Black shook his head. He disliked being sick, disliked thinking of himself as a sick man. He regarded it, despite his training and his rationalizations, as a sign of weakness and inferiority, and he had only contempt for the weak and the inferior. He had often thought he should have been born in an older, more ruthless age; he would have succeeded there. Modern man was too overlaid with rules and habits which disguised his essentially bestial nature.
He recognized that nature, and allowed it to express itself. The weak pretended that man was good; only the strong could face the truth.
Lucienne, for instance. She was weak, deluding herself, playing elaborate games to disguise her own thoughts and fears. In many ways she reminded him of Evelyn, his first wife.
Dear Evelyn. She had become so boorish after a time. So infantile, nagging, irritating. She had made it easy for him to give her the rauwolfia alkaloid, dropping her blood pressure to practically zero in a matter of moments. The diagnosis, of course, had been a heart attack. No question of it. A bit unusual in a woman of thirty, but not impossible.
There had been no autopsy.
He smiled. And Lucienne was the same way. Only now there were new and better methods. Air guns, and unusual compounds, complex drugs that could not be traced after death.
It would be almost absurdly simple to dispose of Lucienne when it was all over. And it would, he knew, soon be over. First Richard—an easy mark, a problem so straightforward as to be almost tedious and boring.
And after Richard, a few changes in the will, and then Lucienne. Perhaps five or six years later. Something discreet and logical.
It was all going to be very, very simple.
When he arrived home, the butler said, “There was a call for you, sir. A Mr. Benton-Jones.”
“Oh?”
“He said it was urgent, sir, and asked that you phone up when you arrived.”
“All right. I’ll see to it.”
He went directly to his study and dialed the number, trying to control the excited, nervous flutter in his stomach. Benton-Jones was a member of the board of trustees at Barclay’s which administered the Pierce estate. He and Black were old friends, and Benton-Jones usually tried to notify Black if something was going on with the estate. Naturally, until Richard took over, the trustees were directly responsible to Lucienne. But Black, through Benton-Jones, managed to keep informed as well, and Benton-Jones, a primly proper man, found it agreeable because he knew Black advised Lucienne on nearly all financial matters, and because he knew that Lucienne without Black’s advice was often uncertain, hesitant, and difficult.
It was one of those peculiar relationships Black so enjoyed. Benton-Jones firmly believed that he was using Black to sway Lucienne around to the viewpoint of the board of trustees. That was why he did not mind reporting privately to Black the affairs of the estate—indeed, he felt it was his duty to do so. Black did everything he could to encourage Benton-Jones. He frequently backed the board, particularly on inconsequential matters. This pleased Benton-Jones, and cemented the relationship. And when Lucienne disagreed with the board, well, that was simply an occasional failure of Black’s powers of persuasion.
Benton-Jones accepted that.
He dialed the number swiftly. “Mr. Benton-Jones’ office.”
“This is Doctor Black calling.”
“Oh, yes, Doctor Black. I’ll put you through.”
A click, and then: “John?”
“Speaking.”
“Bad news, I’m afraid.” He sucked in his breath. “We’ve just received notification that Mitchell Mining, Incorporated, is selling its shares.”
“In the mines?”
“Yes.”
“How much do they have?”
“About a hundred thousand shares. That’s seventeen percent.”
“And they’re selling all of it?”
“So we are told.”
Black lit another cigarette. He was frowning, preparing his voice to be surprised. “This is dreadful. When?”
“Within the week. A lawyer is flying over to arrange it.”
“Christ,” Black said. “We can’t do anything in a week.”
“But there it is,” Benton-Jones said.
“What is the current price?”
“For the lot? It’s up to eight and a fraction a share, which works out to roughly eight hundred thousand, four hundred pounds.”
“Impossible,” Black said. “We couldn’t come near that figure.”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t need to. According to our calculations, Pierce Limited needs only five percent. That works out to about twenty-nine thousand shares.”
“How much money?”
“Two hundred and eighty thousand pounds,” Benton-Jones said.
“What about Horsten, Vaals, and Meister?”
“Our information is that they’re eager to buy all they can. We’ve suspected that, of course. In fact, there’s speculation that they initiated all this.”
“And they’re willing to buy at a higher prices?”
“Presumably.”
“How much higher?”
“Well, they may drive it up as high as ten a share. Perhaps more, though we doubt that. Of course, there’s no way of knowing for sure.”
“How much have the Belgians got now?”
“Thirteen percent. They won’t buy, but they’ll throw in with the Dutch if they’re able to pick up controlling interest.”
“So in fact, we need at least three hundred and forty thousand pounds. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes,” Benton-Jones said.
“And what is the advice of the board?”
“We met today to discuss the situation,” he said. “It is our feeling that the Darwin mines are a primary asset of Pierce Limited, and that controlling interest should be maintained, if this can be done without sacrificing diversity in other areas.”
Black frowned at the phone. “What, specifically, is the advice of the board?”
“Sale of minor holdings in four corporations may be safely sacrificed, including the Fiat shares. These sales will amount to something under two hundred thousand pounds.”
“And the rest? Borrowed?”
