The Quick Boat Men, page 14
He was away in Venice when, unexpectedly, Edward was informed by the manager of the hotel he used for lunching possible clients that someone was looking for him.
‘He didn’t give a name–’ the manager looked serious ‘–but I suspect, Signor Capitano, that he’s Turkish.’
‘Turkish?’
‘The war is over. Turks may now travel in Italy.’
For a day or two Edward went about his business and forgot all about the enquiry when a man called Emil Bodschen wrote requesting a meeting.
They agreed to have lunch at the restaurant at Santa Lucia. Bodschen was a stout, pink-faced man with a thick neck that bulged over his collar. He wore white duck trousers, a striped blazer and a panama hat and seemed to spend most of his time mopping the perspiration from his face.
‘You are not an easy man to find, Herr Bourdillon,’ he puffed.
Edward smiled. ‘I’ve been away,’ he said, and then without more ado, ‘I presume you’re seeking boats, Herr Bodschen. What did you have in mind exactly?’
Bodschen coughed behind a pudgy hand. ‘The sort that sank the Huda and forced the Tahaf to surrender.’
Edward was silent for a moment.
‘I am, of course,’ Bodschen continued, ‘acting for someone, someone in high places. It would be a substantial contract.’
‘Would you care to tell me who you represent?’
‘Kabat Pasha.’
‘Egyptian?’
‘Turk.’
Bodschen presented his card with another for the absent Kabat Pasha. Beneath Kabat Pasha’s name were the words, Société Ottoman, Compagnie Intéressée des Constructions Maritimes (et Arsenaux).
Edward pursed his lips.
‘The Société Ottoman,’ Bodschen explained, ‘buys for the Turkish Government. They are interested in your boats.’
‘But you are not Turkish.’
‘No. Swiss. I come from Romanshorn on Lake Constance.’
Edward nodded.
‘Turkey doesn’t wish for another fiasco like Libya. And Germany has arranged loans.’
‘How many boats do you want, Herr Bodschen?’
‘What was your Italian order?’
‘Ten.’
‘Then I think we would be interested in fifteen. Big nations, Herr Bourdillon, go in for dreadnoughts. Small nations go in for torpedo boats.’
‘Would you like a demonstration?’
‘We had one.’ Bodschen smiled. ‘At Arina.’
The sale was arranged and telegrams were sent off to England. It suddenly seemed to Edward that he might be missing opportunities to make money not only for Bourdillons but also for himself and Sam. He resolved to keep his eyes open for the main chance when it appeared.
A few days later, he and Sam stopped on the Via Carraciola, to watch a boat moving at speed out in the bay. They knew what it was immediately – a new boat designed and built by Motoscafo Armato Svan with Ischotta-Franschini engines, and considerably faster than the 45-foot Bourdillons. Sam and Edward weren’t the only spectators. A group of expensively dressed men had alighted from two chauffeur-driven cars, and were watching the display with more than casual interest.
‘That’s an incredible boat,’ one of them said.
‘It ought to be,’ Edward said loudly. ‘It’s a Bourdillon.’
The man turned to look at him, but didn’t speak.
A few days later they were invited to lunch by a man who gave his name as Pausanios. So now the Greeks were interested in doing a deal.
‘I don’t like it,’ Sam said.
‘Bourdillons will,’ Edward pointed out. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, we’re not gunrunners. We’re selling Uncle Egg’s quick boats. What people do with them is none of our business.
Boboli hadn’t forgotten them either. For his part in the affair at Arina he had received the Order of the Crown of Italy and had been pushed up to full general. But he was aware that he had taken credit that was not rightfully his, and wished to make amends to Edward.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you should get in touch with King Ferdinand of the Bulgarians.’
Sam and Edward exchanged amused glances.
‘He is fascinated by expensive mechanical toys. Loves motor cars – especially if they are driven by blond, blue-eyed chauffeurs. He has a collection from half a dozen countries, electric and petrol-driven. He also has a passion for trains. I believe he also has an aeroplane or two. I think he might well like one of your boats, especially if you assure him it’s really fast.’
