Villiers Touch (22 page)

While she was in the bathroom he crossed the suite to the telephone in the living room and called George Hackman. A girl's voice told him in an English accent to hold on; in a moment the broker's hearty voice struck his ear. Villiers said, “Never mind the small talk. I want you to call Steve Wyatt. Tell him to get to a pay-phone booth at exactly two-thirty this afternoon and call me at this number.” He quoted a phone number from memory, not the hotel's number.

Hackman said, “Okay, I'll give him the message.”

“If the line's busy, tell him to keep trying until he gets through.”

“Sure enough. Listen, Mace, while I've got you on the phone, Sidney's been having one hell of a time trying to get anything moving on this Rademacher business, you know, the old guy who—”

“Not on the telephone, George. You can tell Sidney I've got someone working on that problem from my end, but tell him to keep plugging anyway. Anything else?”

“Well, ah, yeah, one little item here, I guess we can talk about it on the phone. I just had this mock-up of the prospectus delivered over here, for the Nuart stock issue.”

“How does it look?”

“Like all the rest of these things, mainly just a poor-mouthing hedge against some damn fool investor later claiming he's been misled. It more or less says we don't promise to make any money for the stockholders, in fact, we may well lose their damn money for them, but we'd like them to invest in us anyway.”

“I know. Nobody ever pays any attention to those ritualistic disclaimers anyway. The important thing is, it's got to look like a good professional job, respectable and well done up.”

“It's impressive. Want me to send it over with a messenger?”

“Never mind. I won't be here. I'll stop in Monday morning and have a look.”

“Anything else you want me to do over the weekend?”

“Tap somebody to take over Heggins Aircraft for us.”

“I'm working on three or four possibles. Expect I'll have someone by Monday.”

“All right,” Villiers said. “I'll be in touch.” He hung up and glanced at the bedroom door, where Ginger stood smoking, dressed in a figure-hugging pants suit.

She said, “Was that George?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you feel the least bit odd, talking to my husband with me right here?”

“Why should I?”

“Anybody would.”

“I'm not just anybody.”

“You can say that again,” she said. “You know what really bothers me about you, Mace? The rest of us are just human beings, but you're so Goddamned sure of yourself—you keep acting as if you know more about me than I do, and that's crazy.”

He said, “Seven-thirty, Plaza Hotel.”

“I remember.”

“You can cover it with George?”

“He doesn't care what I do anymore. He probably won't get home himself before five in the morning.”

“All right. If he asks, have a story ready.”

“I always do. It's always the same story, because I've never had to use it yet. He never asks.”

“Count your blessings, then,” he said. “There's one bit of dialogue I want you to memorize to use on Dan Silverstein tonight. Slip it in whenever you think you've found the right point in the conversation. Tell him your husband's latest big deal is the Heggins Aircraft take-over—tell him your husband negotiated the deal between Colonel Butler and me. Tell him I'm the one who's buying it, and let him get the idea I'm buying it for the purpose of gutting the company, selling off the assets, and closing it down.”

“That's all true, isn't it? You're not just making that up.”

“Most of it's true, except the last part, which is the only part Silverstein won't be able to check.”

“What's the point of it, Mace?”

“You don't need to know.”

“It would help if I had a hint. Sometimes you can't just drop a chunk like that into a conversation like dropping a stone into a pool. If I knew what it was all about, then maybe—”

She didn't finish it; she made a gesture instead, and Villiers said, “Put it this way. Silverstein has already sold a block of Heggins stock short. If he thinks I'm going to ruin the company, he'll sell more short. I want him to sell it short, that's all.”

“That doesn't give me much of a handle.”

Silverstein, he thought, was also a director of Northeast Consolidated, but there was no point in mentioning that to her. What he said was, “He'll ask you about your husband, and you'll tell him. I'm not going to write a complete script for you.”

“I suppose,” she said vaguely.

