“Not dead. He has retired, I understand, to his estates in Austria.”
“What you have told me certainly makes a difference. I shall have to think it over and discuss it with my Board. If they agree with me, then our solicitors and accountants should be put in touch with each other–”
As he walked back down Cheapside and High Holborn, Oliver was conscious of a lightness of heart which he had not known since – since when? Since the early days at Elsfield Wood when they had all been younger and the world had been an oyster for the opening and anything had been possible to strong arms and good nerves.
As soon as Oliver walked into his office he knew that something had happened. The other three directors were all there and there was an air of crisis you could cut with a knife.
Harrap said, “We’ve just heard. Mallinson’s nobbled Wibberley. It’s not clear just how he did it, but it’s been done.”
“Which means he’ll give evidence for him,” said Blackett, “and tell any damned lie he’s told to tell.”
“Are we certain?”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth,” said Challen.
“In that case we’ve got no option, have we? If they’re going to play it dirty there’s only one thing we can do.”
The three of them looked at Challen who said nothing, his heavy face unusually grim.
Oliver said, “It’s the only way, George. We’ve got to do it.”
4
I joined Quinn & Nicholsons as Company Secretary a week before the case started. Most of our routine work was suspended whilst it was on, so I had plenty of time to go along and listen in.
I’d been to that unhappy mixture of cathedral and government department which is known as the Law Courts a number of times before; twice to give evidence in compensation cases and on other occasions out of curiosity. The difference between watching a case and being involved in it was exactly the difference between being a happy, carefree Roman citizen and an early Christian.
As Wilfred Harrap and I walked in, by the Strand entrance, we noticed the little groups of press and agency photographers on the steps. I wondered which of the many cases starting that morning was attracting their attention, and had a shock when I realized that it was ours. The “Struggle of the Scents” or “The Battle of the Bottles”, as the papers had begun to call it, had caught the fleeting fancy of readers.
“It’s going to raise the stakes,” said Harrap as we push through the crowd. The photographers had caught sight of Oliver coming in behind us with Kendrick Starkey and Lewis Moffat and the flashes began to explode.
“How so?”
“It’s not just money now. It’s reputation. This is going to be a damned bad case to lose.”
“We’re not going to lose,” I said. But I wasn’t sure. That’s the blight of a Law Court. You may be convinced of the rightness of your case and dead certain you’re going to win, but the moment you get into court a damp depression centres round your middle. You see every flaw in your own case and every strength in the other side’s, and wonder how you could have been such a mug as to start the thing.
We were in Queen’s Bench Four. The ecclesiastical motif was much in evidence here; lancet windows, oak pews with carved finials, and two galleries, one at the back for the choir and a tiny one on the cantoris side for the organist.
Fergus Campbell was there ahead of us with his litigation clerk and a cubic yard of documents. Mr Justice Mee, a wizened monkey, bright eyes peeping mischievously out of a bundle of robes and wig, took his place at ten o’clock precisely, and Starkey turned to Fergus Campbell and said, in what I thought was an absolutely audible voice, “Crafty little bastard, but quite a sound lawyer.”
James Snow, who emphasized the liturgical nature of the proceedings by looking and sounding like a lay preacher, rose and opened his client’s case with commendable brevity.
It had, he said, been no pleasure to businessmen like Mallinsons to waste their time and money, to say nothing of the valuable time of the Court, in a case of this sort. He glanced at Mr Justice Mee, who stared blandly back as if to say, “You don’t fool me. We’re both getting paid for this.”
His client’s hand, said Mr Snow, had been forced. They, and their colleagues, had devoted years of patient research and a large sum of their shareholders’ money, to perfecting and bringing out a new perfume, to be known as Lucille. The name had been chosen quite arbitrarily, being a girl’s Christian name, of Anglo-French origin, but in common use in this country.”
“Lux,” said the Judge.
“I beg your Lordship’s pardon.”
“Lux, lucis. Lucille is derived from the Latin word lux, meaning light.”
“I am obliged to your Lordship.”
“There’s a school of thought that connects it with the Roman satirist, Lucillius.”
“Shortly,” said Mr Snow hurriedly, “before this new perfume was due to be placed on the market, the defendants discovered, by means unknown to us but presumably by some form of industrial espionage, both the name of the product and the nature of the advertising campaign being launched in support of it. They thereupon set on foot a deliberate campaign to slander the name and cheapen and vilify the product. I do not propose at this point to go into the details of what they did. All that will appear fully from the evidence I propose to call. But I would like to say one word first. My clients are not bringing this action out of any motives of personal spite or vindictiveness, but because they felt that their good name and the ethical standards of the business in which they are engaged forced them to do so.”
“My housemaster used to talk like that before he beat you,” said Starkey. “He always did it against his will and for highly moral reasons. He was a bloody clergyman, too.”
Mr Snow said, “I will now call Mr Pedersen.”
