Edward Oppenheim - Jacob's Ladder

Jacob thrust away the papers upon which he had been engaged, with an air of resignation.

“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” he invited. “My time is scarcely my own just now. May I ask you to explain the nature of your business in as few words as possible?”

“Those are my methods exactly,” Mr. Dane Montague declared, throwing himself into the client’s chair, balancing his finger tips together, and frowning slightly. It was in this position that he had once been photographed as the organiser of a stillborn Exhibition.

“My friend Littleham,” he continued, “is a builder of great experience. I am, in my small way, a financier. We have called to propose a business enterprise to you.”

“Go on,” Jacob said.

“You are doubtless aware that large sums of money have recently been made by the exploitation in suitable spots of what have become known as Garden Cities.”

Jacob gave a noncommittal nod and his visitor cleared his throat.

“Mr. Littleham and I have a scheme which goes a little further,” he went on. “We have discovered a tract of land within easy distance of London, where genuine country residences can be built and offered at a ridiculously moderate cost.”

“Land speculation, eh?”

“Not a speculation at all,” was the prompt reply. “A certainty! Littleham, please oblige me with that plan.”

Mr. Littleham produced an architect’s roll from his pocket. His companion spread it out upon the desk before Jacob and drew an imitation gold pencil from his pocket.

“All along here,” he explained, tapping upon the plan, “is a common, sloping gently towards the south. The views all around are wonderful. The air is superb. There are five hundred acres of it. Here,” he went on, tapping a round spot, “is a small town, the name of which we will not mention for the moment. The Great Central expresses stop here. The journey to town takes forty minutes. That five hundred acres of land can be bought for twenty thousand pounds. It can be resold in half-acre and acre lots for building purposes at a profit of thirty or forty per cent.”

“The price of the land, if it is according to your description, is low,” Jacob remarked. “Why?”

Mr. Dane Montague flashed an excellently simulated look of admiration at his questioner.

“That’s a shrewd question, Mr. Pratt,” he confessed. “We are going to be honest and aboveboard with you. The price is low because the Urban Council of this town here” – tapping on the plan – “will not enter into any scheme for supplying lighting or water outside the three-mile boundary.”

“Then what’s the use of the land for building?” Jacob demanded.

“I will explain,” the other continued. “Situated here, two miles from our land, are the premises, works and reservoir of the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company. They are in a position to supply everything in that way which the new colony might desire.”

“A going concern?” Jacob enquired.

“Certainly!” was the prompt reply. “But it is in connection with this Company that we expect to make a certain additional profit.”

Jacob glanced at the clock.

“You must hurry,” he enjoined.

“The Cropstone Wood Company,” Mr. Dane Montague confided, “is in a poorish way of business. The directors are sick of their job. They know nothing about our plan for building on the estate, and, to cut a long story short, we have secured a six months’ option to purchase the whole concern at a very low price. As soon as the building commences on the common, we shall exercise that option. We shall make a handsome profit on the rise in the shares of the Cropstone Wood Company, but our proposal is to work the company ourselves. At the price we can offer them at, it is certain that every building lot will be sold. Mr. Littleham here has prepared a specification of various forms of domiciles suited to the neighbourhood.”

Mr. Littleham, in a remarkably thick voice, intervened.

“I can run ’em up six-roomers at three hundred quid; eight and ten at five; and a country villa, with half an acre of garden, for a thousand,” he announced, relapsing at the conclusion of his sentence into his former state of sombre watching.

“There’s a very fair profit to be made, you see,” Mr. Dane Montague pointed out, “on the sale of the land and houses, without going more closely into the figures, but we want to be dead straight with you, Mr. Pratt. There should be an additional profit on the electric light and water which we supply from the Cropstone Wood Company.”

“I see,” Jacob remarked thoughtfully. “When they’ve bought their land, and the houses are beginning to materialise, you can charge them what you like for the water and lighting.”

Mr. Dane Montague beamed, with the air of one whose faith in the shrewdness of a fellow creature has been justified.

“You’ve hit the bull’s-eye,” he declared. “We’ve got the cost of service all worked out, and, added to the price we’ll have to pay for the Company, it don’t come to more than forty thousand pounds. Then we shall have the whole thing in our own hands and can charge what we damned well please.”

Jacob leaned back in his chair and surveyed his two visitors. There was a gleam in his eyes which might have meant admiration – or possibly something else. Neither of the two men noticed it.

“It’s quite a scheme,” he remarked.

“It’s a gold mine,” Mr. Dane Montague pronounced enthusiastically.

“There’ll be pickings every way,” the builder murmured thickly, with a covetous gleam in his eyes.

Jacob glanced at his watch.

“I’ll see the property this afternoon,” he promised. “If your statement is borne out by the facts, I am willing to come in with you. How much money do you require from me?”

Mr. Dane Montague coughed. Mr. Littleham looked more stolid than ever.

“The fact of the matter is,” the former explained, “Mr. Littleham here is tied up with so much land that he has very little of the ready to spare at present. Personally, I have been so fortunate lately in the City, had so many good things brought to me by my pals, that I am pretty well up to the neck until things begin to move.”

Jacob studied the speaker thoughtfully. He was an observant person, and he noticed that Mr. Dane Montague’s glossy hat showed signs of frequent ironing, that there were traces of ink at the seams of his black coat, and the suggestion of a patch on the patent boot which lingered modestly under his chair.

“You mean, I suppose, that you wish me to provide the whole of the capital?” Jacob remarked.

Mr. Dane Montague coughed.

“You happen to be the only one of the trio who has it in fluid form,” he pointed out. “It would suit us better to recognise you a little more generously in the partition of the profits as the land is sold, and for you to finance the whole thing.”

“I have no objection to that,” Jacob decided, “provided I am satisfied in other respects. How far is this delectable spot by road?”

“Twenty-two miles,” Mr. Littleham replied. “Barely that if you know the way.”

“I will inspect the property this afternoon,” Jacob announced.

“Capital!” Mr. Dane Montague exclaimed. “You are a man after my own heart, Mr. Pratt. You strike while the iron’s hot. Now what about a little lunch, say at the Milan, before starting?”

“On condition that I am allowed to be host,” Jacob stipulated, “I shall be delighted.”

Mr. Dane Montague chuckled. The suggestion relieved him of a certain disquietude regarding the contents of his pocketbook.

“No objection to that, I am sure, Mr. Pratt,” he declared. “Eh, Littleham? At one o’clock at the Milan Grill, then.”