Villiers Touch

by Brian Garfield

  “Diane Hastings will be the client you’re fronting for, when Melbard asks.”

  “A bunch of art galleries? Where does she get that kind of money?”

  “It’s a nationwide chain, Sidney. Sixty-one outlets in forty-two states. Art for the masses at popular prices. Greeting cards, artists’ supplies, art books, paintings, posters, prints. Nuart grossed twenty-six million last year—and nobody’s going to question Diane Hastings about Cosa Nostra backing. She’ll say she’s looking to diversify her holdings. Nuart goes public, and she uses the capital from the sale of stock to buy the Melbard company.”

  Isher had to chew on it. After a period of digestion he said, “I don’t know—I don’t know. Tell me something—does Mrs. Hastings know anything about this?”

  “She will.”

  ‘That’s what I thought.” Isher started sliding papers back into his case. “I’m not going to Melbard with any offers until I have it from the lady herself that she’s acting for you. Otherwise I get hung right in the middle.”

  Villiers’ only reply was a dry look. Isher snapped the case shut and stood up. “How far do I go? I mean, if we’re going all the way, it means you pounce, close the firm down, and sell out the assets. You take a quick profit, but you gut the company in the bargain. Is that how it’ll be?”

  “Just set them up for the buy,” Villiers said. “Let me worry about what happens afterward.”

  Isher looked sour. “And what about the Melbard family?”

  “If they go for it, they’re suckers—marks. There’s no way to stop them from giving it away. All you can do is try to be first in line when they’re handing it out.”

  “Maybe. But it’s got a sick smell to it.”

  “That conscience of yours will make trouble sometime, Sidney.”

  “What about yours?”

  “Mine means about as much as my tonsils—which were removed twenty years ago.” Villiers smiled a little. When Isher turned toward the door, he said, “Aren’t you forgetting one thing?”

  It turned Isher back. “Which?”

  “What’s yesterday’s closing price on Melbard stock?”

  “Five and an eighth. But I told you, it’s undervalued. The family knows that.” Isher nodded quickly. “Oh, I see. All right—how high do you want me to go?”

  “Start at seven. Go up as high as twelve if you have to.”

  “Twelve dollars?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’ll lose your ass. You can’t afford to pay more than eight. At twelve, it’d cost you nine million dollars to buy a controlling interest—and you can’t sell Melbard’s assets for anything like that.”

  “Don’t waste money. Get it at eight if they’ll go for it. But get it. Go to twelve if you have to. But let me know if there’s any sign of NCI bidding us up.”

  Isher shook his head and said dryly, “Yassuh, boss. Anything else?”

  “Find out exactly who the two directors are that Elliot Judd has on Melbard’s board. And find out which members of Melbard’s family own what percentage of the stock.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve already done that? How long have you been taking me for an irresponsible fool?”

  “Sidney, if you get that steamed up at this hour, you’ll boil over before noon. How’d you find out about the family personalities?”

  “Took their plant manager to lunch. Amazing how often you can get somebody to reveal inside information just by wining and dining him—expensive restaurant, good food, plenty of martinis, an attentive companion. I asked a few leading questions—all it took.”

  “Good work.”

  Isher smiled.

  Villiers said, “One thing—don’t volunteer Diane Hastings’ name too easily. Make them fight and scratch to get it. That way, when they get her name they’ll think they’ve got the real buyer. They won’t look any farther.”

  “Smart.”

  “I’ll get back to you some time.”

  “Have Mrs. Hastings call me. Reach you here at the hotel?”

  “Leave a message if I’m not here.”

  “Which is probably most of the time,” Isher said, and went.

  When the door closed, Villiers was smiling slightly. He had won the points he intended to win, and at the same time left Isher with the feeling—which the lawyer needed badly—that he had achieved a victory. Isher was a good corporation-law man, a spectacular tax attorney, and a timid businessman. He needed pushing; he needed flattery. Villiers provided him with his needs. He reminded himself to have some token jewelry sent to Isher’s wife.

