Harlequin

by Morris West

  News from the trade was ominous. In good John Calvin’s city, labour was sacred; money was its holy fruit; anything that tarnished the sanctity of money was anathema. George Harlequin was not excommunicated yet; he was not quite under formal censure. But already, inside the Swiss Bankers’ Association, heads were wagging and the whisperers were busy. No clients had been lost as yet; but the flow of investment money had slackened considerably.

  Suzanne told it all in that steady, prosaic style of hers, as if she were counting groceries instead of calamities. Juliette was furious, striking one name after another off her visiting list. Harlequin summed it up in a short valediction:

  ‘One thing is clear. We can’t just win and come limping home. We need banners and trumpets and our enemies trampled in the dust. It’s too late for good rhetoric. Ten in the morning for a council of war… Sleep well, children. Golden dreams!’

  It was a pleasant wish; but for me it carried no blessing at all. A moment after I had paid off the taxi outside my apartment, three men converged on me from the shadows. One of them said, ‘We’ve got a message for you from Bernie.’ Another slammed me with a cosh. I tried to fight back, but they were experts at the game. I woke in my own bed with my ribs strapped, a pain in the kidneys, a physician in attendance, and a pair of patrolmen waiting to take a statement.

  4

  The physician was encouraging. I had a cracked rib, extensive bruises, and a large bump on the skull. The rest of me, he thought, was intact; but if I suffered from nausea, painful breathing or blood in the urine, I should call him immediately. He gave me capsules and his card and a bill for the emergency house-call, which, naturally, came rather higher than office consultation. He recommended a couple of days’ complete rest and then departed to resume his own.

  The patrolmen gave me a brisk resumé of the lost hours. Takeshi, returning from his night on the town, had found me huddled and unconscious in the doorway. He had called the police and the doctor, and, between them, they had cleaned me up and put me to bed. Now, if I felt well enough, could I please fill in some details? I felt as though I had just been run over by a tank, but I tried to oblige them.

  They pounced immediately on the name Bernie. Did I know anyone by that name? No. Did Bernie Koonig mean anything then? No. Should it? Well, the previous night, they had braced a man by that name just opposite the apartment. Any connection? None at all. Perhaps I had been mistaken for someone else? Probably. I was a constant visitor to New York but I didn’t move in criminal circles, as my dozens of respectable friends could testify. Would I recognise my assailants? I doubted it. Everything happened so fast. Yes, it usually did. Would I like to check my pocket book? I checked it. Nothing missing. Well, they’d file a report. If I remembered anything else, I should phone the desk sergeant at the Precinct. Now, Mr Desmond, get some sleep; that was quite a schlamming!

  Takeshi saw them out, fed me whisky to help the painkillers, put the telephone by my bed, made solicitous noises and left me, like Job on his dunghill, alone with my miseries. I drowsed fitfully till seven in the morning and then struggled out of bed to check the damage. I wasn’t a pretty sight. My face was bruised and puffy. The bump on my head was the size of an egg. My knuckles were skinned, and the strapping round my torso made me look like a roll of beef. There was an ache in every muscle; but, at least, I could breathe and there was no nausea and no blood. By the time I had sponged and shaved, I was convinced I would live, but doubtful whether it would be worth the bother. However, after a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, I decided to make the effort. I called Aaron Bogdanovich and told him the sorry saga of a schmuck called Paul Desmond. He said he would be with me in twenty minutes and hung up.

  He arrived without flowers and offered no sympathy at all. ‘Hoodlum stuff! My boys worked over Bernie Koonig. He blamed you and returned the compliment.’

  ‘Why blame me?’

  ‘Who else is there? We don’t advertise ourselves to gangsters, Mr Desmond.’

  ‘I thought we were paying for protection round the clock.’

  ‘You are. My man was cruising behind your taxi. When he saw you dropped at your door, he drove past. It was a bad mistake. He will be disciplined for it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘We pay a half-million fee. I get a beating and you’re sorry. Great!’

