by Lewis Orde
‘To a profitable partnership.’
‘It will be,’ Simon responded. ‘Any venture with a man as determined for success as you could be nothing less.’ He smiled as he paid Roland the compliment, but a nagging question played on his mind: every man had a reason for ambition, aside from the obvious need to make his way in the world. What was Roland’s? Sally had mentioned his single-mindedness, how he had locked himself away, willing to forego the usual comforts while he concentrated on a single objective.
Sally thought it was because of the sudden, cruel way in which he had lost his family. That was what drove him, she claimed, the desire to substitute family love with money and power. But Simon wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t put his finger on what motivated this remarkable man, but he was inclined to think it went much deeper than that.
Chapter Three
Within eighteen months of forming R.E. Electrics and acquiring Mar-Cross, Roland had the company securely in the black. The two subsidiaries had been sold off, and to raise additional working capital he had suggested to Simon Aronson, as he had when he first presented his idea, that they sell the factory building and the land it occupied, then lease it back on a favorable long-term basis from the new owners. Simon agreed, and when the deal was made it meant that R.E. Electrics had taken control of Mar-Cross for virtually nothing; Roland had purchased the company with its own money.
Simon watched with admiration as Roland set about the task of building the company. Although well aware of his young partner’s determination, he was still amazed at the ruthless speed with which Roland was able to accomplish his work. A new technical team, lured from other companies, expanded the original range of plugs and fittings to small appliances incorporating heating elements – electric kettles, irons, immersion heaters. Instead of advertising the products initially, Roland chose to offer special terms to carefully selected, highly visible small shops in London, selling at virtually his own cost and supplying attractive point-of-sale promotional material, which the shop owners welcomed. Once he had established that foothold he spread his net wider, advertising in the trade press. Sales picked up immediately as larger shops became interested in the new products from an old firm under young management.
So rapid was the buildup that one of the trade publications in which Roland advertised requested an interview. Roland accepted, inviting one reporter to lunch at Eldridge’s, a restaurant he frequented in Knightsbridge.
Choosing his words carefully, and knowing the reporter was happy to make the most of a free lunch at one of London’s finest restaurants, Roland explained how he had taken over a company in receivership and turned it around. He astounded his interviewer, who was at least twenty years older than himself, by freely admitting that at the time of the takeover his own knowledge of electrical goods went little further than ‘being aware that you had to plug them in before they would work.’ He followed this admission with a carefully prepared quote: ‘I am strictly a businessman who is capable of building a company – any kind of a company – because my strength lies not in technical knowledge but in being totally unafraid to surround myself with people who know considerably more than I do.’ When the article appeared in the magazine, the headline referred to Roland as a flamboyant entrepreneur, the forerunner of a new breed of business executives created by the war. It was a description Roland quite liked.
One of those men who knew considerably more than Roland was Lawrence Chivers, a dour, black-haired Yorkshireman in his late thirties who never appeared anywhere without an enormous pipe jutting out of the side of his mouth. Chivers, a disgruntled sales representative with a vacuum cleaner company since leaving the Royal Air Force at the end of the war, had approached Roland as soon as he had taken over Mar-Cross. Impressed by the man’s contacts within the retail industry, Roland immediately hired him as sales manager, and his instinct about the man quickly proved correct.
It was Chivers who made the major breakthrough Roland hungered for. After months of keeping appointments with buyers at London’s largest department stores, pitching the new kitchen products, if only on a trial basis, Chivers finally received a positive response. With a showman’s timing, he saved his announcement for the last moment of the regular Friday afternoon sales meeting in Roland’s office.
‘Any more business?’ Roland asked, looking first at Simon, who always attended the meetings, then at Lawrence Chivers. ‘No? I guess that just about finishes it then.’
‘There is one minor point,’ Chivers said, puffing contentedly on his pipe to surround himself with a cloud of gray, pungent smoke. A spark jumped from the massive bowl to burn a small hole in his tweed houndstooth sportcoat before he could brush it away.