He settled the paper-thin watch on his wrist and made a point of looking at it when he spoke: “I hope you don't have any trouble finding a taxi.”

She stood bolt still and stared. “I thought we were going to have lunch.”

“We've had it,” he said. “I've got things to do.”

“You son of a bitch. You haven't changed a bit, after all. That eviction notice was about as subtle as a cheap john's pitch—what am I supposed to do with myself between now and seven-thirty tonight?”

“You'll find some way to amuse yourself, walking the streets,” he said. “You always did.”

She turned slowly and walked by him to the door. Her smile became sad and mocking by turns. “And besides being unique,” she said, “you've got the character of a billy goat.”

When she was gone he took the elevator down to the lobby and turned right, to the row of public telephone booths opposite the cashier's desk. He closed the booth door and lifted a sheaf of folded papers from his inside jacket pocket, flattened them out, and uncapped his fountain pen before he lifted the receiver and gave the operator a Montreal number and his Bell credit-card identification. He poised the pen and laid his expressionless gaze on the pages before him—coded lists, typed on phosphor-treated flashpaper which would erupt at a single spark and be consumed instantly. It was a precaution he had learned from a bookie in Chicago.

“Nine-six-nine-seven?”

“Mr. Senna, please.”

“Who's calling?”

“You'd better learn to recognize my voice, honey.”

“Oh—uh, it must be a bad connection, Mr. Villiers. I'm sorry. I'll put him on right away. Hold on, please.”

“Mace? Right on time, boy, just like Mussolini's trains. How're they hanging?”

Villiers looked at his watch. “All right, Sal. I haven't got time for the rundown today. Just give me the totals.”

Senna's abrasive voice rolled off a series of numbers. Villiers copied them down in his crabbed hand. There was interference on the line; at one point he could hardly hear Senna. “Let me have that last one again.”

When he finished he put the pen down and glanced out across the lobby. “How secure are we on this line?”

“Where are you? Public phone?”

“Yes.”

“Then we're okay,” Senna said. “Hell, we pay that electronics team fifty grand a year to inspect this joint for bugs every three weeks, with random spot checks in between. They were just here Wednesday. We're fine, it ain't tapped.”

“All right. Then tell me this. How do I get in touch with Civetta?”

“Sally or Vic?”

“Vic. He's the top man, isn't he?”

“He cracks the whip, all right. But what do you want him for? He can swallow you whole.”

“Don't count on that. I may need some fast financing on a deal I'm working on.”

“From Vic Civetta? Count your fingers if you do. He'd steal the pennies off a dead man's eyes.”

“I'm not a dead man.”

“Yeah. Listen, there's safer ways.”

Villiers said, “Not for the amount of money I've got in mind. But I want to be absolutely sure Civetta's big enough to handle it before I approach him. Can he deliver?”

“How big?”

“Very big. Maybe nine figures.”

Senna whistled. Villiers said, “I can't take the time it would take to go through legitimate sources. They'd take six months to check out something this big. Besides, the banks don't consider me a good risk.”

“God knows why not, with your track record. They ought to be getting in line to lend you money, Mace.”

“To be sure. But they've got a strange notion of where to draw the line between genteel Yankee cunning and dishonesty.”

It made Senna chuckle again. “Okay. Vic can handle it if he wants to. Every motherin' dollar in Manhattan goes through his hands on its way to the kitty, and a piece of every dollar rubs off. It adds up.”

“I get the point—he's big enough. Next question: is he reliable enough?”

“If he wasn't, the organization would have replaced him with somebody who was.”

“How do I approach him?”

“I can think of a lot of ways, but there's one that'll save time and trouble. Just let me know when you want it set up. I'll call Sally Civetta, and he'll arrange it direct. That way we avoid half a dozen middlemen.”

“Good. I'll know within a couple of weeks whether I'm going to need it or not.”