  ‘I suggest you can make a profit on the deal, Mr Desmond.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We decided yesterday to tell Yanko we knew Koonig and the man who hired him. Now we demonstrate. You’re the victim of a felonious assault, which can be traced back to Yanko.’

  ‘But I told the police I didn’t know Bernie Koonig.’

  ‘Yanko doesn’t know that. All he knows is that you’ve withheld the information and that you’re prepared to use it as a bargaining point.’

  ‘Which could set me up for something worse.’

  ‘It could. But you’ll let it be known that there’s a notarised statement ready to be sent to the police. I’d like to be there when you tell him.’

  ‘I think you must piss ice-water, Mr Bogdanovich.’

  ‘Time was when it was blood, Mr Desmond. That’s when you really start worrying. I’d like to know how the meeting goes. Call me late tonight. I’ve got a busy day.’

  ‘The flower business, of course.’

  ‘No, Mr Desmond. This time it’s SAM missiles. There are three of them floating around in the hands of Black September terrorists. We know there are two in Europe. We think the other may be here in New York. If we don’t find them, a lot of people may be blown out of the sky.’

  After that, of course, there was nothing to say. I dressed painfully, read the morning papers, and at ten o’clock presented myself at the Salvador, feeling rather like a clown who had missed the circus train. Juliette had already left to spend the day with friends; so I was spared the embarrassment of explaining my condition to her. To Harlequin and Suzanne, I told the whole story and how Bogdanovich had suggested we use it.

  Harlequin frowned over it for a while and then agreed, brusquely. ‘So be it then! Let’s see how strong Yanko’s nerves are! Now, the morning’s programme. Suzy, it’s three o’clock in Europe. Let’s call all the people on your list. I’ll talk to each one personally. Paul, you and I will draft a cable to all shareholders, and the letter which will confirm it. Then, let’s frame two statements – one for Yanko and one for the financial press. The gist of each is that we refuse the offer, recommend non-acceptance by other shareholders and state reasons. Our attorneys will be here at one-thirty to go over the drafts.’

  It was slow work and frustrating. The lines to Europe were clogged with traffic. Of the fifteen people on Suzanne’s list, only five were available to talk; and of these, three were inclined to sell and two were prepared to hold if Harlequin could show good reasons. This was the nub of the problem: we had reasons a-plenty, but we couldn’t display them all without running foul of the libel laws. We could object to American control of a traditional European enterprise. We could debate the wisdom of committing a bank into the hands of a company that devised police and surveillance systems. We could demonstrate the octopus tactics of Yanko. But, without the strongest plea of truth and public benefit, and a whole body of evidence in support, we dared not call his personal character in question. It was the old saw: money maketh man; it maketh him purer than the angels – and if you want to prove him otherwise, you need at least as much money as he has.

  We filled a waste-basket with false starts; but, by the time the attorneys arrived, we were sure we had produced a small masterpiece of understatement. The attorneys were horrified. What was pure reason in Geneva, was horrendous defamation in New York. In no wise could they permit us to issue it, or even commit it to correspondence. No, gentlemen, no! They would take the drafts back to the office and reconstruct them.

  Harlequin deferred reluctantly, then begged them to pause an instant. ‘Gentlemen, will you look at Mr Desmond?’

  They looked. They made a small chorus of s
ympathy. I opened my shirt. The chorus died to a silence.

  Harlequin continued. ‘Mr Desmond was beaten last night. We can trace this crime back to Basil Yanko.’

  ‘How, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘His chauffeur hired the man who ordered it done.’

  ‘You can prove that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you prove that the chauffeur was acting under Yanko’s orders?’

  ‘We know it to be true. We cannot prove it at law.’

  ‘Then, you have no case, Mr Harlequin.’

  ‘Exactly. The law is impotent. Mr Desmond has no redress, except against a hireling. So, your advice, gentlemen. How do we get redress and protect Mr Desmond or myself against further invasion?… I know the answer. You cannot compromise yourselves by recommending an illegal recourse. You go further. You urge me to preserve Yanko’s reputation lest he sue me for defamation. I do that. He invades us deeper. When the law is impotent, gentlemen, how must justice be done? Think about that, please. And let me have the new documents before six this evening.’

