Chapter Thirty-three

The man’s name was Basil Hawkwood, and Canfield quickly pictured the trademark hawkwood small letter h—as it appeared on a variety of leather goods. Hawkwood Leather was one of the largest firms in England, only a short distance behind Mark Cross.

The nervous Basil led Canfield into the huge reading room of his club. Knights. They chose two chairs by the Knightsbridge window, where there were no other members within earshot.

Basil’s fear caused him to stutter, and when his words came, the phrases tumbled over one another. He assumed, because he wanted to assume, that the young man facing him would help him.

Canfield sat back in the comfortable chair and listened with incredulity to Hawkwood’s story.

The chairman of Hawkwood Leather had been sending shipment after shipment of ‘damaged’ leather goods to a little-known firm in Munich. For over a year the directors of Hawkwood accepted the losses on the basis of the ‘damaged’ classification. Now, however, they had ordered a complete report on the excess malfunctions of the plants. The Hawkwood heir was trapped. There could be no more shipments for an indeterminate time.

He pleaded with Matthew Canfield to understand. He begged the young man to report and confirm his loyalty, but the boots, the belts, the holsters would have to come from someone else.

‘Why do you wear the cuff links?’ asked Canfield.

‘I wore them today to remind Bertholde of my contribution.

He presented them to me himself—You’re not wearing yours.’

‘My contribution doesn’t call for them.’

‘Well, damn it, mine does! I haven’t stinted in the past and I won’t in the future!’ Hawkwood leaned forward in his chair. ‘The present circumstances don’t change my feelings! You can report that. God damn Jews! Radicals! Bolsheviks! All over Europe! A conspiracy to destroy every decent principle good Christian men have lived by for centuries! They’ll murder us in our beds! Rape our daughters! Pollute the races! I’ve never doubted it! I’ll help again. You have my word! Soon there’ll be millions at our disposal!’

Matthew Canfield suddenly felt sick. What in God’s name had he done? He got out of the chair and his legs felt weak.

‘I’ll report what you said, Mr. Hawkwood.’

‘Good fellow. Knew you’d understand.’

‘I’m beginning to.’ He walked rapidly away from the Englishman toward the arch to the outer hallway.

As he stood on the curb under the Knights’ canopy waiting for a taxi, Canfield was numb with fear. He was no longer dealing with a world he understood. He was dealing with giants, with concepts, with commitments beyond his comprehension.