  He sat smoking by the window, withdrawn deep into thought. It was just as well to keep Isher in the dark; Isher only needed to know he was to take over Melbard. He might balk if he knew the move against Melbard was only a prelude.

  Mason Villiers had raided companies bigger than Melbard. The little ones no longer held his interest. This time his aim was targeted much higher. Time to come up and play with the big boys.

  He cupped a hand around the back of his neck and reared his head back lazily, smiled a bit, and glanced toward the phone. Was it too early to call Diane Hastings? Probably. It wouldn’t help his cause to offend her at the outset. Better to wait until she reached her office at nine. He looked at his watch—seven-thirty. He decided to take a nap.

  2. Russell Hastings

  The morning was hot, muggy, and without breath. The frail sun seemed watery and distant through its lemon sky. Air-conditioners thrummed in a million windows, pulling hard against the Edison generating plants, which—to meet the strain—poured tons of additional smoke into the heat-inverted cloud over the city.

  Traffic backed up in lower Manhattan, raucous with horn-blowing frustration, from the Battery to Greenwich Village, choked by double-parked trucks making ear-splitting deliveries. Subway tunnels, gray with pungent mists, poured the morning rush of sweat-grimed bodies up onto the jammed sidewalks of the financial district.

  Russ Hastings emerged from the IRT subway onto the Broadway sidewalk and pushed through the crowd, hands in his pockets, mouth closed and nostrils pinched, trying not to breathe. He found an empty eddy by the corner of the Irving Trust building, stopped there to stand a moment in the heat and watch a group of vivid pretty girls—well-turned legs, miniskirts, trim hips rolling in healthy action. They paused in a knot at the corner and burst into high laughter before they separated into the jam.

  Russ Hastings’ attention followed one of them—tall girl with long yellow hair, white blouse, and pink skirt—as she went smartly up the far side of Broadway along the Trinity Churchyard fence. She didn’t really look like Diane, but at this point in his recovery the sight of any pair of long legs clipping along with lithe, quick strides still had the power to fill his mind with contradictory fantasies, part poignant nostalgia, part indiscriminate lechery, part misogyny; he watched them hurry by, thin-clothed, breasts bobbing and surging with young physical arrogance.… It was some time before he shook it off and pushed Diane back into her slow-receding niche.

  Feeling hungry, he checked the time and went on past Wall Street to a crowded coffee shop. He had to wait for a stool at the counter; when a space opened up, he ordered coffee and Danish and leaned on his elbows. Half his mind picked up the conversation between two men on his right:

  “… I made six points on it when it split last year.”

  “You got in on the ground floor, then.”

  “Aeah. I figure to hold on till it hits fifty, then unload and get into something else.”

  “What makes you think it’ll go that high? Somebody buying into it?”

  “Who knows? But I picked up a tip from one of our district managers, his wife’s an administrator out at Brookhaven Labs—there’s a lot of inside talk out there about government contracts. Even Standard and Poor’s says NCI’s expected to earn a buck and a half a share by the end of the year.”

  Russ Hastings glanced toward them—both middle-aged, talking through clouds of cigar smoke, fat with the self-
importance of the not-quite-competent who had been passed over by Big Fortune. He listened with more care. The man beside him went on: “Expecting a big rise in earnings because they’re getting in on all that government money going into police enforcement equipment. Stands to reason, Charlie. All this law-and-order talk, the crime rate zooming up, and the police market booming.”

  “Who ever said crime didn’t pay?”

  Some laughter in the cigar smoke. “Sure. Getting the kind of market play they used to give to tronic stocks and aerospace and the Pill. Well, hell, NCI’s already gone up six points this year—where’d it start, around twenty-five? Up to thirty-one yesterday at the close. One of the magazines I read says enforcement-equipment spending will keep going up by ten percent a year for five or ten years.”

  “Come to think of it, I had lunch with Sol Weinstein last week. He’d just come in from Chicago—said Chicago Investment Mutual was buying NCI.”

  “Then there you are.”

