Moroccan Traffic

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘That is the real answer,’ I said.

  ‘Is it?’ he said. ‘I’m not going to propose you for a new job, you know. Or discuss your capabilities with Sir Robert. I expect, in any case, you know enough about Kingsley’s to make it worthwhile digging in. Or aren’t you interested in what they are up to?’

  I said, ‘Of course I am. To help the Chair, you have to know what his policies are. But you can’t expect me to talk about that.’

  ‘I don’t. I’m not even getting you drunk. What car do you drive?’ said Johnson Johnson.

  It’s a second-hand Volkswagen. I’m not ashamed of it. When I told him, he finished wiping his lips and put down his napkin. He said, ‘Well, that settles that. You aren’t into insider trading.’

  I was furious. My suit might not come from Hardy Amies or wherever his women shopped, but it was a nice one. And not every EA can afford any car. I nearly retorted that if I wanted to go into insider trading I could do it tomorrow. It was pretty well true.

  I didn’t have the nerve to get up and go, but he must have read my expression. He said, ‘Have I paid you a back-handed compliment? I’m sorry. I’d forgotten how the feminine mind works. May I move on to what I actually wanted to say to you?’

  Now I looked him in the face, I saw what he was really like. He was without personality. His nose had been broken and reset with a discretion that gave it no distinction at all. His mouth was too spare to convey anything. His eyes, behind glass, possessed no radiating lines of good humour. Even his hair, surprisingly black, conveyed no puckish clue to his actual mood, as Sir Robert’s did. Sir Robert’s face was full of bantering lines, and his lips were beautiful. I said, ‘Please say what you want. I’m your guest. I don’t need to answer you.’

  ‘As you remind me,’ he said. ‘But here we are. Let’s see if there isn’t something useful to be got out of it. You’re not exploiting your job, no: of course you’re not. You’re ambitious. I’m sure you enjoy doing things well. So do I. But every now and then, I ask myself whether the thing I’m doing well is worth doing. And sometimes the answer is no, I’d be better doing something quite different. For example, I expect that you’ve picked up some languages?’

  I wondered what made him ask that, as well. I said, ‘Of course: doesn’t everyone? We couldn’t go into Europe without.’

  ‘But you don’t want to chuck business and go in for interpretation, or travel? Where did you go on holiday, for example?’

  I shot a glance at him, but his face displayed no special cunning. He didn’t expect me to say Kashmir or Bali. I described my two weeks with the Treasures of France. He asked quite intelligent questions, and I was careful with the way I pronounced things.

  We were into the pudding and cheese before I realised how I’d been diverted. I broke off. I said, ‘You promised a serious talk.’

  I expected a put-down. I drew on my training to prepare for it. The Implications of Being a Woman had been no help at all, despite Sir Robert’s obvious expectations. My host laid down his spoon with a certain mulishness rather than anger. He said, ‘It’s all right; it was a rather large pudding. So let’s talk about Sir Bob’s bloody portrait. You thought you might suggest an accommodation. So, fast-forward: such as?’

  It was time for my pitch. The tables around us were empty, although at the other end of the room a few flushed youngish men were emitting bursts of occasional laughter. From time to time, one of them waved at our table. Mr. Johnson paid no attention.

  I said, ‘The portrait deserves to be finished. Also, we’d like it exhibited this year as a business asset. We know you can’t come to us. But Sir Robert would come to you to be painted in whatever time you could spare from your client. At his own expense, and wherever you say. With a little goodwill, surely that would be possible?’ A man from the rowdy table had risen. He was young, blond and built like a Saxon gasometer.

  ‘Clients, plural,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘I have to paint more than one person. And you’ve put it very nicely, but no, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible. My sitters are not in this country.’

  ‘That needn’t matter,’ I said.

  ‘To Sir Robert Kingsley?’ he said. ‘Miss Helmann, you know and I know that his diary must be full to December.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He and Lady Kingsley were planning a vacation in March. Where are your sittings to be?’

  He never did answer. Before he could speak, the gasometer was standing before us. Close to, in every sense, he was staggering. I was aware of leather and buckles and suntan; of rippling sand-coloured hair, and eyes fringed with white lashes like woodlice, their gaze wholly directed at me. The vision said, ‘Who is she, JJ? Come on! We’ve all put down a tenner.’ Sandhurst and Army, I thought. Cheek and Old Money again, but this time not so casual.