“Frankly, we feel this is a time for liquidation and consolidation, not extension. Interest rates are not favorable.”
“But there’s another hundred thousand pounds needed.”
“Exactly. One has the alternative of releasing all holdings in Pierce Plastics or of liquidating Shore Industries.”
“I see. Pierce Plastics—”
“Is doing very well, yes. Extremely well. Projection figures are most promising.”
“So that leaves Shore Industries.”
“Yes,” Benton-Jones said. “It has not done well, but assets for the last fiscal year were listed in excess of seven hundred thousand pounds.”
“Debits?”
“Four hundred thousand. Perhaps a bit more by now.”
“All right,” Black said. He sighed, loudly, so Benton-Jones would hear. “What is the legal situation?”
“The corporation is entirely owned by Pierce Limited and may therefore be dealt with by the board as we see fit. Mrs. Pierce, of course—”
“I will discuss it with her.”
“And Mr. Richard Pierce—”
“I’ll discuss it with him, too.” He lit another cigarette. “I’ll call you back later. By the way, any idea why the Americans are selling?”
“Not the foggiest,” Benton-Jones said, and rang off.
Black asked his butler for a triple scotch and sat down, frowning at the phone. Everything was going perfectly, just according to schedule. The people at Mitchell had taken the bait brilliantly.
And they had acted brilliantly.
Normally, a company that planned to sell two million dollars’ worth of stock on short notice managed to leak rumors, premonitions, grumblings of dissatisfaction. But this was swift as a lightning bolt. Which only meant that word had been leaked els
ewhere.
No doubt, Black thought, to Horsten, Vaals. They could be counted on to drive up the price. Without question, the trustees of Mitchell, Inc., believed that they were acting soundly. They could have no idea that the original impetus for the sale had come from Jonathan Black himself.
It was a peculiar situation, Black thought, and remarkable in its way. For the past five years, the Pierce empire had been regrouping and extending itself, pulling back from the earlier sources of income—rubber and tea—which had been nationalized, investing in plastics, machine tools, cosmetics, and electronics. Much of this had been financed, directly or indirectly, by the copper mines in Darwin, Australia. The mines had been a late acquisition of Herbert Pierce in the last years of his life; the company now owned 46 percent of the stock.
The Amsterdam holding company of Horsten, Vaals, and Meister had been eyeing the Darwin mine for several months. Loosely speaking, they could count on 21 percent of the stock, and the Belgian group would back them with an additional 13 percent. It was well known that Horsten, Vaals wanted to cut dividends and re-invest profits within the subsidiary company itself, Pierce Copper and Brass, Ltd. It was a reasonable idea, but it would sabotage the new and still-insecure Pierce expansion into new areas.
Until now, there had been no danger from the Dutch. The American mining company started by a Montana rancher named Jackson Mitchell had shown no interest in the Dutch plans, and apparently had been content to take dividends from the Darwin mine stock.
That is, until they heard from a discreet and confidential source that the impact of such a sale on Pierce finances would be disastrous. The Pierce empire was overextended, precarious, and dependent on the mines. Anything would be sacrificed to preserve those mines, and the income from them.
Which meant that, however high the Dutch bid, Pierce would bid higher. Pierce would have to bid higher.
With the Dutch wanting the controlling shares so badly, and with Pierce dependent on retaining control, the price of stocks would skyrocket. It would amount to a vast profit to Mitchell.
For that reason, Black had leaked his information through a New York law firm. He had no doubt that the trustees of the Mitchell fortune would recognize the implications of a sale at this time.
But it was not the implications of their sale that interested Black. It was the implications for the Pierce empire—with a half-dozen new, burgeoning companies, all doing well. Except for one: Shore Industries.
The logical sacrifice.
To make capital, to preserve the more successful subsidiaries of the Pierce empire.
Quite logical—Shore Industries had to go.
Black smiled as he considered the situation. Everything had gone perfectly. Mitchell had acted according to plan. The board of Pierce, Ltd., had acted according to plan. The Dutch could be counted on to follow through.
Lovely.
Richard was screwed. His dreams of a contract for the English Channel tunnel were ended.
And Richard would be furious.
There was only one last question, and that concerned the girl. It was imperative that the American girl show up for the transaction. That was, he knew, the weakest link in his plan. For any of a million reasons, she might not bother to come.
But if his information was correct, if she were really an unhappy, rich girl living in New York…
He called Lucienne and explained developments.
“What about the American girl?” Lucienne said. “Is she coming?”
“No information yet. But I will bet on it.”
“Good. I understand she’s quite attractive.”
“Yes,” Black said, “but one never knows.”
“Can you get Richard to kill her?”
“Probably.”
“Good,” Lucienne said. “What about Charles?”
“He will, of course, be involved.”
“Excellent. Proceed with the plan.”
Black hung up and called Benton-Jones. He told him to go through with the liquidation of Shore Industries, Ltd. Benton-Jones asked politely if this was agreeable to Mr. Richard Pierce.
Black said in a calm voice that Mr. Richard Pierce was not a consideration.