  “On the other hand, you know, NCI’s involved in a lot of things besides law-enforcement supplies. When you look to invest in these conglomerates, you’ve got to see the whole picture. Now, take these shale oil stocks—they’re bound to start moving pretty soon now….”

  Russ Hastings stopped eavesdropping then; he paid his check and pushed his way out of the place, squinting with thought. He picked up a Times at the corner stand and folded it back to the financial section and stood on the corner of Broadway and Wall Street running his eye down the columns.

  197O Stocks and Div. Sales Net High Low in Dollars 100s High Low Last Change 31½ 24½ NorthEastCon 1.25 779 31½ 30½ 31½ +1

  He rolled the paper up and put it under his arm; his face had taken on the expression of a man not sure whether he had made a significant discovery. He turned into Wall Street, looking for a phone.

  His cheeks stung in the heat from shaving rash. He rubbed his jaw and turned into a revolving door, found phones in the lobby, went into a stifling close booth, and dialed Quint’s number. As the connection whistled and clicked, he could picture Quint—the fattest man he had ever met—perched in his huge leather wingback chair, lapless, grunting as he counted candy wrappers in his abalone-shell ashtray.

  The call, on Quint’s direct line, would not have to go through the switchboard; Hastings was spared the operator’s saccharin chirp, “Good morning? Securities and Exchange Commission? Whooooooom did you wish, please?” Instead, Quint’s private secretary came on the line, sterile and brisk, and put Hastings through.

  “Gordon Quint here—Russ?” Quint’s slurred roar thundered in the earpiece, the London accent completely at odds with the hearty bellow of the voice. “How are things in the financial fleshpot?”

  “I’m beginning to learn the language,” Hastings said, sweating in the airless booth. “Question for you. Have we got anybody working on Northeast Consolidated?”

  “I very much doubt it. Why? Should we?”

  “I’m picking up a few vibrations. The last week or so, all of a sudden every other tongue in Wall Street seems to be wagging about NCI.”

  “Just rumors, or something firm?”

  “Rumors—loose ones at that. But a lot of volume to them.”

  The sound, like crackling flames, meant Quint was unwrapping another hard ball of low-cal candy. Quint said, in the cultivated English drawl he hadn’t relaxed a bit in the thirty-odd years he’d been in America, “I shouldn’t think too much of it if I were you. Perhaps you haven’t been in this job long enough to strike the proper balance. You’ve still got a bit to learn, you know. Rumors come and go—they’re all fads. Last month it was airlines, next month we’ll have another favorite; it might as well be the hit parade.”

  “I haven’t heard one come up quite so fast before, with nothing at all behind it.”

  “How do you know there’s nothing behind it?”

  “I don’t—I’d like to find out.”

  There was a pause; the creak of the burdened springs of Quint’s swivel chair; finally Quint said, “I should imagine your ears would be particularly sensitive to any mention of NCI, since your father-in-law occupies its throne. What if there were no personal involvement with Elliot Judd? What if this were a company whose board chairman you’d never heard of? I suppose you’ve given thought to that?”

  “My ex-father-in-law,” Hastings corrected mildly. “Yes, I’ve taken that into account. I still think the vibrations are too strong for the usual run of things. There haven’t been any applications for merger clearance? Big stock options exercised? Insiders buying blocks of stock?”

  “All I can tell you is, nothing’s come to my attention. I’m quite sure—”

  “Then why did it sit still at twenty-six for four or five months and suddenly shoot up four points in the last two weeks?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t give you an answer to that off the top of the head, Russ, but it’s hardly a startling movement in the price. Perhaps a few of the big funds decided to pick up blocks of it—after all, it’s a sound security.”

  “It always has been. But don’t you get suspicious when there’s a sudden flurry of excitement over a blue chip?”

  “Mildly interested, perhaps. Suspicious? No—not unless there’s much more to go on. We’ve far too much work here to chase down every odd rumor. Have you any idea how far behind schedule we are in processing applications?”

  Hastings pulled the booth door open an inch for air. “I’d like to look into it, Gordon. How about it?”