Edward wasted no time in contacting the Bulgarian ambassador in Rome, who agreed immediately to set things in motion.
Back in England, Maurice of all people had come up with a bright idea. Moving pictures had started to entertain thousands and a little flat-footed man with a black moustache, a bowler hat and a cane kept them laughing. America had found a new industry and two-reelers – even longer films these days – drew people together in village halls and cinemas.
Arranging for a camera to be mounted on the deck of a lighter, hatched over and well filled with ballast to keep it stable, Maurice filmed the full range of Egg’s boats in bright sunshine as they roared past the cranking cameraman. The wash caused a problem but by shooting only the boats’ passing and drawing away before the wash hit the lighter, they were able to produce pictures which, however grainy, spotty and grey, showed clearly what the boats looked like and how fast they went. It was even arranged for a tug, with a known speed, to be passing as one of the 45-footers tore past in a welter of spray.
Edward went to meet his uncle in Switzerland, which he was visiting with Aunt Edith on one of Thomas Cook’s tours, and managed to arrange for boats to be available whenever he wanted them.
While in Lucerne, by sheer chance, Edward ran into the man from Lake Maggiore and finally clinched the sale of the 45-footer they had been arguing about for months. It was arranged that the boat would be delivered to Monza by rail. After that it would be up to the new owner to get it to the lake. Since the man owned a huge engineering works in Milan, Edward didn’t think this would produce any problems.
The contracts with Italy, Turkey and Greece delighted Egg. ‘We’ve taken on extra men,’ he said, ‘and opened new premises. We bought out the corn chandlers next door and acquired two barns from the farm beyond.’
They celebrated that night with a five-course dinner at Egg’s hotel. Aunt Edith, pink-cheeked from a trip to Mount Pilatus, was keen to relay the news from England to her nephew.
‘Georgina always asks after you,’ she said, ‘You should write to her, Edward. You didn’t even say goodbye.’
Later that night, after his uncle and aunt had gone to bed, Edward stopped in the bar for a nightcap and got talking to a South African who had made a fortune in diamonds. Having once been a sailor, it appeared he had been unable to endure life 500 miles from the sea in Kimberley and had invested his money in a whaling fleet which was operating from a place called Saldanha.
‘I know it,’ Edward said.
‘You’re the only bugger I ever met who did,’ the South African said. ‘If it only had drinking water it would be a better port than Cape Town. How’d you come to be there?’
‘Sailing ship, Culloden. I was deckhand aboard her. I swopped her for the George V. Cotterill, which was wrecked off Messina in 1908.’
‘The year of the earthquake. I remember. Seventy-five thousand dead in Messina alone!’
The South African ordered fresh drinks and started to talk enthusiastically of his whalers. ‘Based at Langebaan. It’s at the end of a long lagoon. Goes for miles. They say it’s no good but that’s a load of kak. I’ve often thought of building a house there. At the moment there’s nothing but a few fishermen’s cottages. Black fellers. It would be handy for the whaling station. But it’s too goddam far.’
‘Why not use a boat?’ Edward suggested. ‘A fast boat.’
‘Where would I get a boat that fast?’
Edward smiled. ‘I could sell you one. Is money any object?’
‘None at all. Where is this boat?’
‘Naples. Does your European tour cover Naples?’
‘It does now. What is she?’
‘A Bourdillon. Forty-five feet. Capable of twenty-five to thirty knots. Slim hull. Good sea boat. Can carry eight. You’d need a cabin, but that could be built on for you.’
‘Dammit, I own a bloody whaling station. It’s full of bloody boat-builders. Look, you must meet the family.’
‘The name’s Bourdillon. Edward Dante Bourdillon.’
They shook hands.
‘Leroux,’ the South African said. ‘Frederic Leroux. Call me Fricky. Bit of French in me. Bit of Dutch. Bit of God knows what. My wife’s up a mountain somewhere with the rest of the family. I suppose they’ll come down eventually. Have dinner with us tomorrow night.’
‘Uncle Egg,’ Edward said. ‘I need banking facilities here in Switzerland.’
‘Good God, boy, why?’
‘It’s ridiculous telegraphing home every time I need money.’
