7 
Rollo Black
How Gifford Rutherford obtained the name Rollo Black might have been an interesting inquiry in its own right. His banking associations, though mostly carried out with three-piece suits and silk shirts, occasionally put him in touch with another class of individuals, namely those facing financial and other sorts of difficulties that would not generally be found in Mayfair. From one such contact had the name of the shadowy Mr. Black surfaced. The banker had filed the contact away for future reference, in case he should ever need someone with the kinds of skills this Black reportedly possessed.
That day had now come.
As Gifford made his way along the dark street of Seaton on the south Devon coast, glancing about nervously for sight of any thugs who might be lurking in the shadows of this waterfront district waiting for an easy mark, he found himself wondering if coming here had been such a good idea.
Ahead he saw a hanging sign waving back and forth in the wind.
R. BLACK, DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
He continued forward, turned and made his way up the rickety flight of outside stairs, and knocked on the door that presented itself at the landing.
A gruff noise bellowed from inside. Gifford took it as a summons to enter and tried the latch. The door opened.
The man he saw behind a cluttered desk inside wore at least a four-day growth of beard and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. The fellow’s red beady eyes squinted imperceptibly at sight of his well-dressed potential client, revealing that, despite his appearance, he was a shrewd judge of character.
“Are you Black?” said Gifford.
The man nodded.
“I was told that you can find out anything about anybody.”
“Perhaps not quite,” Black rasped in reply. “But what there is to be found, I can uncover. What is it you want to know?”
“I need information regarding some old deeds and property transfers.”
“What kind of information?” asked Black.
“That is for me to keep to myself for the present.”
“Look—I don’t know who you are,” Black shot back. “From the sound of your tongue and the cut of your clothes I take you for a Londoner. But that means nothing to me. If you want my services, then you tell me everything. Otherwise, get back to London and take your money with you.”
“All right, no need to get testy,” rejoined Gifford. “I simply want to authenticate the deeds I mention, as well as look into certain other facts pertaining to the property in question.”
“You wouldn’t have come to me unless you had more in mind.”
“If the deeds are genuine, I want to know what loopholes might exist. That is where the rest of the information comes in. If they are not genuine, or if the loopholes are sufficiently ambiguous, then the information will provide me grounds for asserting my rights of ownership to an ancient family estate.”
“I thought as much. You’re trying to get your hands on someone else’s property, and you want me to help you. Why don’t you talk to your solicitor?”
“I have. He’s the one who sent me to you. If you find what I am looking for, he will take steps to file the necessary documents. Until then he doesn’t want to dirty his hands.”
“Who is he?’
Gifford told him. Black nodded.
“We’ve had dealings together in the past. A conniving bloke. He’s willing to bend the law if need be.”
“I don’t care what he is so long as I get what I want.”
Black did not reply immediately, but continued to stare at the banker in front of him, as if making one final assessment of whether he wanted to involve himself in this man’s affairs.
“All right, then,” he said at length, “show me the color of your money, then tell me about this estate.”