‘How minor?’ Roland asked as he saw Simon glance at his watch. The banker had to return to his office in the city before he could go home to his family for their Friday night dinner.
‘Well, you know we’ve been bashing away at all the big stores in the West End – British Home Stores, John Lewis, Gamages, et al. – I think Adler’s may have bitten.’ Chivers removed the pipe from his mouth for a moment while he explored the end. ‘Not drawing properly,’ he explained, as if anyone might be interested, and Roland felt like yelling at him to put the damned pipe down. ‘Wasn’t easy, though. No one seems prepared to make any decision at that place, certainly none of the buying staff. The buyers just hem and haw, and finally everything has to go right on up to the top.’
‘To old Montague Adler,’ Simon broke in. ‘He still runs that company like it was his father’s original stall in Petticoat Lane.’
‘You know the family?’ Roland asked.
‘Not closely.’
‘You say that like you’re relieved.’
Simon laughed. ‘I am. Montague Adler – or Mr Monty as he’s called – is the original Jewish patriarch, Abraham reincarnated. He started Adler’s with a small shop in the East End of London after his father had operated a stall in the Lane. Multiplied it to three nice stores. The old devil must be nearing eighty now.’
‘Eighty?’ Roland whistled. ‘And he’s still working?’
‘He retired about ten years ago, from what I understand, although he kept the title of chairman. He used to attend the occasional meeting, wander around the store to see what was happening, but he didn’t get too involved because his wife wanted him to ease up. She was worried about his health. Ironically, it was she who died. When that happened old Monty decided to become active in the business again. His son, Albert, had been managing it. Titles don’t mean much in that company because everyone is scared to death of the old man. His word is law where his family is concerned, whether inside Adler’s or out.’
‘Albert’s a bit of a louse, if you want my opinion,’ Chivers chimed in. ‘Monty might be an irascible old devil, but he’s entitled to it. He’s the one who built the business up. Albert likes the money and the prestige, but he hasn’t got one-tenth of the old man’s drive. I think that’s why Monty came out of retirement. He didn’t want to see the business ruined while he could still do something about it.’ The pipe had gone out and Chivers paused to relight it. ‘Deep down, I reckon old Monty believes it was the wrong son who died.’
‘Pardon?’ Between the pauses for relighting the pipe and the abrupt changing of subjects, Roland had difficulty following Chivers. He knew his sales manager acted the same way on business calls, interspersing his pitch with jokes and his own philosophical comments on life. It seemed to work with the buyers, but Roland often found it irritating.
‘Monty had another son named Meir, older than Albert by a year or two. Went off to America in the early twenties to try his luck and got killed in a car crash. Was a bright fellow from all I’ve heard.’
‘I see,’ Roland glanced at Simon, knowing he was impatient to go. ‘How did you leave it, Lawrence?’
‘Simpkins, that’s the buyer, is definitely interested in us. Adler’s used to be china, glassware, furniture, clothing. Now they’re expanding into electrical goods. They�
��re looking at Christmas as their first test for the new direction. Now Simpkins wants us – you and me, Roland, because they won’t deal with just a lowly sales manager the first time – to make an appointment to see the old man. If he likes the look of us, we’ll get the order.’
‘That personal, eh? Then what are we waiting for? Telephone them right now for an appointment.’ While Chivers dialed the number, Roland sat back, thinking. Three stores, the big one on Regent Street where the buying offices were, and the other branches in Manchester and Edinburgh. Get your goods selling there and you were made.
‘Is next Wednesday any good, three o’clock?’ Chivers asked, his beefy hand held over the mouthpiece.
Roland glanced at the diary on his desk. He had an appointment at six-thirty. ‘All right, as long as we’re out of there by four-thirty.’
‘Where do you have to go?’ Simon asked as Chivers confirmed the appointment at Adler’s.
‘I’ve got a dinner to attend with Sally.’
Simon feigned disappointment. ‘Sharon will be jealous.’
