"Is Quillan trying to wreck the Ho-Pak?" a broker asked. "It's already under siege. Do you want to buy the shares?" "Not on your bloody life! Are you selling Struan short too?" "No. No I'm not." "Christ, I don't like this at all."
"Keep calm, Harry," someone else said. "The market's come alive for once, that's all that counts."
"Great day, what?" another broker said to him. "Is the crash on? I'm totally liquid myself, sold out this morning. Is it going to be a crash?"
"I don't know."
"Shocking about Struan's, isn't it?"
"Do you believe all the rumors?"
"No, of course not, but one word to the wise is sufficient they say, what?"
"I don't believe it."
"Struan's off 3!<i points in one day, old boy, a lot of people believe it," another broker said. "I sold out my Struan's this morning. Will Richard sustain the run?"
"That's in the hands of. . ." Joseph Stern was going to say God but he knew that Richard Kwang's future was in the hands of his depositors and that they had already decided. "Joss," he said sadly.
"Yes. Thank God we get our commissions either way, feast or famine, jolly good, what?"
"Jolly good," Stern echoed, privately loathing, the smug, self-satisfied upper-class English accent of the exclusive British public schools, schools that, because he was Jewish, he had never been able to attend. He saw Forsythe put the phone down and look at the board. Once more he tapped his offering. Forsythe beckoned him. He walked through the throng, eyes watching him.
"Are you buying?" he asked.
"In due course, Joseph, old boy!" Forsythe added softly. "Between you and me, can't you get Quillan off our backs? I've reason to believe he's in cahoots with that berk Southerby."
"Is that a public accusation?"
"Oh come on, it's a private opinion, for chrissake! Haven't you read Haply's column? Tai-pans and a big bank spreading rumors? You know Richard's sound. Richard's as sound as … as the Rothschilds! You know Richard's got over a billion in res—"
"I saw the crash of '29, old chap. There were trillions in reserve then but even so everyone went broke. It's a matter of cash, credit and liquidity. And confidence. You'll buy our offering, yes or no?" "Probably." "How long can you keep this up?"
Forsythe looked at him. "Forever. I'm just a stockbroker. I just follow orders. Buy or sell I make a quarter of one percent."
"If the client pays."
"He has to. We have his stock, eh? We have rules. But while I think of it, go to hell."
Stern laughed. "I'm British, I'm going to heaven, didn't you know." Uneasily, he walked back to his desk. "I think he'll buy before the market closes."
It was a quarter to three. "Good," Gornt said. "Now I wa—" He stopped. They both looked back as there was an undercurrent. Dunross was escorting Casey and Line Bartlett to the desk of Alan Holdbrook—Struan's in-house broker—on the other side of the hall.
"I thought he'd left for the day," Gornt said with a sneer.
"The tai-pan never runs away from trouble. It's not in his nature." Stern watched them thoughtfully. "They look pretty friendly. Perhaps the rumors are all wrong and lan'll make the Par-Con deal and make the payments."
"He can't. That deal's going to fall through," Gornt said. "Bart-lett's no fool. Bartlett'd be mad to throw in with that tottering empire."
"I didn't even know until a few hours ago that Struan's were indebted to the Orlin Bank. Or that the Toda payments were due in a week or so. Or the even more nonsensical rumor that the Vic won't support the Noble House. Lot of nonsense. I called Havergill and that's what he said."