The End Game (17 page)

“All straight?”

“All perfectly straight. Old-fashioned family companies formed by the fathers or grandfathers of the present owners. Friendly connections with their suppliers, a good name in the trade. In each case they had got into difficulties after the war, trying to fight off the big combines. The trouble being that they were undercapitalised. Blackett supplied the capital.”

“And took over the company.”

“In fact, yes. Legally, no. He got fifty-one per cent of the shares, but two per cent of those went to his chauffeur. Who obviously does what Blackett tells him. But the fact that it’s an obvious wangle doesn’t alter the legal position.”

Morrissey grunted. He had a low opinion of lawyers and their wangles.

“The next rank above them are two larger companies. One of them is a printing outfit, Sayborn Art Printers, the second is a property company, Cavaliero. It buys and sells and leases advertising sites. A very specialised job since the Planning Acts came in. Then, at the top of that particular pyramid you’ll find Holmes and Holmes, which is one of the three largest advertising agencies in Great Britain. Do you begin to see the picture?”

“You mean they can take in each other’s washing.”

“Intertrading is the name of the game. The point of it is that the Revenue can only take a sizeable bite of a company’s profits when they go above a certain figure. So if you control all the inlets and outlets you can arrange that this doesn’t happen. Suppose Sayborn Art Printers looks like making too much money—they trade with other people, too, remember—all Blackett has to do is put up the price at which they buy from Cornford, Harmond and Implex. And vice versa.”

“So what does he get out of it for himself?”

“Fifty or sixty prosperous companies, each paying him a fee
and
expenses as a consultant. The expenses being largely tax-free. It’s not been an easy sum to work out, because some of the figures are guesswork, but he probably pulls in an income, after tax, of around eighty thousand pounds a year.”

“After
tax?”

“In his pocket.”

“And there’s nothing anyone can do about it?”

“They can nibble away at his expense allowances. But part of his trade is international. This gives him an excuse for a lot of entertainment. Weekend house parties for foreign V.I.P.’s. If he’s got friendly accountants, which he has, he can pretty well live on his expense account.”

“Then what does he spend his real money on? Boyfriends?”

“1 can tell you one thing he doesn’t spend much of it on, and that’s shares. If he did, we’d pick up the investment income in his tax returns. Probably he invests in things which don’t bring in income. Like antiques and pictures and gold.”

“I read a story once,” said Morrissey, “about a man who bought a lot of gold. He filled his cellar with it. Gold pots and pans, trays and boxes and such. And because he didn’t want anyone to know about it, he covered them all with black paint. Then he went and died in a car crash, and no one knew anything about them. They thought they were a lot of old rubbish and gave them all away to a jumble sale in aid of charity.”

“A very moral story,” agreed Abel gravely.

As Morrissey walked back down Petty France he was thoughtful. What he had said was true. He was getting slow. Slower at walking, slower at turning, slower at hitting. But not, he hoped, slower at thinking.

This was important. He was going to need all his wits about him, because a very complex set of arrangements, code name “Operation Snakes and Ladders,” was moving steadily towards its climax.

“You’ve all worked like Trojans,” said Martin Brandreth. “It was a close race. But Golden Apple was first past the post. And that seemed to me a good enough excuse for a party.”

Laughter and cheers.

The typists’ room at Sayborn Art Printers had been cleared of desks and chairs, and the tables which had been brought in from the Board Room held a noble assortment of bottles and glasses and a rather smaller supply of eatables.

“It’s true that we were helped by an accident to the other side, but that doesn’t detract in the least from your efforts. If we hadn’t made the effort we did, and been on their heels all the way, we shouldn’t have overhauled them in the straight.”

“I suppose,” said Eileen, “that you could describe their lorry being hijacked as an accident. From what I read in the papers it seemed pretty deliberate to me.”

Simon said, in a fierce whisper, “You mustn’t say things like that.”

“Why on earth not?”

“It’s asking for trouble.”

They were standing on the fringe of the crowd, and Susan was the only person close enough to tune in to this exchange. She turned round and said, “I read about it as well. It did seem funny, happening just when it did. I thought perhaps Merry and Merry had upset someone, and they were getting their own back.”