Roland smiled as he pictured Simon’s older daughter. His first impression of her hadn’t been wrong. Each time he saw Sharon, which was about twice a month when he went to the Aronson home for dinner and an evening of backgammon, she looked even more lovely. At fifteen her body was already that of a woman’s and she conducted herself with a dignity and elegance that seemed out of place in one so young. Simon and Nadine had mentioned the possibility of sending her to the Sorbonne in Paris, but Roland doubted that a finishing school could teach her anything she didn’t already know.
‘Tell Sharon not to worry. It isn’t a date, it’s for your blasted newspaper. Sally’s covering some big do for the new Argentinian ambassador, a banquet at Claridge’s. She’s asked me to escort her.’ Though Roland sounded disgruntled at the prospect of the evening, he actually found himself looking forward to it – he hadn’t seen Sally for almost a month. The ardor of their early relationship had cooled, but neither seemed to mind. Now they were friends – good friends – who got together every so often to exchange news. Roland was initially surprised by her invitation, thinking she’d been seeing someone regularly. Obviously that had finished.
‘Tell Sharon,’ he said, interrupting his thoughts, ‘that if she ever needs an escort to Claridge’s, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell her.’
‘It’s confirmed,’ Chivers said, hanging up the phone. ‘Three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon.’
Under the desk, Roland clenched a fist in triumph.
*
Adler’s was situated opposite the Café Royal at the bottom end of Regent Street, part of the row of Regency buildings which sweep gracefully northward from Piccadilly Circus and the statue of Eros.
Lawrence Chivers was carrying a bulky sample case when he and Roland arrived at the store for their appointment with Montague Adler. They took the elevator up to the fifth floor where Bruce Simpkins, the buyer with whom Chivers had been dealing, was waiting for them.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, welcome to Adler’s.’ As Simpkins spoke he nodded his shining bald head and rubbed his hands together nervously. Roland recalled Simon’s description of how the store operated and guessed that Simpkins was more than a little frightened of appearing before the old man to show merchandise he recommended the company buy. ‘Please come this way.’
They followed Simpkins towards the buying offices, past the restaurant which took up half the fifth floor. Roland looked through the heavy glass doors and could see waiters clearing up after the midday rush.
‘Here we are, gentlemen.’ Simpkins stopped so abruptly that Roland, still gazing at the restaurant, stumbled into the back of him. When he looked up he saw that they were at Simpkins’ own office, the first in a short row that occupied the length of the hall. At the end were two heavy oak doors. In ornate gold script, one was marked ‘Mr Monty’ and the other ‘Mr Albert.’ Seated at a desk between the two doors, like an alert sentry, was an elderly woman with a grim face and tightly waved gray hair. Although she was equipped with only a typewriter and two telephones, she couldn’t have looked fiercer had she been armed with a machine gun. Suddenly Roland had the urge to grab hold of Chivers and run. This wasn’t a retail business . . . it was an empire . . . and they were about to meet the king!
‘I trust that you’ve brought the samples we discussed,’ Simpkins said to Chivers.
‘Mar-Cross irons and kettles.’
‘Good, good. Now remember, it must be a straightforward presentation. Keep your conversation to answering questions. Neither Mr Monty nor Mr Albert has time to waste on frivolities.’
Chivers nodded, and Roland wished that he had persuaded Simon to come as well . . . he had dealt with Monty Adler before, persuaded him to contribute a considerable sum of money to the Jewish National Fund to plant trees in Israel. When Roland reminded him of it, Simon cited that experience as his reason not to come, insisting that he wouldn’t exploit an association based on philanthropy to gain profits for his business. Roland understood and respected him all the more for it.
‘Shall we go?’ Simpkins led the way toward the gray-haired woman who looked up as the three men approached, regarding them coolly. Simpkins introduced Roland and Chivers, and the woman stood up and rapped on the door marked ‘Mr Monty.’
‘Enter!’ a man’s gravelly voice called out.
The woman opened the door gently. ‘Mr Monty, Mr Simpkins is here with a Mr Eagles and a Mr Chivers from Mar-Cross.’ She stepped back and, as the three men filed past, made an effort to smile, though the expression scarcely materialized.