  ‘Go away, Seb,’ my host answered. It was quite pleasant, like Sir Robert’s voice in the Boardroom.

  ‘Not a hope, old pal,’ said Seb. ‘We heard you scored with a wench in the Balkans.’ He was still examining me. ‘Are you from the Balkans? And wasting your charms on a shark from the Navy? What’s your name, darlin’?’

  The great painter stirred. ‘Miss Wendy Helmann of Kingsley Conglomerates,’ he said. ‘Meet Colonel Sebastian Sullivan, sportsman. Amateur sportsman.’

  ‘Bloddy hell!’ said Sebastian Sullivan. He was Irish.

  ‘Amateur,’ Mr. Johnson repeated. ‘If you were a real one you’d get the hell out.’

  ‘No,’ said Colonel Sullivan. He was swaying slightly. He said, ‘Hey!’

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr. Johnson.

  Colonel Sullivan said, ‘Does she work for King Cong?’

  ‘Who?’ said Mr. Johnson.

  ‘Kingsley Conglomerates,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s what they call us.’

  ‘It’s what they call Bob Kingsley,’ said Colonel Sullivan. ‘And if she works for him, she’s never come from Jugoslavia. She’s not Balkan, and I’ve lost me bloddy tenner.’

  ‘I’m British,’ I said. It’s what I always say.

  Colonel Sullivan pulled out a chair and sat down. He said, ‘So whose girlfriend are you?’

  Mr. Johnson gazed at him. ‘Mine,’ he said with some distaste.

  ‘At the moment. Colonel, your guests are getting fed up.’

  I don’t know about getting fed up. The remaining two men at his table had stopped drinking and were watching us with apparent difficulty. One was young and raunchy like Sullivan. The other wore a smart leather jacket over a button-down shirt and pink tie. As we looked, leather jacket got up, steadied, and began to come over. His round face was not improved by a crewcut, and he’d had a lot more club claret than I’d had. Seb Sullivan jerked his thumb at the table. ‘You know Gerry,’ he said. ‘And the approaching skinhead is Pymm, a visiting scribbler from our Canadian colony. Ellwood, Mr. J. Johnson.’

  The skinhead, arriving, heard the introduction and said,

  ‘Ma’am!’ to me, and ‘Sir!’ to my host. I should have said he was an American.

  ‘Delighted,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Colonel Sullivan. ‘And you can’t go: you haven’t finished your disgusting Spotted Dick yet.’ He frowned, looking at me. ‘If she’s not from the Balkans, what would you suppose the poor girl is doin’ here, then?’ His accent was getting more Irish.

  ‘Attempting to finish her rather cold luncheon. We are refugees from an unfortunate incident at Kingsley’s. I’ve been painting Sir Robert.’

  ‘What colour?’ said the buttoned-down man with the crewcut. He put his arm round the Colonel’s shoulders, mimed a short burst of laughter and straightened.

  The Colonel winced. He said, ‘Hang about. Wait just a minute. Didn’t Kingsley’s blow up this very morning? Send all the lovely washin’ machines back to their Maker? So what will the big boss do now?’ He was looking at me. His eyes were blue, and not as glazed as I’d expected.

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ said Johnson Johnson. ‘And if she did, she wo
uldn’t tell you. Miss Helmann, have you heard of Black & Holroyd, Public Relations?’

  I had, from Sir Robert. Public relations are important in the City when one company means to merge with or take over another, and the biggest firms employ experts to interpret their plans to the public. Public Relations Consultants have a nose for what will please the important fund managers. Some go further. Some employ investigators whose sole job is to undermine the opposition. Undermine, terrify or persuade it. Black & Holroyd were one of the most successful PR firms in the business. Looking at Mr. Sullivan, I thought I could guess what he was good at. I wondered if my host knew. I let him tell me.

  ‘Seb and Gerry,’ explained Mr. Johnson painstakingly. ‘Management and Acquisition PR Consultants. Mr. Ellwood Pymm, as you’ve heard, represents the hounds of the Canadian press. Anything you say about Kingsley’s will not only go straight to the City, it will find its way to radio, newspapers, television and five rival companies, not to mention very likely the police. You have been warned.’