Egg still looked dubious.
‘Uncle Egg, I’ve done some things in my life you didn’t approve of. Sinking Fairy was one. Perhaps going to sea was another.’ Perhaps Georgina would have been a third, he thought. ‘But,’ he went on, ‘I’ve never cheated you.’
‘More than I can say for Maurice.’ Egg frowned. ‘What’s in your mind?’
‘I need money for expenses. For Sam. To pay for the premises we hired. To pay for the carpenter-boatbuilder and the fitter-mechanic. I can’t wait for monthly cheques. I need an account here on the Continent I can draw on and pay into, linked to Bourdillons’ account in England. We’re into big business suddenly and Switzerland’s a good central place with excellent banking facilities. We’re selling to Turkey and Greece now but I don’t want to carry a cheque or a bank draft around with me until I return to Naples or to England. I want you to arrange facilities with a reputable bank so I can use them wherever I happen to be. Whether it’s Naples or Paris or Berlin or Dubrovnik or Vienna.’
‘Are you seriously expecting to be selling boats in those places?’
‘The world’s wide open, Uncle Egg. I think I’ve just sold one in South Africa.’
Egg was thoughtful. ‘Ought we to be building bigger craft?’ he asked. ‘Torpedo-boat destroyers, for instance.’
‘You haven’t room, Uncle Egg.’
‘Well, why don’t we buy more room?’
‘In the river?’
‘It’s got to be a sea frontage,’ he said. ‘At Southampton or Portsmouth. Somewhere like that. Keep the place we’ve got for building small craft. Pinnaces. Tenders. Launches. We can afford it, my boy. I’ll go into it with Maurice.’
‘He’s not exactly my favourite cousin, as you know, but why not let Maurice run things, Uncle Egg, so you can concentrate on design? You can’t really do both.’
Egg patted his hand. ‘I’ll think very seriously about it, I promise.’
The next day they went together to see the Swiss Banking Corporation of Basle. Egg produced documents to prove his identity and the bank spent the rest of the day checking them. That evening a message was waiting for them at the hotel. ‘Facilities available for Bourdillons.’
Edward grinned at his uncle. ‘Now I can go to dinner with Fricky Leroux with an easy conscience,’ he said.
Twenty-one
When he returned to the hotel after seeing Egg and Aunt Edith off at the station, Edward found a tall cold-eyed man waiting in the lounge for him.
‘Venturi,’ he said. ‘Vittorio Venturi. I am from Ticino, Italian Switzerland. I have heard of you, Signor Bordilloni.’
‘Good,’ said Edward. ‘How may I be of help?’
‘I am interested in your boats.’
Edward was puzzled. He had been selling chiefly to navies and Switzerland was land-locked.
‘Switzerland is not just a land of mountains,’ Venturi read his mind. ‘She has lakes. Four of them have common frontiers with other countries. We need to see they are well patrolled. We don’t expect our neighbours to attack us. However, we do need to patrol the border down the centre of the lakes. For smugglers. We are thinking of several boats. I assume for more than one the price would be reduced. And that if there were any hold-up, you would forfeit some of the price as a compensation for the delay.’
Edward was reminded why the Swiss were considered such good businessmen.
‘How do you see my idea, Signor Bordilloni?’
Edward smiled. ‘I see it very clearly, Signor Venturi. And the name, by the way, is Bourdillon.’
Leroux’s wife was a slim good-looking woman with thick blonde hair. The ‘family’ comprised one member, a daughter, Kristiana.
‘We call her Krissie,’ Leroux said. ‘My son Trompie’s not here. He’s holding the fort till we get home.’
Krissie Leroux was slender and blonde like her mother, and possessed a wide smile and violet eyes. She showed some interest in the plans that were spread between the coffee cups after dinner, but began to get fidgety as her father fussed over details.
‘When can you deliver?’ Leroux asked, eventually.
‘Directly. To your own slip at Saldanha Bay. We can also arrange for someone to be there with her if you wish.’
‘Ag, man, we don’t need experts. I’ve got a dozen of my own. Send us a manual and the plans and we can handle it.’
