals in commodities which have to be delivered on a certain date always seem to me a little out of the sphere of legitimate gambling."

      "At the same time," Wingate remarked, "the price of wheat to-day is scandalous. If the B. & I. forced it up any higher, I should think that the Government must intervene."

      "I shouldn't reckon upon it."

      "Naturally! I shouldn't enter into a gamble, taking that as a certainty. At the same time, I want to view the matter in all its bearings. I can't conceive any private firm being allowed to boost up the price of wheat to such an extent for purposes of speculation."

      "It would be devilish difficult," Kendrick pointed out, "to trace the whole thing to the B. & I."

      Wingate took a cigarette from the open box upon the office table, lit it and smoked for a moment thoughtfully.

      "Kendrick," he said, "I am a good friend and a good enemy; Peter Phipps is my enemy. We should probably shake hands if we met, we might even sit down at the same table, but we know the truth. Each of us in his heart desires nothing in the world so much as the ruin of the other."

      "What was the start of this feeling?" Kendrick asked.

      "A woman," Wingate replied shortly, "and that's all there is to be said about it, Kendrick. I shall hate Peter Phipps as long as I live, for the sake of the girl he ruined, and he will hate me because of the thrashing I gave him. Ever noticed the scar on his right cheek, Kendrick?"

      "Often," the stockbroker replied. "He told me it was done in a saloon fight out in the Far West."

      "I did it in the Far East," Wingate declared grimly, "as far east, at least, as the drawing-room of his Fifth Avenue house. He'll never lose that scar. He'll never lose his hatred of the man who gave it to him.—So he wants me to sell him wheat!"

      "It's a pretty dangerous thing to introduce feelings of this sort into business," Kendrick remarked.

      "You're right," Wingate admitted. "It makes one careful. I'm not selling any wheat to-day, Kendrick."

      "It will be a disappointment to the office," the other remarked.

       "Personally, I'm glad."

      "Oh, I'll keep your office busy," Wingate promised. "I'm not coming into the City for nothing, I can assure you. There are five commissions for you," he went on, drawing a sheet of paper from the rack and writing on it rapidly. "That will keep your office busy for a time. I'll give you a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. Don't ring me up unless you want more margin. Closing time prices are all I'm interested in, and I can get those on the tape anywhere."

      The stockbroker's eyes glistened as he looked through the list.

      "You're a good judge, Wingate," he said. "You'll make money on most of these."

      "I expect I shall," Wingate acknowledged. "Anyhow, it will keep you people busy and serve as a sort of visiting card here for me until—"

      "Until what?" Kendrick asked, breaking a short pause.

      "Until I can make up my mind how to deal with those fellows across the way. On paper it still looks a good thing to sell them wheat, you know. Peter Phipps has something up his sleeve for me, though. I've got to try and find out what it is."

      "You'll excuse me for a moment?" Kendrick begged. "I'm only a human being, and I can't hold a couple of million pounds' worth of business in my hand and not set it going. I'll be back directly."

      "Don't hurry on my account," Wingate replied. "I'm going to use your telephone, if I may."

      "Of course! You have a private line there. The others will be all buzzing away in a minute. I'll send Jenkins and Poore along to the House. What about lunch?"

      "To-morrow, one o'clock at the Milan," Wingate appointed. "I'm busy to-day."

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      Wingate made his way from the City to Shaftesbury Avenue, where he entered a block of offices, studied the direction board on the wall for a few minutes, and finally took the lift to the fourth floor. Exactly opposite to him across the uncarpeted corridor was a door from which half the varnish had peeled off, on which was painted in white letters—MR. ANDREW SLATE. A knock on the panel resulted in an immediate invitation to enter. Wingate turned the handle, entered and closed the door behind him. The man who was the solitary occupant of the room half rose from behind his desk.

      "What can I do for you?" he asked.

      Wingate was in no hurry to reply. He took rapid stock of his surroundings and of the man who had confronted him. The room was small, none too clean and badly furnished. It reeked with the smell of tobacco, and notwithstanding the warmth of the June day, all the windows were tightly closed. Its occupant, a lank man with a smooth but wizened face, straight white hair and dark, piercing eyes, was in accord with his surroundings—shabby, unkempt, with cigarette ash down the front of his coat, his collar none too clean, his tie awry.

      "Hm!" Wingate remarked, "Seems to me you're not taking care of yourself,

       Andrew. Do you mind if I open a window or two?"

      "My God, it's Wingate!" the tenant of the room exclaimed. "John Wingate!"

      Wingate, who had succeeded in opening the windows, came over and shook hands with the man whom he had come to visit.

      "How are you, Andrew?" he said. "What on earth's got you that you choose to live in an atmosphere like this!"

      Slate, who had recovered from his surprise, slipped dejectedly back into his place. Wingate had established himself with caution upon the