Mr Pedersen gave some impressive details of the care, forethought, artistic endeavour and money which had been spent on the promotion of Lucille, was mildly cross-examined by Lewis Moffat and allowed to escape.
Mr Crake came next. He presented the same picture from the Company’s point of view, confirmed the costings produced by Mr Pedersen and gave an estimate of the loss which they had suffered by having to cancel their advertising campaign, withdraw the complete stock, relabel and repack it and mount the same campaign six months later.
Mr Starkey said, “Tell us, Mr Crake. If it cost you such a lot of money to cancel your original campaign, why did you do it?”
“I’ve already explained.”
“Explain it again.”
“Because three days before we were due to start, Quinns brought out this lavatory cleaner. Practically the same name, same format, same adverts.”
“And you thought that people might confuse the two products?”
“That was the whole idea.”
“Whose idea?”
“Quinns, of course.”
“You don’t think that their advertisements appearing three days before yours might have been a coincidence.”
“I’m bloody sure it wasn’t.”
“When answering questions in this court,” said Mr Justice Mee, “you will not employ the language of the bar-room or barrack square.”
“I’m sorry, sir – my Lord.”
“This is not a BBC television programme.”
“No, my Lord.”
“Tell me, Mr Crake,” said Starkey, “did you have any reason to suspect that a campaign of this sort might be launched by your rivals?”
“No. Why should we?”
“I don’t know why you should. The manoeuvres of the advertising industry are a closed book to me. I was simply asking you a question. Did you think that your campaign might be anticipated?”
“No. We didn’t.”
“Then why” – here Mr Starkey rustled through the pages of his brief like a snake approaching through the dry grass – “why, at about that time, did you get one of your subordinates to make special enquiries about the bookings of advertising space
on the days in question?”
“On what days?” asked Mr Crake, playing for time.
“On Thursday and Friday, July 1st and 2nd.”
“Have I got to answer that? It seems to me to be irrelevant.”
“If you’re addressing me,” said the Judge, “I shall rule that the matter is entirely relevant. In answer to an earlier question, you said that you made no enquiries about other bookings. It is now suggested that you did make certain enquiries. If you did, your earlier answer is incorrect.”
“Well, Mr Crake?”
“Now that you remind me,” said Mr Crake, “it is true that I did make some enquiries about the bookings on July 1st and 2nd. It was a routine matter and it had slipped my memory.”
“I see,” said Mr Starkey. “Yes, I see. It slipped your memory. Although you caused one of your subordinates to make two special trips to the City to check up on those bookings.”
“I’ve told you. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Yes,” said Mr Starkey. “You told us that.” He referred again to the papers in front of him, and said, “Would you call the advertising business an ethical one?”
“As ethical as most.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s as ethical as its clients allow it to be.”
“And you were one of its clients?”
“Certainly.”
Mr Starkey resumed his seat. The judge looked at Mr Snow, who shook his head. He said, “Counsel has no more questions for you, Mr Crake. You may stand down.”
Mr Crake left the box unwillingly. He may have felt he had not done justice to himself.
Whilst all this was going on I had been watching Victor Mallinson and Wibberley. They were sitting in front with their solicitors. The revelation that the opposition knew a good deal of what had gone on inside their own offices had hit them hard. I wondered if this was the object of Starkey’s tactics. A succession of scribbled notes had passed between them. Victor Mallinson was looking grim. Derek Wibberley was reading the note which had been handed to him and had turned round to have a word with his solicitor. He jumped when his name was called, scrambled to his feet and made his way to the box.
His own counsel handled him very skilfully, I thought. The story he told wasn’t designed to make him look like a hero. In fact, it made him look rather a fool. But a comparatively honest fool. He went through the whole of his association with Bargulders, the work he did on Quinn & Nicholson’s account, the growth of that account, the launching of the Tendresse campaign.
“It was about that time, I believe, that you suggested to your employers that they might consider giving you a seat on the Board?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Because of the importance of this particular account?”
“That was the main reason. Yes.”
“Looking back, Mr Wibberley, do you think your request was justified?”
“Looking back, I think I’d got a bit too big for my boots.”
There is nothing more ensnaring than a man who admits having made a fool of himself. I could see the jury’s sympathy going out to Wibberley.
“When you were forced to leave Bargulders, can you tell me why you applied for a job in Mr Pedersen’s firm?”
“There really are only three or four firms of that sort of size and standing. I did approach one of the others but they hadn’t any vacancies.”
“And Pedersens offered you a job?”
“They did. And I took it.”
“Had you any particular reason for going to Pedersens?”
“No particular reason. Jobs aren’t all that easy to get in my line.”
“In fact, I believe, after leaving Pedersens you were actually out of advertising for nearly three years.”
“That’s right. I’ve just got back.”
“With the same firm?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave them?”
“I didn’t leave them.” Wibberley paused, then added, “There was trouble over a driving offence–”
“You needn’t go into all that if it isn’t relevant,” said Mr Justice Mee kindly. “You can just tell us the facts. That you left them and are now working for them again.”