“Just give me twenty-four hours to set it up. No big deal. I wouldn't give it a thought. Oh, say, there's a nut-case Englishman in town with a Duesenburg for sale. I thought you might—”

“Save it, Sal, I'm expecting a call. I'll talk to you Monday.” Villiers hung the phone on the hook and glanced at his watch, folded the flashpapers, and put them away in his pocket. Through the glass booth doors he watched an ample-rumped girl cross the lobby; his expression changed slightly, and then the telephone rang and he reached for it, still watching the girl.

“Yes?”

“This is Steve Wyatt.”

The girl disappeared beyond the range of his vision. He said, “What have you got to report?”

“I got hold of a set of keys to Howard Claiborne's office files and had duplicates made. I expect to do what you asked me to do sometime over the weekend when there's no one in the office.”

“Keep an eye out for the building security people.”

“Do you take me for an idiot, Mr. Villiers?”

“I'll let you know after I've seen how you perform.”

“I'll perform. Don't worry about it. I've had enough practice at breaking and entering to know the drill. I'm like you, Mr. Villiers—I was born four days late and I've been running to catch up ever since. Don't worry about me.”

“I'm not worried,” Villiers said. “You are.”

The youth uttered a harsh laugh that did not convey the nonchalance it was intended to express. Villiers let the silence hang until Wyatt spoke again: “I'll do the job, okay? You don't need to badger me. Anything else on your mind?”

“Sonny,” Villiers said in a mild voice, “you need to watch your tone with me. Don't let it slip your mind I'm the one who can put you away.”

“Maybe you can't afford to,” Wyatt said, insolent and cocky. “You need me right now.”

“Nobody's indispensable to me. You're expendable. Use your head, and we'll get along.”

“I get along better with people when I know where I stand with them. I still want to know what's in this for me.”

“You're in too much of a hurry.”

“Am I? You're asking me to dig skeletons out of important people's closets. The least you can do is toss me a bone.”

“I'm about to put a corporation in your lap. Will that satisfy you?” Because no one could see him in the booth, Villiers allowed himself to smile.

Wyatt said, “All right, Mr. Villiers, now you've got the mule's attention. Go on.”

The smile broadened slightly, and went. “I've put in a takeover bid for a small company called Melbard Chemical. You know it?”

“I've seen the logo.”

“There's an old man on the board of directors who controls half a million shares. He's got a grip on them an ape couldn't pry loose. I need those shares to get control of the company. It's a domino situation—if the Melbard bid collapses, I lose a string of important things beyond it. I need to have Melbard in my pocket by Monday morning.”

“It's a tall order,” Wyatt said, “but it sounds intriguing. Where do I fit in?”

“I'm beginning to learn they don't call society ‘The Four Hundred' for nothing. All of you seem to know each other. The old man who's in my way is pushing eighty, he's the only surviving director from the original board of the Merchants and Maritime Trust Bank, and one of the other founding directors of that bank in nineteen-twenty-four was Robert Phelps Wyatt.”

“My grandfather. Sure.”

“According to the information I've put together, this old man used to bounce you on his knee. He still keeps in touch with your mother.”

“You wouldn't be talking about Arthur Rademacher, by any chance?”

“I was beginning to wonder whether you'd come up with the right name before I had to give it to you.”

“All right, it's Arthur Rademacher. I know him, he knows me. Where does that get us?”

“How much does he know about your record?”

“I have no idea. Not very much, I imagine. I've been discreet.”

“Not discreet enough.”

“You don't have to remind me. But nobody else but you would have had any reason to sic private detectives on me.”

Villiers said, “Then we'll assume Rademacher doesn't know the sordid details.”

“I don't like your brand of humor very much, Mr. Villiers.”

“You'll get used to it. Now, Rademacher got out from under the Market crash of twenty-nine by methods which, not to put too fine a point on it, could be described as devious. Questionable. Nothing actionable, of course—it's too long ago, there's a statute of limitations, but just the same he's got a reputation to uphold, and his family has got a reputation to uphold, and in your circles nothing matters much except reputation.”