Mack Reynolds - Compounded Interest

The stranger said in miserable Italian, “I wish to see Sior Marin Goldini on business.”

The concierge’s manner was suspicious. Through the wicket he ran his eyes over the newcomer’s clothing. “On business, Sior?” He hesitated. “Possibly, Sior, you could inform me as to the nature of your business, so that I might inform his Zelenza ’s secretary, Vico Letta…” He let his sentence dribble away.

The stranger thought about that. “It pertains,” he said finally, “to gold.” He brought a hand from his pocket and opened it to disclose a half dozen yellow coins.

“A moment, Lustrissimo,” the servant blurted quickly. “Forgive me. Your costume, Lustrissimo… ” He let his sentence dribble away again and was gone.

A few moments later he returned to swing the door open wide. “If you please, Lustrissimo, his Zelenza awaits you.”

He led the way down a vaulted hall to the central court, to the left past a fountain well to a heavy outer staircase supported by Gothic arches and sided by a carved parapet. They mounted, turned through a dark doorway and into a poorly lit corridor. The servant stopped and drummed carefully on a thick wooden door. A voice murmured from within and the servant held the door open and then retreated.

Two men were at a rough-hewn oak table. The older was heavy-set, tight of face and cold, and the other tall and thin and ever at ease. The latter bowed gently. He gestured and said, “His Zelenza, the Sior Marin Goldini.”

The stranger attempted a clumsy bow in return, said awkwardly, “My name is… Mister Smith.”

There was a moment of silence which Goldini broke finally by saying, “And this is my secretary, Vico Letta. The servant mentioned gold, Sior, and business.”

The stranger dug into a pocket, came forth with ten coins which he placed on the table before him. Vico Letta picked one up in mild interest and examined it. “I am not familiar with the coinage,” he said.

His master twisted his cold face without humor. “Which amazes me, my good Vico.” He turned to the newcomer. “And what is your wish with these coins, Sior Mister Smith? I confess, this is confusing.”

“I want,” Mister Smith said, “to have you invest the sum for me.”

Vico Letta had idly weighed one of the coins in question on a small scale. He cast his eyes up briefly as he estimated. ‘The ten would come to approximately forty-nine zecchini, Zelenza,” he murmured.

Marin Goldini said impatiently, “Sior, the amount is hardly sufficient for my house to bother with. The bookkeeping alone—”

The stranger broke in. “Don’t misunderstand. I realize the sum is small. However, I would ask but ten per cent, and would not call for an accounting for… for one hundred years.”

The two Venetians raised puzzled eyebrows. “A hundred years, Sior? Perhaps your command of our language…” Goldini said politely.

“One hundred years,” the stranger said.

“But surely,” the head of the house of Goldini protested, “it is unlikely that any of we three will be alive. As God desires, possibly even the house of Goldini will be a memory only.”

Vico Letta, intrigued, had been calculating rapidly. Now he said, “In one hundred years, at ten per cent compounded annually, your gold would be worth better than 700,000 zecchini.”

“Quite a bit more,” the stranger said firmly.

“A comfortable sum,” Goldini nodded, beginning to feel some of the interest of his secretary. “And during this period, all decisions pertaining to the investment of the amount would be in the hands of my house?”

“Exactly.” The stranger took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore it in two, and handed one half to the Venetians. “When my half of this is presented to your descendants, one hundred years from today, the bearer will be due the full amount.”

“Done, Sior Mister Smith!” Goldini said. “An amazing transaction, but done. Ten per cent in this day is small indeed to ask.”

“It is enough. And now may I make some suggestions? You are perhaps familiar with the Polo family?”

Goldini scowled. “I know Sior Maffeo Polo.”

“And his nephew, Marco?”

Goldini said cautiously, “I understand young Marco was captured by the Genoese. Why do you ask?”

“He is writing a book on his adventures in the Orient. It would be a well of information for a merchant house interested in the East. Another thing. In a few years there will be an attempt on the Venetian government and shortly thereafter a Council of Ten will be formed which will eventually become the supreme power of the republic. Support it from the first and make every effort to have your house represented.”

They stared at him and Marin Goldini crossed himself unobtrusively.

The stranger said, “If you find need for profitable investments beyond Venice I suggest you consider the merchants of the Hanse cities and their soon to be organized League.”

They continued to stare and he said, uncomfortably, “I’ll go now. Your time is valuable.” He went to the door, opened it himself and left.

Marin Goldini snorted. “That liar, Marco Polo.”

Vico said sourly, “How could he have known we were considering expanding our activities into the East? We have discussed it only between ourselves.”

“The attempt on the government,” Marin Goldini said, crossing himself again. “Was he hinting that our intriguing is known? Vico, perhaps we should disassociate ourselves from the conspirators.”

“Perhaps you are right, Zelenza,” Vico muttered. He picked up one of the coins again and examined it, back and front. ‘There is no such nation,” he grumbled, “but the coin is perfectly minted.” He picked up the torn sheet of paper, held it to the light. “Nor have I ever seen such paper, Zelenza, nor such a strange language, although, on closer examination, it appears to have some similarities to the English tongue.”

The House of Letta-Goldini was located now in the San Toma district, an imposing structure through which passed the proceeds of a thousand ventures in a hundred lands.

Riccardo Letta looked up from his desk at his assistant. “Then he really has appeared? Per favore, Lio, bring me the papers pertaining to the, ah, account. Allow me a matter of ten minutes to refresh my memory and then bring the Sior to me.”

The great grandson of Vico Letta, head of the House of Letta-Goldini, came to his feet elegantly, bowed in the sweeping style of his day, said, “Your servant, Sior…”

The newcomer bobbed his head in a jerky, embarrassed return of the courtesy, said, “Mister Smith.”

“A chair, Lustrissimo? And now, pray pardon my abruptness. One’s duties when responsible for a house of the magnitude of Letta-Goldini…”

Mister Smith held out a torn sheet of paper. His Italian was abominable. “The agreement made with Marin Goldini, exactly one century ago.”

Riccardo Letta took the paper. It was new, clean and fresh, which brought a frown to his high forehead. He took up an aged, yellowed fragment from before him and placed one against the other. They matched to perfection. “Amazing, Sior, but how can it be that my piece is yellow with age and your own so fresh?”

Mister Smith cleared his throat. “Undoubtedly, different methods have been used to preserve them.”

“Undoubtedly.” Letta relaxed in his chair, placed fingertips together. “And undoubtedly you wish your capital and the interest it has accrued. The amount is a sizable one, Sior; we shall find it necessary to call in various accounts.”