He, too, seemed to be brimming over with sympathy. Wibberley said, “Thank you, sir,” and smiled faintly.
“Now I want you to listen most particularly to this question,” said Mr Snow. “When you left the Bargulder agency and joined Pedersens, did you take away with you any documents or drawings relating to the Quinn & Nicholson account which you had been looking after?”
“Well–”
“You’ll remember that you’re on oath and I’m sure that you’ll answer the question honestly.”
“Yes, I did.”
“What were they?”
“They were some layouts that I’d made. Suggested layouts of the Tendresse advertisements.”
“Why did you take them?”
“It was a silly thing to do. But I’d done a lot of work on them. I was rather pleased with them. And since I’d been kicked out – well – to be honest I didn’t see why Bargulders should have them.”
“Wrong, as you say,” said Mr Snow. “Understandable, perhaps. Did you show these advertising layouts to your new employers?”
“It crossed my mind. I may even have suggested it to them.”
“But you didn’t?”
“I didn’t because they wouldn’t let me. They didn’t think it would be playing the game.”
By this time Wibberley was everybody’s favourite. The judge was twinkling at him, the jury had taken him to their heart and Mr Snow was brooding over him with the benevolence of an Inquisitor over a repentant heretic.
Speaking impartially, it seemed to me that they had steered round the dangerous corners very skilfully. Mr Starkey had been spending most of his time talking to his junior and had not, I thought, been listening to the proceedings at all. I was wrong.
He said, “Since you raised the point yourself, Mr Wibberley, perhaps you’ll allow me to pursue it for a moment. Why did you part company with Pedersens’ Agency three years ago?”
Mr Snow slid swiftly to his feet.
“I think your Lordship has already ruled that that particular matter is irrelevant.”
The judge said, “I told the witness that if it embarrassed him he need not pursue the matter, but since he volunteered the information, counsel is entitled to cross-examine him on it.”
Mr Snow sat down again. I found it difficult to explain. There was nothing to warrant it, but the atmosphere in court had suddenly changed. It was as though someone had opened a window and the temperature had dropped ten degrees.
“Well, Mr Wibberley?”
“I don’t mind telling you, though it all seems rather pointless. I was involved – unfortunately involved – in a brush with the police. I hit one of them and I went to jail for thirty days.”
“And you mean to tell us that for this misdemeanour, which had nothing to do with your job, you were dismissed without notice?”
“Agencies don’t like their staff getting mixed up with things like that. I bear them no grudge. They’ve given me my job back again. A better one actually.”
“Perhaps that’s because they have a guilty conscience,” suggested Mr Starkey.
“I don’t follow.”
“For dismissing you for something you hadn’t yet done.”
Wibberley stared at him.
“You were dismissed by Pedersens’ Agency on Thursday, July 1st. Your cards were stamped down to the end of that week. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“I – I really can’t remember.”
“We can recall Mr Pedersen, if you wish. He will have his firm’s records.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” muttered Wibberley.
“And your brush with the police occurred on Thursday, July 8th?”
“If you say so.”
“Yes or no?”
“It was about
then.”
“A remarkable piece of clairvoyance on the part of Mr Pedersen, don’t you think? To dismiss you for something that was going to happen in a week’s time.”
“What really happened,” said Wibberley, “is that we had a difference of opinion over a professional matter. Mr Pedersen did threaten to sack me. I’m quite sure he’d have thought better of it if it hadn’t been for the other matter – the things were cumulative.”
Neat, I thought. Not quite neat enough though.
“You’ll remember when you entered the box,” said Mr Starkey, “that you undertook to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“Certainly. You asked me about something that happened three years ago. For the moment I’d forgotten the exact sequence of events.”
“Then think carefully about my next question. You told my learned friend that when you left the Bargulders agency you took certain drawings – layouts I think you called them – with you. You admitted that it had crossed your mind to show them to Mr Pedersen, but that he wouldn’t let you.”
“I said that, yes.”
“You said it, but is it true?”
“Perfectly true.”
“You’re sure of that? This isn’t another matter that happened three years ago and may have slipped your memory?”
“I am quite certain,” said Wibberley.
“And you agree with Mr Pedersen’s ethical view on the matter? He said, I think, that it wouldn’t be playing the game.”
“That’s right.”
“In fact, to come over from one agency to another with a client’s confidential documents and to show them to a new employer would be an extremely dirty trick, wouldn’t it?”
“I agree.”
“And if a man was capable of a dirty trick like that, you wouldn’t place much reliance on his word, would you?”
I think Wibberley said “No”, but it was almost inaudible.
5
Victor Mallinson’s examination-in-chief opened the proceedings on the second day. What he had to say was not in itself of great importance. Most of it had been said before by Pedersen and Crake. What mattered was the impression he made on the jury. This was the man they had been waiting to hear, the man who had made the complaint, who said he had been unfairly treated, who was asking for their sympathy – and their verdict.
The Dust and the Heat Page 22