“Quite so,” said Blackett. “But are they going to stop there? Aren’t they going to try and ferret out what went on behind the scenes?”
“Which scenes?” said Oliver. “Ours or theirs, or both?”
“You have a point,” said Blackett. “We know, of course, that they were planning to do the dirty on us. We just happened to outsmart them.”
“We know it,” said Harrap, “but can we afford to prove it?”
Both of them were looking at the fourth member of the board.
George Challen had developed surprisingly with promotion. A little awkward at first with a Brigadier, a Colonel and a Major, he had soon found his feet and now dealt with them on a footing of perfect equality. With his hair greying at the temples and a pair of reading glasses straddling his thick nose, you might have taken him, at first glance, for any business executive, a bit healthier perhaps than the run of men on the eight-thirty. It was only when you looked closely at him, noticing the barrel chest which threatened to burst out of his well-cut waistcoat, the square shoulders and the thick neck, that you realized that you were looking at an ex-sergeant major who had also been a cruiser-weight boxing champion and was now the director of a public company.
He said, “Under all the circumstances I’d say let them make the running.”
“I agree,” said Oliver. “If you think your opponent’s got a bad hand, there’s no point in playing his cards for him.”
Blackett nodded, and Wilfred Harrap said, “Well, that seems to make it unanimous, doesn’t it?”
3
“I suppose your head office know that you were going to see me this morning,” said Mallinson, “and present me with this – this ultimatum?”
“It’s not an ultimatum,” said Mr Partridge patiently, “it’s just a word in season. And I certainly wouldn’t have done without a direct instruction from our Board.”
As Manager of the City branch of the London & Home Counties Bank he had often to deal with petulant industrialists and had developed a certain technique. It made it more difficult in this case that he knew and liked Victor Mallinson personally.
“You can wrap it up as much as you like. It’s an ultimatum. Unless we peg our overdraft at its present figure, you’re going to ring down the curtain.”
“You’re greatly overstating what I said. Head office would like you to keep your overdraft where it is – or even to lower it. They would have to consider very carefully any request for an increase.”
“Which means they would refuse it.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Mallinsons have banked here for thirty years. We’ve often exceeded our present figure. Why are you suddenly getting cold feet about us?”
“It’s a matter of trends and tendencies,” said Mr Partridge. He looked out of the window at the rain which was belting down and wondered whether explanation was going to do any good. He knew exactly how Mallinson felt. He had been hit in his most vulnerable place. The financial integrity of his business had been questioned. His pride had been hurt and he was shocked and furious and needed someone to kick. Mr Partridge had often served as whipping boy in such circumstances. It was one of the ways he earned his very large salary. He said, “In the old days, when you were building up the business and we could see a valid and productive use for our money, it is true that your overdraft rose above its present figure. And our confidence was fully justified. The money went into machinery and stocks and building, and produced an excellent return.”
“What do you think it’s going into now?” snarled Mallinson. “Strong drink and dancing girls?”
“We don’t think that, but an examination of the figures over the last two or three years has been – well – disturbing. It seems that you have been attempting to undercut other firms – at least, that is the only explanation I can see for a cumulative drop in profits.”
“We’re fighting a trade war. You can’t fight without reserves. We’ve used some of our reserves. It’s what reserves are for.”
“That’s perfectly true. I pointed it out myself to head office. They then queried this figure of £25,000 written off for abortive advertising. That would be a non-recurrent item, I assume.”
“You assume correctly.”
“And the further provision this year for legal expenses?”
“Both these last two items are recoverable, and will shortly be recovered.”
“If that were to happen, of course it would make a considerable difference. You’re referring, I take it, to this litigation with Quinn & Nicholson?”
“I’m not fighting Quinn & Nicholson,” said Mallinson. “We had a perfectly good relationship with them in the past and we will again in the future. I’m fighting that crook, Nugent, who’s taken them over. This time he’s bitten off more than he can chew, and it’s going to choke him.”
“You sound confident about that.”
“If I sound confident,” said Mallinson, smiling for the first time that morning, “it’s because I am confident. I’ve been advised that we have a very strong case. But I am taking no chances. As a matter of fact, I’ve arranged to take certain steps this morning which should place the issue beyond any doubt.”
“I’m most relieved to hear it,” said Mr Partridge.
When his visitor had gone he rang for his secretary and dictated a short letter.
“–On your instructions I said nothing about calling in our debenture, since I agree this might be premature. We should await the outcome of the present litigation, but meanwhile, I am quite clear in my own mind that no increase in overdraft should be allowed. If you will authorize me to do so I will confirm this in writing forthwith–”
The rain had stopped and a pale sun was shining. Mallinson walked back down Moorgate without seeing or hearing anything that was going on round him. Crossing Finsbury Square he nearly walked in front of a taxi. The driver jammed on his brakes and swore at him. Mallinson stepped back into the puddle which had collected in the gutter. He appeared to notice neither the state of his trousers nor the taxi-driver’s language, but walked off along the pavement staring straight in front of him.
“One born every minute,” said the taxi driver.