  ‘So lost the masterpiece, have you?’ Seb Sullivan said. He sounded disgustingly pleased.

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Johnson.

  ‘What?’ said Ellwod Pymm with some sharpness.

  I said quickly, ‘The portrait’s safe, but not finished. That’s why I’m here. To persuade Mr. Johnson to complete it.’

  ‘Why, don’t you want to?’ said the Colonel to our oil-painting genius, who was staring at me without much expression.

  ‘Mr. Johnson says he has to fulfil a commission abroad,’ I informed him.

  ‘Have you?’ said Colonel Sullivan to Mr. Johnson. ‘Or are you simply fed up with the glorious Cong?’ He turned to me again. He had a lot of gold in his teeth. ‘Come on, let’s have the dirt about Bobs. What’s he like in the office? What’s he like out of the office? After three wives, don’t tell me he’s fading?’

  ‘He isn’t,’ said Pymm. He had sobered enough to finish our plate of choc mints and was wiping his lips with his wrist. ‘Guess who was in the T & Q the whole of last night? With—’

  The T & Q is a well-known London nightclub famed for its hostesses. I knew Sir Robert sometimes went there. I’ve seen Val come from Sir Robert’s room in the morning and wink, the empty hangover glass in his hand. Most great men have their weaknesses. I tried to stare down Ellwood Pymm but Mr. Johnson interrupted him anyway.

  ‘You don’t need to answer,’ Mr. Johnson said tartly to me. And to Sullivan: ‘Yes, I’m working abroad; and no, I’ve nothing against Sir Robert or Kingsley Conglomerates.’

  ‘They’ve got Mo Morgan,’ Sullivan said. ‘And that can’t be bad news. He wouldn’t take a job without a golden backup commitment.’

  ‘Seb,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘She isn’t going to talk about Mo Morgan’s terms of employment.’

  ‘Or about MCG?’ said Seb Sullivan wistfully. ‘Beauty salons? Cosmetics? There’s a whisper going about that the MCG directors have caught a small chill, and wish they hadn’t gone to the market. Come on, J.J. Let me ask her if Kingsley’s wouldn’t like to take over a bargain-price middle-range business that uses lots of lovely big washing machines? A hint is all that we ask. You’ve got stocks. She’s got stocks. One of Seb’s little tips might do you a world of good one of these days.’

  I couldn’t have spoken. I sat gazing at Sullivan, and heard Mr. Johnson answer him with impatience. ‘One of Seb’s little tips might blow up the rest of Kingsley’s one of these days, and Miss Helmann with it,’ said my host, the genius, getting rid of his pudding. ‘Right. Enough. Miss Helmann, can I take you downstairs for coffee?’

  I didn’t want coffee. I wanted to get away from Colonel Sullivan, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. I knew there was mileage in him yet. I said, ‘I don’t mind, Mr. Johnson. Everyone tries to pick up information. But if the Colonel’s your friend, maybe he’d help change your mind.’

  ‘His?’ said Sullivan. ‘Darlin’, you’re talking Naval Reserve. If they change their minds, they get bloody dents in them. Change his mind about what?’

  ‘About this painting,’ I said. ‘It’s really got to be finished, and it only needs two or three sittings. Sir Robert will follow him anywhere.’

  Sullivan grinned. Sullivan said, ‘Anywhere? Australia, for example? Where are you travelling to, my dear two-timing pal? I hope it’s nowhere sordidly cheap.’

  ‘It doesn’t arise,’ said Mr. Johnson. His voice was dry, but he didn’t seem unduly offended. ‘I shan’t have time for Sir Robert.’

  ‘Won’t you?’ said Sullivan. He lay back. ‘Come off it. I’ve known you take four clients a day.’

  Mr. Johnson said, ‘I’ve got four clients a day.’ He and Sullivan stared at one another.

  Then Sullivan said, ‘Well, go on, Leonardo. I take it you’re painting a group. Or wait a minute—’ He stopped. He said, ‘I know where you’re going.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Mr. Johnson. He said to me, ‘Are you ready?’

  I was, but I took a long time to collect my handbag and put down my napkin and begin to get to my feet. Ellwood Pymm watched me with interest. Seb Sullivan continued to gaze with a knowing expression at Johnson. He said, ‘I heard you were off to join Dolly. So that’s your game.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘These days, I’ll paint anything. Now, do you think we could find our coffee in peace? Miss Helmann’s to get back to her bomb site. If you’re all that keen, I’ll join you down at the bar in a minute.’

