Paper Money (16 page)

Well, it might be time for him and Ellen to start rediscovering each

other. And a million pounds would buy some of his dreams. They could

have a villa-perhaps not in Cannes, but somewhere in the Sud. He could

buy a yacht big enough for the Mediterranean and small enough for him to

drive himself. The grouse moor was out of the question, but there might

be enough left for one or two decent paintings.

This Laski fellow was buying a headache. However, headaches seemed to be

his speciality. Hamilton knew a little about him. The man had no

background, no education, no family; but he had brains and cash, and in

hard times those things counted for more than good breeding. Perhaps

Laski and Hamilton Holdings deserved each other.

It was an odd thing Hamilton had said to Nathaniel Fett: "Tell Laski

that if I sell him my company by midday, I want the money in my hand by

noon." How eccentric, to ask for cash on the nail like the proprietor of

a Glasgow liquor store.

But he knew why he had done it. The effect had been to take the decision

out of his hands: if Laski could produce the money, the deal would be

done; if not, not. Incapable of making up his mind, Hamilton had tossed

a ha' penny

Suddenly he hoped fervently that Laski would be able to raise the cash.

Derek Hamilton wanted never to go back to the office.

The car drew up outside Fett's place, and he got out.

THE BEAUTY of being an earwig, Bertie Chieseman had found, was that you

could do almost anything while you were listening to the police radio.

And the tragedy of it, from his point of view, was that there was

nothing much he wanted to do.

Already this morning he had swept the carpet, a process of raising dust

only for it to fall again soon afterward--while the airwaves were filled

with uninteresting messages about traffic in the Old Kent Road.

He had also shaved at the sink in the corner, using a safety razor and

hot water from the Ascot; and fried a single rasher of bacon on the

cooker in the same room for his breakfast.

He ate very little.

He had called the Evening Post only once since his first report at eight

o'clock: to tip them off about an ambulance call to a block of flats in

Westminster. The name of the patient had not been mentioned over the

air, but Bertie had surmised from the address that it might, just

possibly, be someone important. It was up to the news desk to phone

ambulance headquarters and ask the name; and--if headquarters had been

told, they would pass the information on. Often the ambulance men did

not make their report until the patient was in the hospital. Bertie

occasionally talked to reporters, and he always asked them questions

about how they used the information he gave them, and turned it into

stories. He was quite well informed about the mechanics of journalism.

Apart from that and the traffic, there had been only shoplifting, petty

vandalism, a couple of accidents, a small demonstration in Downing

Street, and one mystery.

The mystery was in East London, but that was about all Bertie knew. He

had heard an all-cars alert, but the subsequent message had been

uninformative: the cars were asked to look out for a plain blue van'

with a certain registration number.

It might simply have been hijacked with a cargo of cigarettes, or it

might be driven by someone the police wanted to question, or it might

have been in a robbery. The word "Obadiah" had been used; Bertie did not

know why. Immediately after the alert, three cars had been detached from

regular patrol to search for the van. That meant very little.

The fuss might be over nothing at all--perhaps even some Flying Squad

inspector's runaway wife; Bertie had known it to happen. On the other

hand it could be big. He was waiting for more information.

The landlady came up while he was cleaning his frying pan with warm

water and a rag. He dried his hands on his sweater and got out the rent

book. Mrs. Keeney, in an apron and curlers, stared in awe at the radio

equipment although she saw it every week.

Bertie gave her the money and she signed the book. Then she handed him a

letter.

"I don't know why you don't have some nice music on," she said.

He smiled. He had not told her what he used the radio for, as it was

against the law to listen to police radio. "I'm not very musical," he

said.

She shook her head resignedly, and went out.

Bertie opened the letter. It was his monthly check from the Evening

Post. He had had a good spell: the check was for five hundred pounds.

Bertie paid no tax. He found it difficult to spend all his money. The

job compelled him to live fairly simply. He spent every evening in pubs,

and on Sundays he went out in the car, his one luxury, a bright new Ford

Capri. He went to all sorts of places, like a tourist: he had been to

Canterbury Cathedral, Windsor Castle, Beaulieu, St. Albans, Bath,

Oxford; he visited safari parks, stately homes, ancient monuments,

historic towns, racetracks, and fun fairs with equal enjoyment. He had

never had so much money in his life. There was enough to buy everything

he wanted, and a little left over to save.

He put the check in a drawer and finished cleaning the frying pan. As he

was putting it away the radio crackled, and a sixth sense told him to

listen carefully.

"That's right, blue Bedford six-wheeler. Alpha Charlie London two oh

three Mother. Has it what? I

Distinguishing marks? Yes, if you look inside you'll notice it has a

most unusual feature--six large boxes of used notes."

Bertie frowned. The radio operator at headquarters was being funny,

obviously; but what he said implied that the missing van was carrying a

large sum of money. That sort of van did not go missing accidentally.

It must have been hijacked.

Bertie sat down at his table and picked up the phone.

Felix Laski and Nathaniel Fett stood up when Derek Hamilton entered the

room. Laski, the would-be buyer, and Hamilton, the vendor, shook hands

briefly, like boxers before a fight. Laski realized with a shock that he

and Hamilton were wearing identical suits: dark blue with a pinstripe.

