“The times being what they are – alas-” the ‘alas’ was very perfunctory; “we expect new orders for rifles at any time now. The Army still hasn’t fully re-equipped with the shorter model Lee-Enfield . . .” Ranklin confirmed this with a slight nod, in case Corinna needed it. “But just let me show you what we’re convinced is the true future . . .”
He unlocked the box and lifted out a fat-barrelled gun with a conventional rifle stock. Wood and metal gleamed dully in the lamplight and Corinna put on a look of false interest; Ranklin’s was real.
“This,” Viner said proudly, “is our Secret Weapon. The Lewis aerial machine-gun. Invented by Colonel Lewis, a countryman of yours, Mrs Finn, with – if I may say so – typical Yankee ingenuity. And on which we hold worldwide rights – except in the United States, of course. A real revolution in warfare, not least because of its lightness. A mere twenty-seven pounds fully loaded with a forty-seven-round magazine-” Ranklin had been wondering how you loaded it. Viner reached into the box and brought out what looked like a big cog-wheel and fitted it flat atop the gun; “-so it’s ideal for use from aeroplanes.”
“You’re going to put that thing on airplanes?” Corinna said.
Viner seemed surprised, then tried to look apologetic. “That’s progress, Mrs Finn – in this modern world. Actually, we say that just to advertise how light it is. We certainly won’t be limited to the aeronautical market. We expect most of our sales to be for ordinary battlefield use. It can be carried and used by just one man – or woman, if you care to . . .”
“No thank you. But,” she relented, “I’m sure James would.”
So for the next few minutes she watched, with decreasing tolerance, as Viner and Ranklin reverted to being little boys. They put the magazine on and off, cocked the action, clicked the trigger; Viner, Ranklin noticed, was religiously careful about pointing the empty gun in a safe direction at all times. He also learned that the Lewis was air-cooled and fired from an open bolt: “An important safety feature,” Viner explained, “since a round doesn’t sit in the hot breech after the gun’s been firing and perhaps ‘cook off as we say.” It also meant you had to make sure both breech and magazine were empty if you wanted to uncock it by pulling the trigger, but as James Spencer, Ranklin didn’t think he should realise that.
“I think, James,” Corinna said at last, “that Mr Viner came here to talk finance.”
Viner was immediately the perfect businessman, but Ranklin went on playing, at the risk of sunburn from Corinna’s glare on the back of his neck. There was another, loaded, magazine in the box and he took it out to try its weight, then thumbed one of the cartridges loose. It was the normal .303 Army round. He re-examined the gun and found a Birmingham proof mark.
“Underwriting share issues is fairly new for us,” Corinna was saying, “and I’m not sure we’d be ready to take the whole amount. But a hundred thousand of it-”
Viner looked boyishly sad. “We’re very confident about this issue being taken up, and that we’ll be able to place the entire amount through just one house – at four and a half per cent.”
Ranklin said: “I see you made this particular gun: have you actually gone into production already?”
“No, we’ve just hand-built half a dozen to demonstrate to our – and other European – armies.”
Corinna wore a puzzled frown. “Don’t you have any problems selling to armies who . . . well, they could be your enemies next week?”
Viner misunderstood her concern. “Oh, no. Britain is devoted to Free Trade – in fact, there’s no problem about shipping weapons anywhere in Europe, or further afield. We’ll have no difficulty in fulfilling any export orders – which we confidently expect.”
Corinna was ready to let the subject drop. Ranklin wasn’t. “Are any particular European countries interested?”
Viner put on a deliberately wan smile. “I’m sure you understand we have to maintain a certain diplomatic silence.”
“Of course,” Ranklin said, thinking Right, then, I’ll have to find out in my own way. He picked up the gun again, ignored Corinna’s reignited glare, and resumed fiddling with it.
Viner was saying: “I’m afraid we’re thinking of the whole three hundred thousand or noth-”
“And I think we’d be more interested at five per cent.”
Viner got to his feet. “I don’t think we’ll need to go that high.” He took the gun from Ranklin to put back into its box. “I’m sorry your father wasn’t here, Mrs Finn. I think he’d have appreciated rather more-”
Ranklin said: “It’s still cocked.”
“Oh? – thank you. I find that men are more ready to-” and he pulled the trigger to uncock the gun.
The magazine was off, so it was only one shot, but in the partners’ room of a private bank it was louder than Ranklin had expected. But Viner had properly pointed the weapon down and away so only the panelling suffered, though Grandpa’s portrait got a bit of a fright.
In the ear-ringing silence, somebody said: “Fucking hellsfire,” and it sounded like a woman’s voice, but that was impossible, so Ranklin put it down to his stunned hearing. Then the room was flooded with Sherring employees and he found himself taking charge. “See if there’s any casualties on the far side of that wall. Where’s a place for Mrs Finn to lie down? And I think some brandy would help. No need to call the police just yet. Meanwhile, thank you-” He took the weapon from Viner’s trembling hands, uncocked it again, and laid it in the box.
“Thank you, James,” Corinna said, her voice shaky. “No, I don’t need to lie down, but brandy sounds a good idea.” Somebody found a decanter and glasses. “The rest of you can go now, the show’s over.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Viner said, his smile long gone. “Somehow a round must have-” He looked at Ranklin, puzzled.
“Perhaps you’d best stick to percentages.” She took a healthy swig at her glass and shuddered. “Ah, that’s better. Now, where were we? I seem to remember something about us agreeing to underwrite a hundred thousand – at five per cent, wasn’t it? A nice round shilling in the pound. I’m sure you can square that with whoever you find as principal.”
“I say, five per cent seems a bit-”
“But with building repair costs the way they are in this modern world, surely that isn’t too unreasonable?” Her voice had firmed up, though her smile was wide and friendly. “Now perhaps you’d get that thing out of here before it declares war again.”
Ranklin helped Viner pack up the gun and its pieces, then insisted on carrying it downstairs for him. “Quite a change from the usual financial confab,” he puffed cheerfully (it might be lightweight, but was still a machine-gun and the stairs were awkward). “Makes it an afternoon to remember.”
Ahead of him, Viner was shaking his head. “I feel such a fool . . . And now I’ve got to tell another bank that we’ve already committed a third of the issue. It’s really most awkward. Look, when you had the gun, did you-”
Ranklin didn’t want to dwell on that. “Considering that you nearly shot the boss’s daughter, I’d say you didn’t do too badly. Silence, as they say, is also golden. Getting back to Continental interest, would that include Italy?”
Outside on the pavement they found a policeman staring solemnly up at the building. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but somebody reported hearing a gunshot. D’you know anything about that?”
Viner looked at Ranklin, who said: “In a private bank? I hardly think so, Constable. But these old buildings are very sound-proof and my friend was telling me such interesting things about Italy . . .”
A little surprised that the short, tubby man in shirt-sleeves who carried big boxes around seemed to be in charge, the policeman said: “It wasn’t from this building, then, sir?”
“You could wait and see if they wheel out any casualties . . .” Ranklin shrugged as well as he could without dropping the box. “But probably just a motor-car backfiring.”