“I didn’t think things like that happened here,” said Eileen. “America, perhaps.”

Simon had pointedly disassociated himself from this conversation and moved as far away as the crowd would let him. Susan thought, I wonder what on earth they did to him. He’s still running scared. At this moment Martin Brandreth, who had been standing on a chair to address the troops, caught sight of her and beckoned imperiously. She edged her way towards him and was presented with a drink. Brandreth raised his own glass, said, “To my secretary. The busiest girl in the office,” and downed half his own drink. Susan tasted hers cautiously. It seemed to be mostly gin. The crowd swirled and reformed, and Susan found herself next to Mr Lambie. She said,’ “I’m not all that fond of gin. Do you think I could pour some of this into your glass. Hold it down, out of sight. No one will notice. That’s fine.”

“Anything to oblige a pretty girl,” said Mr Lambie courteously.

The room grew noisier and, although all the windows were now wide open, hotter. Faces were redder. Voices which had started at a moderate pitch had to be raised higher and higher in order to make themselves heard. Susan moved round the room as quickly as the crowd would let her. As secretary to the Managing Director she had to be agreeable to everyone and found that a lot of people wanted to be nice to her. Inevitably this perambulation brought her back finally to the top of the room, where Brandreth was holding court.

He had been waiting for her. On the table behind him was a full glass. He reached back and handed it to her. “A special drink,” he said with a grin. “I’ve been keeping it for you. No heeltaps.”

Susan took a cautious sip.

“What on earth is it?” she said.

“Firewater,” said Brandreth. “Drink it and all your cares will fly away.”

“Drink it and I shall be flat on the floor,” said Susan.

At this moment one of the directors of Holmes and Holmes surged up and got between them. Susan backed away, holding the glass. She had a suspicion that it held neat vodka.

The crowd was thinning out now, and to repeat the manoeuvre with Mr Lambie would have been difficult. As she reached the back of the room she realised that a row was brewing. She heard Simon say, “Three’s quite enough. If you drink anything more, I won’t be responsible for getting you home.”

“And who asked you to be responsible?”

“Your mother. Among other people.”

“That was very kind of her. But quite unnecessary.”

“If she’d known that you were going to stand here swilling gin all evening—”

“If you call three weak gin-and-tonics swilling, I don’t. And what’s more, you’ve got no right to count every drink I take.”

To emphasise what she was saying, Eileen had put down her own glass on the table and swung round on Simon. It was a private battle, conducted with low-pitched venom, absorbing to the contestants and ignored by everyone near them.

The opportunity was too good to be missed. The glasses, hired for the occasion, were all the same shape and size. Susan placed her own on the table and picked up Eileen’s. Then she set a course which would bring her back towards Brandreth. She was tired of his oafish tactics. She thought that the time had come to ring down the curtain on the act. Conclusively, but artistically.

With the departure of the Holmes and Holmes contingent there was only a hard core of drinkers left. Brandreth said to her, “When you’ve finished that drink, I’ve got a proposal to make.”

“A proposal or a proposition?” Susan managed to get a little artistic thickness into her voice.

“A suggestion, really. As soon as we can slip away, I’ll run you up to London and give you a proper meal. These bits and pieces are no fodder for a growing girl.”

“Had you any particular place in mind?”

“When I celebrate I like to do it properly. I suggest La Terrasse.”

“Okay by me. But it’s very popular just now. You probably won’t get a table.”

“I’ve already booked one.”

The devil you have, thought Susan. What she wanted was a diversion. She was presented with one immediately. A table at the far end of the room went over with a crash.

Susan said, “That’s Eileen. I’d better give a hand.”

Several people were helping already. Simon, white-faced and furious, was saying, “She’ll be quite all right if you get her outside. It was the heat.”

Susan said, “We’ll put her in the annexe. If she’s going to be sick, there’s a lavatory there. You needn’t all come. Put an arm under her shoulders, Simon. See if she can walk.”

“I told her,” said Simon. “It was that last drink that did it.”

“It’s always the last drink that does it. Put her in that chair by the window. I’ll be back in a minute.”