  Quint hesitated. When the fat voice finally replied, it was as avuncular as a handpat on the head. “Look, old boy, don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t you think it might be worthwhile for you to take a holiday—a week or two in the country to unwind and get your breath?”

  Hastings closed his eyes briefly. “What I do not need right now is to take time off so I can brood.”

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  “I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

  Quint chortled. “May the Lord save us from eager beavers.”

  “How about it, then?”

  “Oh, I suppose—all right, Russ. You’ll, ah, forgive me for saying so, but it should do you a bloody bit of good to work off some of that office fat.”

  “Coming from you, that’s droll. Another twenty pounds and you’d have to wear license plates.”

  “I am not overweight,” Quint purred, “I’m merely too short for my weight. According to the chart, I ought to be eleven-foot-eight. All right—just one thing. Are you certain you know how to handle this sort of investigation? It won’t do to trample unnecessarily.”

  “I won’t step on any sore corns unless I have to. You’ll remember I did enough investigative work for Jim Speed to learn the ropes.”

  “Ah, yes. But that was politics. This is finance.”

  “The object of the game may be different but the rules are the same.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that, Russ.”

  “I’ll be circumspect,” Hastings said.

  “Good luck—keep your pecker up, old boy.”

  Hastings hung up and dialed another number, trying to imagine the stares he might attract if, in fact, he kept his pecker up.

  Gloria Sprague’s matronly voice spoke to him briskly: “Securities and Exchange Commission, Mr. Hastings’ office. May I help you?”

  “That depends on what sort of help you’re offering,” Hastings said, deadpan.

  “Oh, Mr. Hastings.” Brief, nervous, spinsterish laugh. “I’m glad you called. The papers on the National Packaging case just came up from the Justice Department. They have to have your signature before we can send them down to court.”

  “How soon do they have to be signed?”

  “Anytime today, but I wasn’t sure whether you planned to be in the office at all today.”

  “Do I play hooky that often, Miss Sprague?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—” she began quickly.

  Hastings laughed at her and cut her off: “It’s
all right, never mind. I’ll be up sometime this afternoon. In the meantime I want you to do a quick research job for me.”

  “I’ve got my notebook—go ahead.” Her tone implied not only businesslike efficiency but a mild rebuke; Miss Sprague, after twenty years’ service as secretary to the bland civil servants who had preceded Hastings, had not quite learned how to cope with his quiet, sometimes wry brand of humor.

  He said, “The subject is Northeast Consolidated Industries. I want a rundown on large-block trades within the past two weeks—identities of buyers and sellers. You’ll have to call some of the brokers, of course—let me know if any of them give you static.”

  “Static?”

  “Resistance, hesitation.”

  “All right. How large is ‘large’?”

  “Let’s say anything over five thousand shares. I’m going down on the floor myself this morning, so I’ll get some of the information direct from the specialist. What I want you to do is check through the larger brokers and find out if there’ve been any large trades negotiated privately, not through the Exchange. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. When will you want this?”

  “Ten minutes will do.”

  “All right, I’ll—ten minutes, did you say?”

  “Just a little joke, Miss Sprague,” he said wearily. “Do it as quickly as you can, but don’t break your neck over it. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see you this afternoon.” He rang off and went outside, a tall man in his late thirties with a lot of loose brown hair and a wide, blade-nosed Saxon face. His expression was the small, distracted frown of mild irony of a man looking for something he had lost. At the corner of New Street he waited in a crowd for the light to change, presenting a picture of easygoing indolence, of which he was sometimes acutely aware, particularly when it was spurious, as it was now, and had been since the break-up with Diane. It was sheer habit that coated his turmoil with a surface pose of relaxed self-confidence. The brows that hooded his eyes were thick and unruly, of a lighter shade than his hair; his skin was the sort of smooth light brown which would take a deep tan and hold it if he spent any time at all on the beach; he never did, abhorring crowds and being by nature a land animal. Big and limber, with flat shoulder muscles and a long, loose gait, he had an easy way of moving, a natural taken-for-granted grace, the result of genetic endowment more than conscious care.