Roland entered the office first, immediately stunned by its spaciousness. In comparison, his own office in Wembley was a slum, shoved away in an unused corner of the factory. Next to its size, the most striking thing about Montague Adler’s office was a large picture window that looked out over Regent Street to the Café Royal. The floor was completely covered in rich brown carpet, and two exquisite Persian rugs hung from the walls.
‘Come in! Come in! Don’t stand there with your mouths hanging open like bloody American tourists!’
Roland snapped around to face the man who had spoken. Monty Adler, a stocky barrel-chested bull of a man with a mane of snow white hair and piercing blue eyes, sat behind an enormous, leather-topped desk. Dressed in a single-breasted black jacket and gray-striped pants, he wore a shirt with a stiff separate collar reminiscent of an age gone by. What Roland found most remarkable about the man was the size of his head – he was barely five foot three, yet the massive head would have seemed normal on a man a foot taller.
‘Albert, come in here!’ Monty Adler’s voice bore the mark of a man unaccustomed to being ignored.
A door joining the two offices opened almost instantly and Albert Adler appeared. He was also dressed formally but, unlike his father, Albert appeared distinctly uncomfortable, constantly running a finger between the stiff shirt collar and his neck. Albert was much taller than his father and thin to the point of looking undernourished. Even his lips were thin, Roland thought, and seemed to be permanently set in a pale, mean line. Roland chided himself for taking such an instant dislike to the man solely on the basis of his appearance.
‘Come on then, show us your goods,’ Monty ordered. ‘No, not on my desk. On the floor.’ He stood over Roland and Chivers as they knelt on the carpet with the sample case. Chivers opened it and brought out two electric kettles and two irons. ‘Haven’t been in business very long, have you?’ Monty picked up one of the irons and examined it closely. ‘Nice finish.’
‘Eighteen months,’ Roland replied. ‘We took over—’
‘I know perfectly well what you took over, what you did with it and who your partner is.’ He replaced the iron and turned his attention to the electric kettles. ‘What have your returns been like?’
‘For guarantee work?’ Chivers asked. ‘Very low.’
‘Albert, fill these kettles with wat
er. I want to see how long they take to boil.’ Monty passed both kettles to his son. ‘And when you’ve done that get me a couple of tablecloths from the restaurant. We’ll see how the irons work as well.’
Roland glanced at Chivers as Albert left the office with a kettle in each hand. The sales manager just shrugged his shoulders in an I-told-you-so attitude.
‘What did you do before you took over Mar-Cross?’ Monty asked.
‘I was in the army for seven years.’
‘Oh, of course, I remember you now. You’re the army captain I read about, resigned because you didn’t like what Ernest Bevin’s little bunch of Arabists were up to. Can’t say I blame you. Where are you from?’
‘Margate.’
‘Never been there in my life.’ He swung toward the door as Albert reappeared, took the kettles and plugged them into wall sockets. He tapped his foot impatiently as he studied his watch and waited for the water to boil. ‘They work,’ he grunted when steam issued simultaneously from the spout of each kettle. ‘Now let’s see about your irons.’ He lowered his eyes and studied the trousers each man wore. Finally he pointed at Roland. ‘Give them here.’
Roland turned red at the prospect of undressing. ‘Come on,’ Monty pressed. ‘Are you scared of your legs being seen or is your underwear dirty?’ Without waiting for an answer, assuming he would be obeyed as he always was, Monty picked up the two tablecloths Albert had brought from the restaurant. He set one across the desk as a pad to protect the leather top. The other he sprinkled with water from one of the kettles. When he finished his work he looked expectantly at Roland. ‘What are you waiting for, sonny? Surely it’s worth showing your legs to prove how good your irons are.’
Very slowly, Roland removed his trousers and stood in jacket and shorts. He looked at Chivers, who had turned away, but it was obvious from the way his body shook that he was bursting with laughter. If you tell anyone at the factory about this, Roland thought, so help me God . . .