17. LICENSE
GEORGE LONGWOOD, LOOKING SLIM and proper, pulled the bowler hat down over his forehead and cupped his hands around his pint of bitter.
“Rather like it, actually,” he said.
“What?” Raynaud asked.
“The Establishment life. Much nicer than the old days. But it doesn’t pay as well, Charlie. Not at all.”
“And it’s not as exciting,” Raynaud said.
“No, but that doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is the pay, Charlie. The pay. A man’s got to struggle along.” He touched his bowler lightly. “Know what this sets you back? Bloody twelve quid, and it’s a cheap one. Establishment life is frightfully dear.”
“All right,” Raynaud said, sighing. “How much?”
“Well, look,” Longwood said. “The first time, checking out the gun. That was all right, for old times’ sake. A friendly favor. But now, with the license. That was a bit sticky, what with everyone snooping about in the vehicle bureau. Bit sticky.”
“Name your price.”
“Fifty quid?”
“Done,” Raynaud said. He reached into his pocket.
“Not here,” Longwood hissed, in a horrified voice. “Not in public. I’m a civil servant, you know.”
Raynaud took his hand out of his pocket. “I’ll send it to you.”
“No, you’ll give it to me outside. Up the street and around the corner.”
“And the information?”
“Then,” Longwood said. “And only then.”
Raynaud finished his drink, pushed two shillings across the counter, and stood. “See you.”
“Right.”
He walked outside, into the noon sun, suppressing a smile. When he got to the corner, he paused and lit a cigarette. Longwood joined him a moment later.
“Well, then,” Longwood said.
“Here’s your fifty.” Raynaud handed him the bills.
“Well, then,” Longwood said, slipping them into his pocket. “Take a walk?”
“Certainly.”
They walked through the back streets east of Trafalgar Square. It was an area of drab government buildings, the headquarters of all the civil service agencies.
“That shooting at the Pierce flat,” Longwood said. “It’s gotten high priority. Don’t ask me how. But it’s being investigated like hell.”
“Interesting.”
“If I were you, I’d be careful.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Charlie. Because you’re being investigated as well.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Raynaud said. “I’m clean.”
“Let’s hope so,” Longwood said. “Now, then. The car: XJ one-one-eight-nine.”
“Start with the owner,” Raynaud said.
“Woman,” Longwood said. “Name of Shelia Ferguson. She’s a flash tart. And very chi. Hundred quid for a night’s sweat. Never been nicked, far as I know. Anyhow, she hangs out with a guy named Norman. Don’t know his last name. Seedy little bloke. Did a bit for burglary, a while back.”
“Where do I find him?”
“Battersea, most likely. Try the Cock and Hen. Work it through Shelia, eh? Everyone calls her Kitty.”
“All right,” Raynaud said.
“Good luck, Charlie,” Longwood said.
He touched his bowler brim and strolled away.
Driving back to Richard’s flat, he had that sinking feeling again. He felt like a blind man in a circus—things were happening all around him, but he couldn’t see them. All he knew was that nothing added up. Lucienne wanted to protect a man she detested. Richard was subjected to repeated and ineffectual murder attempts, which did not really disturb him. Indeed, he practically ignored them.
The worst thing was that nobody would tell him anything. Lucienne was vague. Richard was vague.
Black was impenetrable, and Sandra didn’t know anything. He wondered, then, about Dominique. Perhaps she was involved in all this; he had not considered that before.
He would have to speak to her, alone, very soon.
Because Raynaud was certain, somehow, that it was all going to be over very soon.
When he got back, Richard was looking grim. “Charles,” he said, “I think we’d better have a little talk.”
“What kind of a talk?” Raynaud said.
“A talk about you,” Pierce said.
“I’d rather talk about you,” Raynaud growled, “and why you tried to kill me.”
“Kill you?”
“Yes. You did a very neat job, with the car. By all rights it ought to have worked.”
Pierce laughed. “You’re paranoid, old buddy.”
“Am I?” Raynaud poured two fingers of scotch into a glass.
“Of course. You have it backwards—or is that part of the game?”
“What game?”
“You see,” Pierce said, “I know all about it. About you and Lucienne. And your plans.”
Part 3: The Venom Business
1. THE BEST OFFER
IN A DIM, VAGUE SORT of way, Raynaud began to see the light. The first small pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, the first minor explanations of minor facts. He was still uncertain about the rest, of course—but that would come.
Particularly if he stayed cool.
He said, “Plans?”
“Charles, Charles. Let’s not dance about. I know.”
Raynaud sipped his scotch and sat down on the couch. “Perhaps you’d better tell me,” he said, “exactly what you know.”
Pierce grinned, reaching for the back of Dominique’s neck. “Item,” he said. “Lucienne has been acting differently for over a year. Indulging me in Shore Industries. Bitching about the money—but still authorizing expenditures.”
He poured himself a tall scotch, and dropped one ice cube in.
“Item,” he said, “Lucienne, who hates to travel, goes off to the wilds of Mexico quite abruptly. Why? To visit the ruins of Yucatán. Quite absurd: Lucienne doesn’t know a pyramid from a penis.”
Venom Business Page 24