Chapter XXXIV: Mr. Pawter Explains

Mr. Pawter was in his office when Bill called. He was reading a newspaper, whistling softly the while, a practice peculiar to men of an equable temperament.

“The return of the wanderer,” he murmured. “Please tell the cashier to have the fatted calf slaughtered with appropriate ceremony. You will find your room in order, and your desk so innocent of muddle that you will hardly feel at home for a day or two. And----”

“Pips, I want a story out of you,” said Bill, seating himself on the other side of the table.

“You are still engaged in the profession from which I rescued you?” he asked wearily. “And you want a story? I should be false to the traditions of my agency if I missed a chance of getting good publicity. What is the story? Does it pay to advertise? Yes, it does.”

“Pips,” interrupted Bill again, “the story I want is about a priory and a Seen Prior.”

Mr. Pawter eyed him steadily.

“That is exactly the kind of story I can’t give you,” he said, “not for publication anyway.”

“I don’t want it for publication. I want to know what you are in this outfit.”

“You seem to know already,” Mr. Pawter smiled faintly. “I am a Prior--in other words, I am the accountant of the Proud Sons of Ragousa. You didn’t know that I was an accountant? Accountancy was my long suit, and I am a member of the Chartered Society. There is nothing mysterious about me, William. I am surprised you should have imagined there was.”

“Did you know Brother John?”

Pawter’s face became instantly grave.

“Yes, I knew him,” he said quietly. And then, after long reflection: “I’d better tell you the story of my connection with this society. The head of the Ragousas, as you probably know, is Mr. Leiff Stone. Ragousa, as you will know if any of your school learning remains, was at one time the richest town in Dalmatia, the port from which the argosies sailed--‘argosy’ means literally ‘a vessel of Ragousa.’ Many years ago I was associated with Stone in business, and when he had got the Order running, and his prize scheme had caught on to such an extent that members were flocking into the Order, he sent for me and asked if I would put it upon a proper business basis. Naturally, it was not the kind of thing which greatly interested me--secret societies and all that sort of stuff--but there were very many reasons why I should take up the work. In the first place, two thousand a year----”

“Dollars?” asked Bill.

“I am speaking of our own depleted currency,” said Mr. Pawter. “No, two thousand pounds was the salary offered to me, and a very acceptable sum it was. I did not like the lottery idea very much; as a business man it had no appeal for me, and, moreover, it struck me that it erred on the side of illegality. However, the police seemed satisfied that the Ragousas should have their argosies, and who am I to oppose my opinion to the law officers of the Crown? I undertook the work, but on the understanding that I should not be one of the masks. I pointed out to Leiff Stone the extraordinary opportunities that existed in the Order for impersonation and fraud, unless there was one man whom everybody knew by sight, and who could be distinguished from the rest of the crowd. He fell in with my views, and ever since it has been my duty to draw the numbers which bring fortune to members of the Order.”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Bill. “The revenue of the Ragousas is a pretty heavy one, isn’t it?”

“It has a turnover of something between six hundred and seven hundred thousand pounds a year, and half of that goes in argosies--nearly half.”

“Now is it possible,” said Bill, “for a swindler to obtain admission to the Priory, and, by impersonating one or the other officers, secure a hold of that money?”

“Absolutely impossible,” said Pawter emphatically, and Bill showed his surprise. “The grafter who tried that would get the shock of his life. Nobody, not even the Grand Prior himself, can touch any of the money, and certainly cannot touch the prize money. I will explain the system. When a man is initiated into the Proud Sons of Ragousa, he pays ten dollars; he pays another ten dollars every year. Half of that money is banked by the local lodge in what is known as ‘A’ account, with the London, Southern & Northern Bank. That is, in fact, the prize fund, which is only released to the men who win the argosies, on a cheque signed by me and initialled by the Grand Prior. Is that clear?”

Bill nodded.

“Of the other pound--the other half of your subscription that is to say--a proportion is retained for working expenses of the lodge, and the remainder, a definite sum, is remitted to the Grand Priory. It is, I might tell you, a very insignificant amount--I refer to the amount that goes to headquarters--just sufficient to keep the Priory running, with very little surplus, and it is known as the Prior’s Tax. So obviously there is nothing to be gained from getting control of the Priory. The only big stuff that is handled is the Argosy Fund, which is never really in the Prior’s hands.”

“What about the Twenty-Third Degree?”

“That also has a small income,” nodded Pawter, “and the Grand Lodge is in the same case--there are no surpluses.”

“Isn’t it possible to fake the draw?”

“I draw the numbers, bare-armed. There are really five draws,” he explained, “and the Priors, who sit in council beforehand, decide which of the five shall be the ‘true draw.’ So I am absolutely in ignorance as to which they will decide upon, and I could not fake if I wanted to. The five numbers, or the five groups of numbers, are written down, and then the Priors tell me which of the groups is the ‘true draw,’ and there is nothing more for me to do but to turn up the names that correspond with the numbers and forward the cheques.”

“The more businesslike the Ragousas become, the more mysterious they are!” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be a foothold for a crook, unless the crook happens to be you.”

“Even I haven’t much of a chance,” he began.

“Tell me one thing: have you ever seen Leiff Stone’s face since he became a Prior?”

“I know him only by his purple gown. If I met him to-day in the street I should not recognise him.”

“Who was Brother John?”

“Brother John was the Grand Prior’s assistant, and was the only parson in the bunch.”

“What is there concealed at the Priory?”

“Nothing,” said Pawter emphatically. “I know the Priory from gate to cellar. I know every cell in it, every inch of it, and I tell you that if there’s anything more innocent than a Prior of the Proud Sons of Ragousa.”

Poor Bullott, thought Bill! The raid was abortive before it was made. But he could not tell the inspector this or take the responsibility for checking his plans.

“Have you the least suspicion of an idea in your mind why Brother John was murdered?”

“Not the least. He was a man without enemies, a man who had no private feuds; beyond his devotion to Stone, I know of no very great friendship of his. The murder is inexplicable, and I can only suppose that the shot fired at Brother John was either intended for somebody else, or----”

“Don’t say it was an accident,” said Bill, “because that kind of accident hardly happens twice in twenty-four hours. The man who shot Brother John took one good crack at me, and nearly got me.”

“There are certain advantages in having a small head,” murmured Mr. Pawter as he closed the door upon his sometime assistant.