Free to Trade

by Michael Ridpath

  I went up to my room to have a shower and change. It was one of the high-roller suites, although probably not the best. But the opulence made my stomach turn. Purple velvet and gold everywhere. Ankle-deep carpets. A huge heart-shaped bath. A bed itself the size of a small room. Above the bed was a complicated control panel. I pressed a couple of buttons gingerly. The bed started to undulate in a very disturbing fashion. I pressed the buttons again and it stood still. I decided to leave these well alone, and hoped to God that it wasn’t set on a timer.

  I stepped out on to the small balcony outside the window. Directly beneath me was a sprawling swimming-pool of deep blue water. It too was dotted with islands, and swimmers were sitting in the water drinking and playing the slot-machines.

  The sight of girls in swimming costumes brought Cathy to mind. I smiled to myself, and went back into my room to give her a call. There was no reply from her room, and so I left a message for her to ring me when she got back in.

  I set out to explore the casino. For all Irwin Piper’s talk about high-rollers, most of the floor space was devoted to parting the ordinary man in the street from his hundred dollars a night. There were a number of large rooms, decorated in various South Sea themes, with acres of roulette, blackjack and craps tables. With the exception of some of the craps players who seemed to like shouting a lot, most of the proceedings were conducted in a deathly hush. Gamblers solemnly gave their money to the croupiers, who quickly and professionally gave some of it back.

  And then there were the slots. Row upon row of machines, each one in control of its own human being, who fed the machine in a dazed, mechanical rhythm. There were no windows. It could have been day or night, the machines didn’t care, and the humans did what they were told.

  After walking round the Tahiti for a couple of hours, my mind became a blur of flashing dollar signs, lights and faces, all devoted to the pursuit of money. It made me uneasy. As I had said to Piper half jokingly, gambling was my job. Somehow the rush of adrenalin came more naturally when facing the winking green numbers on the screens at my desk than the relentless passing back and forth of money in Las Vegas. But perhaps I was just as trapped as the sad-looking individuals feeding the slots.

  In a despondent mood, I had a sandwich and went to bed.

  It was a great double act. Piper looking relaxed but dependable in a conservative lightweight suit. Art Buxxy, the showman, doing what he did well. It was a big moment for both of them. They had to secure $200 million from their audience.

  Piper warmed up the crowd. In a reasonable, persuasive voice he talked in abstract terms about the remarkable financial opportunity that the Tahiti presented. There was talk of numbers, strategy, competitive analysis. Enough to make us think that the Tahiti was in safe hands, not enough to bore us. Despite the outward reserve, as he warmed up to his presentation, Piper did let some of the excitement he felt for the project show through. Standing there, tall, tanned, elegantly but conservatively dressed, speaking in a manner which was more suited to the Harvard Club than a casino, he gave his audience reassurance. Despite appearances, the Tahiti must be a respectable, conservative investment, or why would someone like Irwin Piper be involved with it?

  Then it was Art Buxxy’s turn. Buxxy was a small man with a nut-brown face, longish blow-dried grey hair and bundles of enthusiasm. He was hardly ever still, and when he was, it was for a melodramatic pause, to let the full consequence of what he had just said sink in. His abrasive, rough-edged manner jolted his audience after the smooth Piper, but within a minute his energetic charm had already bewitched us all. Selling was his calling, and the Tahiti was the love of his life. He used all his skills. He told us about his childhood as a cardsharping son of cardsharping parents. His poor-gambler-made-good story neatly combined several elements of the American Dream. He then launched into the details of how to run a casino. How to prevent croupiers from stealing money, how to spot card-counters, how to use databases to analyse high-rollers’ personality profiles, and which promotional spend worked best. We were captivated. And I think most of us were sold.

  They took us on a tour of the complex. Seen through Buxxy’s eyes, the tackiness and the loneliness of a big casino disappeared. We saw the glamour, the glitter, the amazing technological effects. He took us to see the private rooms where the high-rollers played, wallowing in sophistication, power and money. By the time we had returned to the conference room where he had started his pitch, I could feel that the majority of the audience would write out a cheque there and then.

