“He’ll be over the border by now; selling the stuff in Germany. It’ll be worth a small fortune over there. Perhaps it serves me right for going on dealing with Beckmanns. Probably they put him up to it. There have been some ugly rumours about the Beckmann firm lately. I didn’t want to worry you with them. But people say young Albert gave a dinner-party to celebrate the sinking of the Lusitania. I wrote to them about it. Of course, they denied it. Here”—he pulled a document from the basket on his desk; handed it to Peter.
The document, a statement sworn before the British Consul in Havana, contradicted the rumour, “that either Señor Albert Beckmann and/or any member of the Cuban firm of Beckmann y Compania had ever adopted a policy hostile to Great Britain and her Allies, and specifically that they had never celebrated in any way the sinking of the Lusitania. . . .”
“It reads like a lie,” said Peter.
“It is a lie,” said Simpson.
“And what are we going to do about it?”
“About Hagenburg?”
“No. About Beckmanns.” Peter’s voice grew steely. “We must cut ’em out, Tom. Not another case. Do you agree?”
The older man hesitated a moment. “Supposing they ship their goods to some one else.”
“Let ’em, Tom. Let ’em. When I come back after this show’s over, it won’t be to buy goods from any dirty Hun—Cuban or otherwise. You’re with me? Right. Then let’s get down to business. How much has this bastard done us in the eye for?”
“About nine thousand, five hundred.”