  They went, dubious and unhappy, shocked by what seemed a pointless little tirade. Suzanne made no secret of her displeasure. ‘George, what in God’s name did you expect them to say? They can’t challenge the law. They’re its servants. You know that. You’ve always known it.’

  His answer was vigorous and urgent. ‘No! That’s not the issue, Suzy. The question has to be answered, because the dilemma is universal. The Palestinian can’t go home because there’s a kibbutz where his home used to be. The Jew can’t surrender because he will be killed in a Syrian cellar. The Viet in the cage cannot speak because they give him urine to drink and quicklime to eat. The hungry in the barrios become outlaws because they cannot find work or feed their children; and their advocates swing on the parrot’s perch in a torture chamber. My cause is nothing! Whatever happens, I will live and die rich and not deserve a franc of it. Even so, the law is impotent to defend my simplest right – the right to my own good name. That’s the core of the argument. That’s the point at which I become brother to the outlaw – outlaw myself, perhaps…’

  I had never known him so passionate or so unrestrained in utterance. It was as if a spring had burst inside him and he could not hold it back. His challenge was not only to us, his cohorts, but to himself as well. Then he said a strange and disturbing thing:

  ‘I’m looking down the muzzle now. I can see the bullet in the breech. I wonder how I’ll feel when I’m the man with his finger on the trigger.’

  Basil Yanko arrived at twenty-five minutes after three – too late for indulgence, just late enough to suggest a deliberate snub. He apologised, of course, but in so off-handed a fashion that it underlined the insult. He hoped we could conclude with reasonable despatch as he had an appointment in Pleasantville at six and he wanted to miss the cross-town traffic. His car was in the underground park. He would like his chauffeur called just before the end of the meeting. It was all calculated to set our teeth on edge and get the conference off to a nervous start. I was fuming, but Harlequin was unruffled.

  It was only after we had settled ourselves at the table that Yanko made reference to my appearance. ‘What happened to your face, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘An accident. I’ve cracked a rib as well. The doctor tells me I’ll live.’

  ‘You’re insured, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, I’m insured.’

  ‘Well then, let’s get down to business. I take it you’ve considered my offer, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Yanko, I have.’

  ‘You’ll agree it’s a generous one.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I take it you accept?’

  ‘No, Mr Yanko, I refuse.’

  ‘Do you expect me to raise the offer?’

  ‘On the contrary. I hope you’ll withdraw it.’

  For an instant, a shadow of surprise passed over his face, then his thin lips twitched into a smile. ‘Now, why should I do that, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘I think you may find it prudent to do so.’

  ‘That’s not a threat is it, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘It’s a counsel, Mr Yanko, At this point, a friendly one.’

  Basil Yanko leaned back in his chair, joined his hands finger-tip to finger-tip and raised them to his pale lips. His eyes filmed over. He seemed sunk in meditation. Then he smiled again and said, softly:

  ‘Mr Harlequin, I know what you are thinking. I am a gross man, devious and greedy, no fit colleague for a European gentleman like yourself. You will not sell your holdings to me. You think to raise enough money to take up your options and buy out the minority – even if the deal cripples you. If you do that. I have two choices. I raise the offer to a point that makes it impossible for you to bid against it. Or I slap you with suits, criminal and civil, in every jurisdiction where you operate: suits for loss and damages, charges of fraud, malversation, all the words in the book! I don’t have to win the cases, Mr Harlequin. The moment the complaints are on the docket, you are ruined. The bank faces a crisis of confidence. In the end I get it anyway… Now, let’s be sensible, eh?’

  It was the most arrogant display of naked power I had ever experienced. I was shamed, humiliated and angry enough for murder.

  George Harlequin seemed quite unmoved. There was no tremor of hand or voice, no hint of passion in his answer. ‘I’m surprised, Mr Yanko. It seems I have more respect for you than you have for yourself. You’re a man of towering intelligence. I cannot understand how you could engage in so crude a tactic – unless, of course, it is a tactic of desperation.’