  ‘Any questions?’

  Silence. No difficult questions about Piper’s background. No tedious questions about percentage drop of slots against tables, high-roller comps, or blue-collar busing costs. Even the most cynical investor was under the spell of the greatest casino on earth. At least temporarily.

  I had thought through this moment carefully.

  I stood up.

  Piper’s eyebrows pulled together slightly, in the barest trace of a frown. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have two questions for Mr Piper.’ The audience were looking at me with mild interest. My English accent jarred in the glitzy Las Vegas surroundings. Piper was staring at me hard. ‘First – has the Nevada Gaming Commission scrutinised your previous investments?’ The audience stirred a little, but not much. Piper stiffened. ‘Second – can you comment on an investment you made in a clinic for executive stress in Britain?’

  I sat down. The audience reaction was mixed. Some faces bore disapproval; I was a spoil-sport to try and take cheap shots at these great guys and their great casino. A few, including Madeleine Jansen, sat up and took notice.

  Piper rose to his feet. He was as unruffled and urbane as ever. ‘I would be happy to answer those questions. First, the Commission checks out all applicants for gaming licences very thoroughly. Second, I have a large portfolio of investments. I believe a few years ago these included some properties in England, but I don’t have the details of them at my fingertips. Any other questions?’ He looked around the audience quickly.

  This was a dangerous moment for Piper. Until now he had had his listeners eating out of his hand. But he hadn’t answered my questions properly. If anyone pursued him on this, then doubts might creep in. But I wasn’t going to push it any further. I had achieved my objective. He knew I knew, and he knew I would tell. I looked over at Madeleine. She opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but she was too slow. Piper was already wrapping up the meeting. She gathered her papers together thoughtfully and looked over towards me, trying to catch my eye. I avoided her glance.

  Half an hour later, I was having a cup of coffee in the atrium, when a bellboy came over to me. ‘Excuse me sir, Mr Piper would like you to join him in his suite.’ That didn’t take him long, I thought, as I put down my cup and followed the bellboy to the elevators.

  Piper’s suite was on the top floor of the hotel. It was completely out of character with the rest of the Tahiti. There were no lurid scarlet furnishings, no mirrors or gilded fittings. There were a number of pieces of English antique furniture: a delicate sofa, six straight-backed chairs with embroidered covers, a small writing-desk and two or three deeply polished small tables. These rested on a large predominantly light blue silk carpet crisscrossed with intricate ancient Persian or Indian motifs. All this looked out of place against a large floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked the tall white structure of the next casino along, and beyond that the dusty greys and browns, interspersed with neon, of the city of Las Vegas. The desert could be seen stretching away in the distance.

  Piper was alone in the room. He beckoned me to a seat. I perched on the flimsy-looking Georgian sofa, whilst he sat in one of the high-backed mahogany armchairs. Gone was all the civilised politeness. Piper was angry.

  ‘What the hell do you think you were doing out there?’ he said. ‘I am not some two-bit bond salesman you can play games with. I am a powerful man in this town. I’ve got money, and I’ve got lawyers. And if you mention Bladenham Hall one more ti
me, or even allude to it, I will sue. I will sue you for so much that your great-grandchildren will still be paying off your debts a hundred years from now.’

  Piper, angry, was impressive. For a moment he had me on the defensive. If I had upset such a powerful man, I had surely made a mistake. The moment passed.

  ‘I thought you would be interested in this,’ I said, untucking the newspaper I had been carrying under my arm. It was a copy of the Sun of several years ago. On page two, just opposite Bubbly Belinda Baring All, was the headline ‘City Slickers’ Saucy Retreat’. Under this was a photograph of Bladenham Hall and an article about how a Mr Irwin Piper was helping police with their enquiries. Lurid insinuations of businessmen indulging in sex orgies followed.