They even had the same six-button double-breasted jacket without vents.

But Hamilton's gross body took away any elegance the style had. On him,

the most beautiful suit would look like a length of cloth wrapped around

a jelly. Laski knew, without looking in a mirror, that his own suit

appeared to be much more expensive.

He told himself not to feel superior. The wrong attitude could ruin a

negotiation. He said: "Nice to see you again, Hamilton."

Hamilton nodded. "How do you do, Mr. Laski."

The chair squeaked as he sat down.

The use of "Mr." did not escape Laski. Hamilton would only employ the

unadorned surname with his equals.

Laski crossed his legs and waited for Fett, the broker, to open the

proceedings. He studied Hamilton out of the corner of his eye. The man,

might have been handsome in his youth, he decided: he had a high

forehead, a straight nose, and bright blue eyes. Right now he looked

relaxed, with his hands folded in his lap. Laski thought: He has made up

his mind already.

Fett said: "For the record, Derek owns five hundred and ten thousand

shares in Hamilton Holdings, Limited, a public company. Another four

hundred and ninety thousand are owned by various parties, and there are

no unissued shares. Mr. Laski, you offer to buy those five hundred and

ten thousand shares for the sum of one million pounds, on condition the

deed of sale is dated today and signed at twelve noon."

"Or that a letter to that intent is so dated and signed."

"Quite so."

Laski tuned out as Fett continued to enunciate formalities in a dry

monotone. He was thinking that Hamilton probably deserved to lose his

wife.

A woman as vivacious and highly sexed as Ellen was entitled to a

full-blooded love life: her husband had no right to let himself run to

seed.

Here I am, he thought, stealing the man's wife and taking away his

life's work, and still he can make me squirm by calling me Mister.

"As I see it," Fett was concluding, "the deal can be done just as Mr.

Laski has outlined it. The documents are satisfactory. There remains

only the larger question of whether, and under what conditions, Derek

will sell." He sat back with the air of one who has completed a ritual.

Hamilton looked at Laski. "What are your plans for the group?" he asked.

Laski suppressed a sigh. There was no point to any kind of

cross-examination. He was quite free to tell Hamilton a pack of lies.

He did just that.

"The first step would be a large capital injection," he said. "Then an

improvement in management services, a shake-out at top level in the

operating companies, and some streamlining in low-performance sectors."

Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but if Hamilton wanted

to read the script from the top, Laski was happy to go along with it.

"You've chosen a crucial moment at which to make your offer."

"Not really," Laski said. "The oil well, if it happens, will be a bonus.

What I'm buying is a fundamentally sound group which is going through a

bad patch. I shall make it profitable without meddling with its

infrastructure. That happens to be my particular talent." He smiled

selfconsciously.

"Despite my reputation, I'm interested in running real industries, not

trading in equities."

He caught a hostile glance from Fett: the broker knew he was lying. "So

why the twelve o'clock deadline?"

"I think the price of Hamilton shares will go up unreasonably if you get

the license. This could be my last chance for some time of buying at a

sensible price."

"Fair enough," Hamilton said, taking the initiative away from Fett.

"But I, too, have set a deadline. How do you feel about that?"

"Quite happy," Laski lied. In truth he was desperately worried.

Hamilton's wish to see the money in his hand" at the time the deal was

signed, was unexpected. Laski had planned to pay a deposit today and the

balance when final contracts were exchanged. But although Hamilton's

stipulation was eccentric, it was perfectly reasonable.

Once the letter had been signed Laski was able to trade in the shares,

either selling them or using them to raise a loan. What he planned was

to use the shares--at their oil-inflated price--to raise the money to

pay for the original purchase.

But he had fallen into the pit he had dug. He had tempted Hamilton with

a fast deal, and the old man had gone for it too well. Laski did not

know what he was going to do, for he did not have a million pounds-he

would have been scraping the barrel for the one-hundred-thousand

deposit. But he did know what he was not going to do: he would not let

this deal slip through his fingers.

"Quite happy," he repeated.

Fett said: "Derek, perhaps now is the time you and I should have a few

minutes together--"

"I don't think so," Hamilton interrupted. "Unless you plan to tell me

that this deal is riddled with pitfalls?"

"Not at all."

"In that case"--Hamilton turned to Laski--"I accept."

Laski stood up and shook Hamilton's hand.

The fat man was mildly embarrassed by the gesture, but it was one Laski

believed in. Men like Hamilton could always find escape clauses in a

contract, but they could not bear to renege on a handshake.

Laski said: "The funds are in the Cotton Bank of Jamaica-London branch,

of course. I imagine this presents no problem." He drew a checkbook from

his pocket.

Fett frowned. It was a very small bank, but perfectly respectable. He

would have preferred a check drawn on a clearing bank, but he could

hardly object at this stage without seeming obstructive: Laski knew he

would feel like this.

Laski wrote the check and handed it to Hamilton. "It's not often a man

pockets a million pounds," he said.

Hamilton seemed to become jovial. He smiled:

"It's not often a man spends it." Laski said: "When I was ten years old

our rooster died, and I went with my father to market to buy a new one.

It cost the equivalent of ... oh, three pounds. But my family had saved

for a year to accumulate that money. More heart searching went into the