Staines explained that he had banked his competence that morning in exchange for cash. ‘I was meaning to invest in a claim,’ he explained, ‘but I don’t want to do that—not just yet. I’m still—well, I’m still of two minds about a number of things. I would like to know what’s on offer in the camp instead. Hotels, dining halls, warehouses, shops … anything that’s for sale.’
‘Certainly,’ said Löwenthal. He moved to the cabinet, opened the topmost drawer, and began to thumb through the files; presently he extracted a piece of paper, and handed it to Staines. ‘Here.’
Staines scanned the document. When he reached the bottom of the list, his expression slackened very slightly; in surprise, he looked up.
‘The Gridiron,’ he said.
Löwenthal spread his hands. ‘It is as good a venture as any,’ he said, ‘Mr. Maxwell is the current owner; Mr. Clinch, the acting proprietor. Both are good men.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Staines.
‘Oh?’ said Löwenthal. ‘Should I inform Mr. Maxwell that you would like to look it over?’
‘I don’t want to look it over,’ said Staines. ‘I want to buy it outright—and at once.’
SCORPIO, RULED BY MARS
In which Francis Carver makes an acquaintance at the Imperial Hotel.
Carver held little hope that the notice he had placed in the West Coast Times that morning would bear fruit. He doubted that anyone would be so foolish as to surrender a wanted trunk unopened, still less when a fifty-pound reward was offered for that trunk’s return. The very best that he could hope for was that the trunk would be opened, the contents rifled, and the dresses presumed to be of sentimental value only, in which case the finder—if he or she had read the Times, and was aware of the reward offered—might surrender them; but that contingency, itself unlikely, depended upon the still more unlikely contingency that the trunk had been sent to West Canterbury, of all possible destinations in the world! No: the fact that it had been removed from Godspeed’s hold on the night of the 12th of May could mean only one thing: someone must have been aware of the colossal fortune the trunk contained. It would hardly have been recalled at the last minute, only to be shipped at hazard, elsewhere. If it had been Crosbie Wells who had recalled the trunk at the last moment—by far the most likely guess—then he would surely have quit the country as soon as he was able, using the gold to bribe the customhouse officials, or perhaps, paying another man for his papers or his name. The fortune was gone for good. Carver cursed aloud, and, to accent his frustration, slammed the base of his glass against the bar.
‘Amen,’ said the man nearest him.
Carver turned to glare at him, but the man was beckoning the bartender.
‘Pour that man another drink,’ he said. ‘We’ll both have another. On my tab.’
The bartender uncorked the brandy bottle and refilled Carver’s glass.
‘Pritchard’s my name,’ said the man, watching as the bartender poured.
Carver glanced at him. ‘Carver,’ he said.
‘Took you for a sailor,’ Pritchard said. ‘Salt on your jacket.’
‘Captain,’ said Carver.
‘Captain,’ said Pritchard. ‘Well, good on you. I never had a stomach for the sea. I might have gone back home, otherwise; only I’m put off by the thought of the journey. I’d rather die here than suffer that again. Arse end of the world, isn’t it?’
Carver grunted, and they both drank.
‘Captain, though,’ said Pritchard presently. ‘That’s good.’
‘And you?’ said Carver.
‘Chemist.’
Carver was surprised. ‘Chemist?’
‘Only one in town,’ said Pritchard. ‘A true original, that’s what I am.’
They sat in silence for a time. When their glasses were empty Pritchard signalled again to the bartender, who refilled them both as before. Suddenly Carver rounded on him, and said, ‘What have you got in the way of opium? Have you a ready supply?’
‘Afraid I can’t help,’ Pritchard said, shaking his head. ‘Nothing but tincture, that’s all I’ve got, and it’s poor. Weaker than whisky, twice the headache. You won’t find anything south of the Grey. Not if you’ve a real thirst for it. Go north.’
‘I’m not buying,’ Carver said.
CANCER & THE MOON
In which Edgar Clinch attempts to exercise his authority, having deduced that Anna’s recent decline in health owes much to a new dependency both facilitated and encouraged by her employer, Mannering; and Anna Wetherell, whose obstinacy of feeling is more than a match for Clinch’s own, does not indulge him.
‘I don’t have anything against the Chinese,’ said Clinch. ‘I just don’t like the look of it, that’s all.’
‘What does it matter what it looks like?’
‘I don’t like the feel of it. That’s what I meant. The situation.’
Anna smoothed down the skirt of her dress—muslin, with a cream skirt and a crocheted bust, one of five that she had purchased from the salvage vendors following the wreck of the Titania some weeks ago. Two of the gowns had been speckled with black mould, the kind that any amount of washing would not remove. They were all very heavy, and the corsets, very fortified, tokens by which she presumed them to be relics of an older, more rigid age. The salvage man, as he wrapped the purchases in paper, had informed her that, very strangely, the Titania had been conveying no female passengers at all on the day she came to ground; stranger still, nobody had come forward to claim this particular trunk after the cargo had been recovered from the wreck. None of the shipping firms seemed to know the first thing about it. The bill of lading had been rendered illegible by salt water, and the log did not list the item by name. It was certainly a mystery, the salvage man concluded. He hoped that she would not come to any embarrassment or difficulty, in wearing them.
Clinch pressed on. ‘How are you to keep your wits about you, when you’re under? How are you to defend yourself, if—if—well, if you encounter something—untoward?’
Anna sighed. ‘It isn’t your concern.’
‘It’s my concern when I can see plain as day that he’s got your advantage, and he’s using you for ill.’
‘He will always have my advantage, Mr. Clinch.’
Clinch was becoming upset. ‘Where did it come from—your thirst? Answer me that! You just picked up a pipe, did you, and that was all it took? Why did you do it, if you weren’t compelled by Mr. Mannering himself? He knows the way he wants you: without any room to move, that’s how. Do you think I haven’t seen it before, this method? The other girls won’t touch the stuff. He knows that. But he tried it on you. He set you up. He took you there.’
‘Edgar—’
‘What?’ said Clinch. ‘What?’
‘Please leave me be,’ said Anna. ‘I can’t bear it.’
THE LEO SUN
In which Emery Staines enjoys a long luncheon with the magnate Mannering, who, over the past month, has made a concerted effort to court his friendship, behaving mayorally, as he prefers to do, as though all goldfields triumphs are his to adjudicate, and his to commend.
‘You’re a man who wears his success, Mr. Staines,’ said Mannering. ‘That’s a uniform I like.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Staines, ‘my luck has been rather awfully exaggerated.’