  Piper went purple. ‘If you dare show that to anyone, I’ll have my lawyers right on to you immediately. That is if I don’t tear you apart myself.’

  Paradoxically, Piper losing control helped me stay calm. He didn’t seem quite so powerful. ‘By “your lawyers”, you presumably include Debbie Chater?’

  ‘Hah! She’s the one who told you is she? I’ll sue that toad Denny as well.’

  ‘She no longer works for Denny Clark,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t care where she works. If she breaches lawyer–client confidences, she is in deep trouble.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ I said. ‘Murdered.’

  This did cause Piper to pause for a moment. ‘She probably deserved it,’ he said. ‘I’m not surprised someone wanted to kill her.’

  ‘Was it you?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t repeat that allegation either.’

  ‘Do you know who killed her?’

  ‘Of course not. I can scarcely remember the woman. I haven’t seen her for years.’

  I believed him. He was scared about what I might say about Bladenham Hall, but he didn’t care what I said about Debbie, despite his bluster.

  ‘You know the Phoenix Prosperity Savings and Loan?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Piper, thrown off balance again.

  ‘Is it true that that institution has an investment in the Tahiti?’

  ‘That information is not available to the public.’

  ‘Did you know that Phoenix Prosperity obtained the money it has invested in the Tahiti by fraud?’

  Piper clearly did not know this. He frowned, not sure what to say next. With an effort he collected himself. In a much calmer voice he said, ‘I don’t respond to blackmail or lies, Mr Murray. Kindly leave, and if I hear any of this repeated you know what I will do.’

  I didn’t leave. I stood up from the delicate sofa, and walked over towards the giant window. We were a long way up. The darkened windows took away the noise, the glare and the heat of Las Vegas. The city floated away harmlessly below.

  I turned to Piper. ‘I don’t intend to blackmail you. I am just concerned. Concerned that a colleague of mine was killed last month. Concerned that my firm has been defrauded of millions of dollars, which are now invested in your casino. This, I am sure, will concern an honest businessman such as yourself as well. After all, these things can be dangerous for one’s reputation. It may be that I will need your help in future to find who is behind this. I am sure you will be delighted to give it. In the meantime, I will certainly not mention Bladenham Hall to anyone.’ I smiled and made for the door. Just before I left, I turned and offered Piper my hand. He didn’t take. I shrugged, and walked out of the room.

  Piper had his own express lift that took me to the ground floor. I felt elated after my encounter with him. I had got him just where I wanted him. I crossed over into another lift and went up to my room to think.

  After ten minutes or so, the phone rang. It was Tommy.

  ‘I have found out some things that might interest you,’ he began. I wrenched my mind back to the Tremont Capital problem.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Well, first of all you asked me to find out about the acquisition of Phoenix Prosperity. I guessed that Waigel must have had something to do with it, so I got Jean to raid his files. Do you want the details?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘It starts off with some correspondence from Howard Farber, the owner and chief executive officer of Phoenix Prosperity. It says that he is facing a bad year ahead, and that he probably has only two choices, either file for bankruptcy or sell the business. That’s dated about two years ago.

  ‘Three months later Waigel wrote back to tell Farber that he had found a buyer. Lo and behold, that turns out to be our old friend Tremont Capital. There is a whole sheaf of correspondence documenting the deal. Tremont put in forty million dollars of capital in return for 90 per cent of the company. Howard Farber remained CEO but someone called Jack Salmon was appointed liaison officer. His job was to liaise with the majority shareholder, Tremont Capital.’

  ‘Very interesting.’

  ‘Yes. And you know what else is interesting?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Bloomfield Weiss only charged a twenty-five-thousand-dollar advisory fee. I can’t imagine Bloomfield Weiss doing anything like this for less than 1 per cent, which in this case would be four hundred thousand.’

  ‘I suppose Waigel didn’t want to charge himself too much,’ I said. ‘Talk about conflict of interest. That’s great! Well done. Did you discover anything else?’