  Basil Yanko laughed. It was not a pleasant sound to hear, but a harsh and brutal mockery. ‘Desperation, hell! Harlequin, you’re half a century out of date! This is business! Mid-seventies, American-style! I’m not a little Swiss gnome playing fiddle-faddle in the Bankers’ Club. I’m offering you a better deal than you’ll get in any market in the world. You want to discuss it, fine! I’ll listen. Turn it down and I grab for the cookie-jar!

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’ Harlequin stood up and walked to the door. ‘I need a glass of water.’

  Yanko turned to me. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mr Desmond! You’re his friend. You know the name of the game. Talk sense to him.’

  ‘What with, Mr Yanko? I own one nominee share. When I retire as director, I hand it to the beneficial owner. It’s your ball; you play it.’

  A moment later, Harlequin was back, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. He sat down, stretched his legs under the table and took up the thread of the discussion.

  ‘ …Ah, yes! We were at the point where I refuse and you, as you put it, grab for the cookie-jar. Before you grab, Mr Yanko, before you take any precipitate action, let me list some facts for you. Item: I have in my possession a dossier on your life and business activities which has taken two years to prepare. Not all of it does you credit. Some of it makes you a highly undesirable colleague. Item: I am, as you know, a substantial shareholder in Creative Systems Incorporated and its affiliates. I have voting rights and certain rights of legal inquiry into the affairs of your companies. Item: Creative Systems depends as much on public confidence as Harlequin et Cie. It depends much more on political confidence to hold and execute large government contracts. Item: Political confidence would be gravely shaken if it could be shown that senior staff of Creative Systems, or even you yourself, Mr Yanko, were connected with or engaged in criminal activities. Item: If I believed such evidence existed, it would be my duty as a shareholder, and as a reputable man of affairs, to request an inquiry by government agencies. Item: Such evidence exists, Mr Yanko, and is at my disposal.’

  Basil Yanko shrugged and waved his hands in a gesture of contempt. ‘Then, do your duty, Mr Harlequin. Use it!’

  ‘I fear you don’t believe me, Mr Yanko.’

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘Then, let me demonstrate one small matter. Your chauffeur is waiting downstairs. My secretary has just called him, as you asked. His name is Frank Lemnitz.
Acting on your instruction, he hired a known criminal named Bernie Koonig to keep watch on Mr Desmond’s apartment. He has admitted that to investigators retained by me. It was this same Bernie Koonig who had Mr Desmond beaten up last night. We have notarised statements to this effect ready to file with the police… That’s just the peak of the iceberg. There’s a lot more of it under the water. You see why I advised prudence, Mr Yanko?’

  Give the devil his due, he took it better than I expected. He even managed a faint, frosty grin of approval. His first words were addressed to me:

  ‘I’m sorry you were hurt, Mr Desmond. That was none of my doing. I must apologise to you, too, Mr Harlequin. It seems I sold you much too short.’

  ‘That’s always dangerous in an uncertain market.’

  ‘It won’t happen again, I promise. Your advice was to withdraw my offer, yes? Suppose I withdraw the threat and let the offer stand?’

  ‘Then we are in a normal business relationship to which there is no objection in law or common practice.’

  ‘And on your side, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘I should stipulate that as Creative Systems are in fact under investigation by the FBI, and so long as our business relationship remains normal, no official action is required from me. The information at my disposal is, shall we say, an insurance policy.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to cash it in at surrender value?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would. Well, let’s sum it up. I’ve offered, you’ve refused. You advise your shareholders to do the same. A pity we’ve come to a stalemate, but a lot can happen in sixty days… Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  There was no time for post-mortems. The cables to shareholders had to be put on the wire. Letters of confirmation had to be typed and mailed. The lawyers came, with a statement so weak and puling that Harlequin tossed it back with contempt; and we went to press with our own second draft. Julie came home in the midst of the brouhaha and demanded to be informed on the day’s events. She also wanted to know why I looked like a battle casualty; which raised, in final and definitive form, the issue of how much she should be told.