When he got back to his office, Mallinson took the lift up to his office, went in and sat in front of the fire. Jennie found him here twenty minutes later.
She said, “What have you done to your trousers?”
“My trousers?” said Mallinson vaguely. “I must have stepped in a puddle on the way back from the bank. They’re dry now.”
“You look as if you’ve been paddling in the Serpentine. I’ll get a brush. Put your foot up on that other chair.”
Whilst she was brushing off the mud Jennie said, “You’ve been off colour lately. I should think you wanted a holiday.”
“When this case is over I’ll take one.”
“I know it’s nothing to do with me. You can tell me to shut up if you like, but don’t you think it might be a good thing if you gave this case up?” When Mallinson said nothing she said, “I know I’m speaking out of turn.”
“No. Go on.”
“Well, what I meant was, is it worth it? It’s interfering with your business. I know that. You haven’t done a decent day’s work since it started. Always being interrupted to go and see those solicitors or make affy-whatsists or look up old papers for them. Honestly, they must think you haven’t got anything better to do.”
Mallinson grinned and said, “What do you suggest we do about it?”
“Well, you started it. Couldn’t you stop it?”
“It’s not as easy as that, Jennie. Litigation’s a bit like poker. Do you know how to play poker?”
“I’ve seen it on the films.”
“You think you’ve got a good hand, so you put your chips down. The other chap thinks he’s got a good hand too, so he raises you, and you raise him. And by the time you come to the showdown you’ve both gone so far that you can’t afford to back out. If I did, I’d have to p
ay their costs as well as my own, and I don’t suppose they’re a penny less than mine.”
“What would it cost?”
“To stop now? Two or three thousand pounds.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth it?”
“You’d better ask Mr Partridge about that,” said Mallinson grimly.
“And if you win they have to pay back all the money you’ve spent?”
“That’s right.”
“And what happens if you go on and don’t win? I’ve done that one. Put your other leg up.”
“That’s when it comes really expensive. Do you realize that every day in court is going to cost both of us a thousand pounds for our leading counsel, about six hundred for the junior counsel, to say nothing of the solicitor who sits behind twiddling his thumbs. That makes the running costs about four thousand pounds a day. Work out what it comes to if you spend four or five days in court.”
Jennie, looking rather white, said, “Is what you’re saying that you’ve got to win this?”
“That’s it,” said Mallinson, “and – what do you want?”
“Sorry to interrupt your teet-ah-teet,” said Mr Crake, “but I’ve got Wibberley here.”
“All right. Show him in. I’d better see him alone. But you can bring us in some coffee, Jennie, just as soon as it’s ready.”
The Derek Wibberley who came into the room was no longer the self-confident young advertising executive of three years before. His clothes were as smart as ever; smarter than in the days when he had not had to worry so much about the impression a salesman made on an employer. His shoes were polished and his light brown hair was carefully parted and smoothed down over his skull. But his eyes were deep set in a face which had grown ten years older.
Mallinson pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk and noted the speed with which Wibberley took one. Smoke it quick and grab another. If I get nothing else out of the interview I’ll be two fags to the good.
He said, “I won’t beat about the bush, Wibberley. I think you’ve had a raw deal.”
“Business is business, I suppose,” said Wibberley cautiously. He wasn’t sure how matters were going to develop.
“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t thinking about your unfortunate difference of opinion with Mr Pedersen.”
“Unfortunate difference of opinion” seemed to Wibberley a curious euphemism for being sacked from the agency and barred by the personal efforts of its head from getting any other job in the advertising field, and being forced to sell insurance on half commission. Still playing it carefully he said, “What were you thinking of, then?”
“Not long ago I stumbled across a curious piece of information. It indicated to me, quite clearly, that someone known to both of us had played a dirty trick on you. It was not only that the trick was dirty in itself. It also lost you your job. I talked it over with Pedersen – and we came to certain conclusions.”
Wibberley had lost all pretence of disinterest. He was leaning forward, his mouth half open.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“If I’m going to tell you this I shall have to ask you to respect a confidence.”
“Of course,” said Wibberley impatiently.
“You’ll promise anything,” thought Mallinson, “and break the promise as soon as it suits you.” He went on placidly with what he had to say. “A fellow member of Brett’s Club – he had drunk one double whisky too many or he would not, I think, have said what he did – was talking to me about Oliver Nugent. He recalled passing Nugent on the steps of the Club, on one occasion, when he appeared to be engaged in a slanging match with someone who was trying to stop him getting through the door.”
“With me, you mean?”
“From the description it sounded like you. And the timing was about right. About three years ago, he thought.”
“He can’t be making a complaint about it now?”
“My dear fellow. It wasn’t your conduct he was criticizing. It was Nugent’s. What he said was, ‘I thought that fellow Nugent was something of a bruiser. Able to look after himself. The chap who was arguing with him was tight and about half his weight anyway. What did he need police protection for?’”
“What did he mean?”
“Apparently the first thing Nugent did when he got into the Club was to ring up the police. The phone booth’s in the hall. This other chap had stopped to have a word with the porter and couldn’t help overhearing him. He got on to – the Wimbledon police, I think it was–”
“The Wimbledon police?”