There were two telephones with outside lines. One was in her room, the other in Brandreth’s. She thought it would be safer to use his. She hoped that the person she wanted was in and would answer her call quickly.

She was back inside five minutes. The room was nearly empty.

Brandreth said, “What’s that silly girl been up to? I always thought she was a steady type.”

“Showing off,” said Susan. “They all do it. She’ll be all right now.”

“Then let’s beat it.”

Brandreth was a showy driver. His attention for the next forty minutes was devoted to passing cars, slipping between cars and beating traffic lights. Susan fastened her seat belt tight and uttered a short prayer to St. Christopher, patron saint of travellers.

Brandreth’s luck was in. They arrived in one piece, and he even managed to find a parking space. He took Susan’s arm as they went into the restaurant. The headwaiter said, “I have your table, Mr Brandreth. We are a little crowded, but I have managed the additional place.”

Brandreth stared, first at him and then at the table from which a middle-aged, grey-haired, grey-moustached man had risen politely to his feet. He knew him, of course. Andrew Holmes, senior partner of Holmes and Holmes, one of the largest advertising agencies in London and the principal customer of Sayborn Art Printers.

Holmes was holding a chair for Susan, who sank into it. Brandreth was very red and seemed disinclined to sit. Holmes said smoothly, “It seemed to me that we had a double event to celebrate, Martin. First our signal triumph over Merry and Merry. Hearty congratulations. A joint effort, but you did most of the work. Secondly, Miss Perronet-Condé’s move to our firm.”

Brandreth sat down slowly. He seemed to be having some difficulty in finding words.

“Since I have, as it were, intruded on this dinner party,” continued Holmes, “I have compounded my offence by daring to order the first course. I hope you are both as fond of smoked salmon as I am. I have bespoken a bottle of Chablis Moutonne to go with it.”

“Lovely,” said Susan. “I’ve hardly had time for a drink all evening.”

Rayhome had, once again, taken rooms for their party at the good-class hotel which overlooked the Filippo Strozzi Park. David was glad of this. He was bleakly conscious that all he had gained by agreeing to come on the trip was a breathing space. A very temporary breathing space. He was under no illusions about that. He was a prisoner out on bail, and at the end of the trip, or maybe sooner, his bail was going to be called in. Meanwhile he thought that he might as well enjoy all the comfort that was available.

The surveillance was extensive and unremitting. There was a new floor waiter on the fourth floor, a sulky youth who seemed to spend most of his time using the house telephone; a middle-aged lady in tight black who sat in the entrance hall doing an endless piece of petit point; and a gang of boys with mopeds, one of whom was always on duty outside the front door of the hotel and a second near the service door which opened on to an alley alongside the hotel.

In the galleries and restaurants, standing behind him admiring the pictures, or sitting at the next table intent on their meals, were different and heavier types of watcher, men who had the appearance of Milanese industrialists, but spoke with the accent of the south—serious men from Naples or Sicily.

The most alarming aspect of this surveillance was that it was carried out so openly. David wondered what would happen if he tried to break out. Suppose he jumped, without warning, on to a bus and went somewhere, anywhere, out of the city. Stupid idea. There were cars on call which could keep any bus under observation. Or dived down a side street where no car could follow. But there were few places where a boy, with or without a moped, could not keep on his heels.

“Take it easy, David, lad,” he said to himself. “Don’t let the bastards panic you. Let them sweat, not you.”

Things were made a bit easier by the fact that he had found a drinking companion. Lewis Hobart, a cheerful brown-faced man of much the same size and drinking capacity as David, formerly a captain in the African Rifles, now on indefinite leave pending discharge.

“It’s my eyes,” he explained, indicating the tinted glasses which he wore. “Let me down badly; got what they call double sight. Thought I was aiming at a black buck and nearly shot the Adjutant. Bad show.”

Captain Hobart’s interest in museums and galleries was small and easily satisfied. As a companion David found him much preferable to Collings, and over a succession of evenings they drank and yarned together, mostly in Harry’s Bar on the Lungarno, but sometimes in more disreputable places. David learned a number of curious facts about Africa.