When they discussed prices, Leroux suddenly said, ‘You’re a bit young, man, aren’t you, to be handling goods at those figures. You can’t be much older than my daughter, here.’
‘My age is no barrier to experience,’ Edward replied, vaguely irritated.
It was at this point that Krissie joined in. ‘Hey, Pa,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you are slow. This is the Edward Bourdillon.’
‘Which Edward Bourdillon?’
‘The small boat expert. The Edward Bourdillon who sank that Turkish ammunition ship.’
‘With a Bourdillon 45,’ Edward added. ‘Same boat I’m offering you, Mr Leroux.’
It didn’t take much longer to shake hands on a deal.
As midnight approached, Leroux rose, scooping up the papers to study later. His wife had long since grown bored and vanished.
‘Krissie?’
‘I’ll stay here a bit, Pa.’
Leroux kissed her and headed for the stairs.
‘I’ve had more than enough of boats for today,’ Krissie said. ‘I went on an endless dreary steamer trip down the lake. I think I’d like a bit of terra firma for a change. Do you fancy some fresh air?’
They walked for a while in silence, then Krissie slipped her arm through his and steered him to a patch of deep shadow under the trees. When he kissed her, she kissed him back enthusiastically.
‘Hey, man,’ she said. ‘It’s too damn cold here. I’ve never understood why people go barmy over Switzerland. When it isn’t snowing it’s raining. I have some booze in the hotel. Let’s go back there.’
There was no nonsense about Krissie Leroux. Back in the room she offered him a drink he didn’t have time to swallow, and started taking her clothes off.
‘Why don’t you come to Cape Town?’ she asked as she nestled close to him afterwards. ‘Sell a boat or two down there. And spend some time with me.’
Edward kissed her forehead, and ran his hands through her luxuriant hair. ‘I’ve been to Cape Town,’ he said.
‘Where did you stay? The Mount Nelson?’
‘Not exactly. The Missions to Seamen.’
‘If you came back with us, Pa would find you a job, I know he would.’
‘Not if he knew about this, he wouldn’t.’
When the Leroux family left for England, Edward headed for Naples, reflecting that there was another side to selling boats that could be very exciting, and sometimes exhausting.
Sam was still lying low while Rosina and her sister made up their minds which of them was more interested in him. But the Bulgarian ambassador in Rome had some positive news.
‘His Majesty,’ he informed Edward, ‘has a seaside villa near Varna. He feels a boat could be very useful when he’s there.’
‘What would he use it for?’ Edward asked. ‘Fishing?’
The ambassador wrinkled his nose. ‘King Ferdinand does not fish.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He amuses himself. His Majesty finds it a most amusing idea to drive himself from his palace in Sofia to the station, then drive himself by train to the coast, and finally drive or steer, or whatever people do, to Varna. He regrets the delay in letting you know but matters are extremely delicate at the moment.’
Edward looked sideways at the ambassador. Something was definitely in the wind. The nations of Europe were on edge. France was worried about Germany. The Germans were envious of Britain and nervous of Russia. Russia was seething with discontent. Italy was itching to prove herself. And newspapers had been calling the Balkans the powder keg.
The ambassador smiled. ‘There will be no war I can assure you. The King would not be contemplating buying anything so expensive as a fleet of boats if there were a danger of war.’
‘A fleet of boats?’ Edward’s heart leapt.
‘Why not? He has a fleet of motor cars.’
Returning to England, Edward found the boats couldn’t be ready for Bulgaria before the end of the month, so he concentrated on seeing the boat Leroux had bought prepared for its journey from Southampton to Cape Town. Shipping boats had become almost second nature by this time.
There was plenty to do and he cabled Sam that he was staying in England until he could see the King of Bulgaria’s boats off, and would then take the train to Naples to be there when they arrived. The only ship he had been able to find which was going anywhere near the Black Sea was a small French freighter called the Maréchal MacMahon carrying mules and other assorted cargo. It was due in at Southampton in a month’s time from South America and would be loading its extra cargo before leaving for Naples, Taranto, Athens, Smyrna in Turkey, Istanbul and Batum before doubling back and touching Bulgaria at Varna.