  ‘I didn’t. But the police did. They finally found Shoffman’s body in a wood in Montclair, New Jersey.’

  ‘Do they know how he was killed, or who did it?’ I asked.

  ‘No. It was hard enough to identify him after all this time. They are still working on it, but they are not very optimistic.’

  ‘Damn. I was hoping there would be something to tie his death in with all of this.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dick Waigel lives in Montclair.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. I wasn’t exactly surprised. ‘OK, Tommy. Thanks very much for all you have done. Can you send copies of those documents to my office in London?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Tommy. ‘It will be a pleasure. Let me know what you come up with.’

  ‘I will. Thanks again,’ I said and rang off.

  Everything was falling into place. I had almost all the information I needed to piece together what was going on. I pulled out some sheets of paper, and spent the next two hours drawing as complete a picture as I could of Tremont Capital, the financing of the Tahiti, and the various people involved. After I had finished, there was still one key question left unresolved. Why had Debbie died?

  That she had been murdered, I was sure. It seemed to me highly likely that the reason was something to do with Tremont Capital. Waigel seemed the most likely candidate: the discovery of Shoffman’s body near Waigel’s house in Montclair suggested he was certainly capable of it.

  But Waigel’s diary showed he was in New York that night. And it was Joe, not Waigel, whom I had seen just before she was killed. So what was Joe’s connection with Waigel? There was none that I knew of, but perhaps Cash had put Joe up to it. I had no doubts about Cash’s involvement in the whole thing. After all, it was he who had sold the Tremont Capital bonds to Hamilton in the first place.

  As for motive, it looked to me as though Cash had somehow found out that Debbie had discovered the Tremont Capital fraud, and was going to see Mr De Jong about it. She had to be silenced.

  And yet… I wasn’t convinced. Joe had been adamant that he had not killed Debbie, and I believed him. It didn’t quite make sense yet.

  Still, I had got a long way. I called Hamilton. His voice travelled crisply down the phone lines. ‘What have you got for me, laddie?’

  ‘I think I have worked it all out, or almost all of it,’ I said, trying not to sound too proud of myself.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Hamilton, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  ‘Well, I am pretty sure that Waigel and Cash are behind the whole thing. Waigel created the Tremont Capital structure, and Cas
h sold it to you.’

  ‘Sounds plausible,’ said Hamilton. ‘We know that Tremont Capital raised the money under a false guarantee, but have you found out where the money went?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, don’t play games, tell me.’

  ‘Uncle Sam’s Money Machine was a savings and loan, Phoenix Prosperity Savings and Loan to be precise. Tremont Capital bought 90 per cent of the company with the money raised from the private placement. They are using Phoenix Prosperity to make a series of high risk investments funded with government guaranteed deposits. One of them is Irwin Piper’s Tahiti Hotel.’

  ‘Is he involved in Tremont?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I am not sure who owns Tremont Capital itself. I expect Cash and Waigel are shareholders, perhaps Piper is too.’

  There was silence on the end of the phone. I could almost hear Hamilton thinking it all through. ‘Well, it all adds up,’ he said. ‘You’ve done an excellent job! Excellent. Now all we have to do is figure out a way to get our money back.’

  ‘Don’t we go to the police now?’ I asked.

  ‘Not when we are so close to locating the money. As soon as we have got it all back, then you can go to the police and tell them everything, but not until then, do you hear?’

  I heard. And in truth I was enjoying this. I was a lot more confident that Hamilton and I would work out a way to get our twenty million back.

  ‘I’ll call Rudy Geer. I want to see how he is getting on in Curaçao. With this information, we might be able to crack Tremont Capital in the Netherlands Antilles. I had better get out there again soon.’

  ‘There is one thing I don’t understand.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  I told Hamilton about the questions I still had about Debbie’s death.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Hamilton, his voice thoughtful. ‘There is still a lot we need to find out. But maybe if we find the money, it will lead us to Debbie’s killer.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘what’s next?’