  You could see some kind of chain reaction taking place in the Irishman’s mind. He brightened. ‘That’s what I came over to tell you. I’m rallying,’ said Colonel Sullivan. ‘Not in the bar, on the Continent. Gerry’s co-driving the Sunbeam.’ He waved to his rear. I had forgotten Gerry. Gerry, his head on the table, was sleeping. The Colonel said, ‘That’s how I knew about Essaouira.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Out. Till later.’

  The Colonel looked offended, then enlightenment spread over his bronzed and regular features. He said, ‘You’re not going there to paint, not a bit of it. You’re slipping over there for some sleaze on the side, and I’ve gone and buggered it up. Will you accept me apologies?’

  ‘Willingly,’ said Mr. Johnson. He offered no contradiction. ‘Make them from the other side of the room. Goodbye, Sebastian.’ He watched the booted figure stagger away in a miasma of alcohol. He said, ‘I’ve heard of passive smoking, but passive drinking is something again. He’s almost civilised, when he’s sober.’

  I said, ‘He’s very young to be a Colonel.’ Mr. Pymm, after hesitating, was picking his way back to his table.

  ‘He’s very young for almost everything,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘He used to race cars for a living. You must, I’m afraid, have a very poor impression of this club. Perhaps you don’t really want coffee.’

  I didn’t. I was choking with nervous tension, not to mention a new and unexpected anxiety arising from the conversation I’d just heard. With difficulty, I remembered the portrait. I said, ‘The meal was lovely, but I’d better get back. Mr. Johnson, what am I to say to the Chairman?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t go on the right courses,’ said Mr. Johnson regretfully. ‘But I suppose you could say that you did your best, but I was ideologically resistant, and fobbed you off with my foul-mouthed companions.’

  He produced a quirk that in another man might have come to term as a smile. ‘In fact, I’ve enjoyed it: I hope you did. Tell him I listened to all you had to say, and that it isn’t your fault I refused him. In fact, if he rings, I’ll be happy to tell him myself. Will you do that?’

  I said I would.

  ‘And you are warm and fed, I hope, and fortified for the climb up the pioneer curve. You aren’t married?’ said Mr. Johnson.

  It seemed rather late to make that particular enquiry. ‘No. I have a mother,’ I said.

  Chapter 3

  Most of what I’d said to Johnson Johnson was true: I wasn’t into insider trading. I did, however, happen to know a lo
t more than I should of the inner strategy of Kingsley Conglomerates. I like to have my ear to the ground. And, as my mother frequently said, I wasn’t going to understand policy management until I had seen policy management actually working.

  The Saxon-Irish gasometer had mentioned the rumour about the company called MCG, and I knew it was more than a rumour. Kingsley’s not only wanted to take them over, they’d already fluttered their eyelashes, and MCG hadn’t undone a button. Which wasn’t going to stop Sir Robert from trying again.

  It isn’t wise to let your boss know all you know: it leads to suspicions like Mr. Johnson’s. On the other hand, there was advice I could give that no one else in Kingsley’s could; not even Val Dresden. I was tempted at first to go home, but I might find nothing at home but the answerphone. So, after a few well-chosen calls, I set off resolutely to confront the Chairman, and climb the greasy pole of creative success. The pole my stupid father made greasier.

  Sir Robert was sprawled in his shirt-sleeves at the company flat, talking to his finance director and the company secretary, also jacketless. One or other of the three phones kept ringing. They all noticed I’d come, and soon realised that there were a number of phone calls I could deal with, and finally that they all wanted coffee.

  Eventually the executives left to go back to base, currently a floor in a hotel where all the top management were installed, along with Property Management, Personnel and PR. Val, as I’d hoped, was busy shuttling between them. The telephones would be screaming there, too, and I trusted he was having a nice time, and had remembered to send a reassuring message to the Chairman’s wife Charity who, as ever, had a horse racing somewhere.

  Then Sir Robert was alone in the flat, and able to turn and say, ‘Well. We still have a business, and part of the business is the Chairman’s delightful public image. How did you get on with Johnson?’

  I knew the mood he was in from the tone of his voice. I tried to convey absolute calm. There are three trusted methods.