“Yes. It wouldn’t have meant anything to him, but it didn’t take me long to work it out.”
Wibberley was breathing hard through his nose. He said, “They were waiting for me when I got home. I was tight and I lashed out. That’s what started all the trouble.”
“It started more trouble than you know,” said Mallinson. Now he was departing from the world of half-truth to the world of untruth, and he picked his words carefully. “I expect you thought you lost your job because of the snarl-up over the Lucille advertising. That’s only partly true. If it had been that alone, Pedersen would have overlooked it. But the police court case coming on top of it – well! You know how careful top-class agencies have to be.”
“Yes,” said Wibberley. He was white round the mouth. “What I ought to do is break his neck.”
“What you shall do,” said Mallinson, “is have a cup of Jennie’s excellent coffee. Put it down there, Jennie.”
“I didn’t know if Mr Wibberley took sugar. I’ve put two lumps in his saucer.”
“Fine,” said Wibberley.
“Whilst we drink it,” said Mallinson with a smile, “we can turn our minds to thinking of something a great deal more painful and a great deal more lingering for Mr Nugent than simply having his neck broken.”
As Mallinson, after visiting his bankers, had walked north along Moorgate, Oliver had been walking along it in the opposite direction and on the other pavement. He was making for the offices in Coleman Street of the Westfälischen Group. The invitation to do so had arrived in a neatly typed and politely worded letter that morning.
“It’s a trap,” said Harrap. “They’ll kidnap you.”
“A shade obvious, don’t you think?” said Oliver.
“It’s because it’s so obvious that you’ll fall for it.”
“Just exactly how would they set about kidnapping me, in broad daylight, in the City of London?”
“I once read a book,” said Blackett. “There was this master criminal who wanted to kidnap the hero and he asked him to the Ritz. What he did was he impregnated the back of one of the armchairs with dope and when the hero leant the back of his neck against it he went out like a light.”
“A bit far-fetched,” said Harrap.
“It seemed plausible when I read it,” said Blackett. “I was only ten at the time.”
Oliver was studying the letter. He said, “If they’d meant mischief surely they’d have telephoned, not written. Anyway, I must go along and see what it’s all about. I’ll refuse the first two chairs they offer me, Bill. And if I’m not back by twelve, Wilfred, you can send in the Flying Squad.”
The offices of the Westfälischen Group looked entirely unsinister. A large blonde girl with glasses showed Oliver into a waiting-room equipped with tubular steel furniture and a book-case full of German and Italian pharmaceutical magazines, and reappeared three minutes later to lead him to the office of the Managing Director, Mr Buchholtzer.
Mr Buchholtzer was thin and sandy-haired. He got up as Oliver came in, shook hands with a surprisingly vice-like grip, motioned Oliver to a seat beside the desk and returned to his own chair. He said, “It was kind of you to come, Mr Nugent. The matters we had to discuss were, we considered, easier to talk about than to write about in the first instance. Do you find that chair uncomfortable?”
“Not at all,” said Oliver. “When you say ‘we’, do you mean you and me or you and someone else, if you follow me?”
“When I said ‘we’ I was referring to our Board in Munich. Our Board has been following the development of Quinn & Nicholson in England under your Chairmanship with close interest and attention.
“I have been conscious from time to time of your attention, said Oliver cautiously.
If Mr Buchholtzer read anything into this remark he gave no sign of having done so. He said, “We felt that the moment might be ripe for exploring the possibility of a somewhat closer community of operations. Our interests need not conflict. We manufacture in Germany and sell mainly on the Continent and a little in England. You manufacture in England and are beginning to sell on the Continent. It seemed to us that by agreeing on a certain division of territories we might both assist each other to expand.”
Oliver lit a cigarette to give himself time to think about this. It was undoubtedly an attractive proposition; an alliance with their main European competitor with a selling arrangement covering the Continent. Add an American firm and you would have a tripartite cartel of real power. On the other hand, dare he trust them? Might the whole thing be a trick? Having failed to nobble him in any other way, was the shadowy Steyr Engelbach now trying to cast a commercial noose round his neck ready to jerk it tight at the most inconvenient moment?
Mr Buchholtzer leaned forward over the desk and said, with a slight smile, “I must not attempt to influence your decision in any way, Mr Nugent, but there is one item of information which might interest you. Our new Chairman, Rudolf Hartmann – I succeeded him in London – he instigated this proposal.”
“Your new Chairman. Then is–?”
“Herr Engelbach is no longer with us.”
“I see.”
“Between you and me, Mr Nugent, Herr Engelbach had conducted himself in a way which did not commend itself to the rest of the Board. He was a man of great personal force and character, and to such a man a degree of latitude is permitted. But there is a limit. When it became known that he had been apparently using his position and the resources of the Company to pursue a personal vendetta–”
“A most improper course of action,” agreed Oliver. “You spoke of him in the past tense. Do I understand that he is dead?”
The Dust and the Heat Page 21