"But less than what the shares will be worth if Derek's syndicate gets the oil well."
"Which brings me to my only condition. The offer depends upon the deal being done this morning."
Fett looked at his watch. "It's almost eleven. Do you really think this could be done-even assuming Derek's interested-in one hour?"
Laski tapped his briefcase. "I have all the necessary documents drawn up."
"We could hardly read them-"
"I also have a letter of intent containing heads of agreement. That will satisfy me."
"I should have guessed you would be prepared." Fett considered for a moment. "Of course, if Derek doesn't get the oil well, the shares will probably go down a bit."
"I am a gambler." Laski smiled.
Fett continued: "In which case, you will sell off the company's assets and close down the unprofitable branches."
"Not at all," Laski lied. "I think it could be profitable in its present form with new top management."
"You're probably right. Well, it's a sensible offer, one that I'm obliged to put to the client."
"Don't play hard to get. Think of the commission on a million pounds."
"Yes," Fett said coldly. "I'll ring Derek." He picked up a phone from a coffee table and said: "Derek Hamilton, please."
Laski puffed at his cigar and concealed his anxiety.
"Derek, it's Nathaniel. I've got Felix Laski with me. He's made an offer." There was a pause. "Yes, we did, didn't we? One million in round figures. You would… all right. We'll be here. What? Ah… I see." He gave a faintly embarrassed laugh. "Ten minutes." He put the phone down. "Well, Laski, he's coming over. Let's read those documents of yours while we're waiting."
Laski could not resist saying: "He's interested, then."
"He could be."
"He said something else, didn't he?"
Fett gave the embarrassed little laugh again. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you. He said that if he gives you the company by midday, he wants the money in his hand by noon."
ELEVEN A.M.
16
Kevin Hart found the address the news desk had given him and parked on a yellow line. His car was a two-year-old Rover with a V8 engine, for he was a bachelor, and the Evening Post paid Fleet Street salaries, so he was a good deal wealthier than most men aged twenty-two. He knew this, and he took pleasure in it; and he was not old enough to discreetly conceal that pleasure, which was why men like Arthur Cole disliked him.
Arthur had been very ratty when he came out of the editor's conference. He had sat behind the news desk, given out a batch of assignments in the usual way, then called Kevin and told him to come around to his side of the desk and sit down: a sure sign that he was about to be given what the reporters called a bollocking.
Arthur had surprised him by talking, not about the way he had barged into the conference, but about the story. He had asked: "What was the voice like?"
Kevin said: "Middle-aged man, Home Counties accent. He was choosing his words. Maybe too carefully-he might have been drunk, or distressed."
"That's not the voice I heard this morning," Arthur mused. "Mine was younger, and Cockney. What did yours say?"
Kevin read from his shorthand. "I am Tim Fitzpeterson, and I am being blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox. I want you to crucify the bastards when I'm gone."
Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "That all?"
"Well, I asked what they were blackmailing him with, and he said, 'God, you're all the same,' and put the phone down on me." Kevin paused, expecting a rebuke. "Was that the wrong question?"
Arthur shrugged. "It was, but I can't think of a right one." He picked up the phone and dialed, then handed the receiver to Kevin. "Ask him if he's phoned us in the last half hour."
Kevin listened for a moment, then cradled the handset. "Busy signal."
"No help." Arthur patted his pockets, looking for cigarettes.
"You're giving it up," said Kevin, recognizing the symptoms.
"So I am." Arthur began to chew his nails. "You see, the blackmailer's biggest hold over a politician is the threat to go to the newspapers. Therefore, the blackmailers wouldn't ring us and give us the story. That would be throwing away their trump card. By the same token, since the papers are what the victim fears, he wouldn't ring us and say he was being blackmailed." With the air of one who comes to a final conclusion, he finished: "That's why I think the whole thing is a hoax."
Kevin took it for a dismissal. He stood up. "I'll get back to the oil story."
"No," Arthur said. "We've got to check it out. You'd better go round there and knock on his door."
"Oh, good."
"But next time you think of interrupting an editor's conference, sit down and count to one hundred first."
Kevin could not suppress a grin. "Sure."
But the more he thought about it, the less chance he gave the story of standing up. In the car he had tried to recall what he knew of Tim Fitzpeterson. The man was a low-profile moderate. He had a degree in economics, and was reputed to be clever, but he just did not seem to be sufficiently lively or imaginative a person to provide blackmailers with any raw material. Kevin recalled a photograph of Fitzpeterson and family-a plain wife and three awkward girls-on a Spanish beach. The politician had worn a dreadful pair of khaki shorts.
At first sight, the building outside which Kevin now stood seemed an unlikely love nest. It was a dirty gray thirties block in a Westminster backstreet. Had it not been so close to Parliament, it would have become a slum by now. As he entered, Kevin saw that the landlords had upgraded the place with an elevator and a hall porter: no doubt they called the flats "luxury service apartments."
It would be impossible, he thought, to keep a wife and three children here, or, at least, a man like Fitzpeterson would think it impossible. It followed that the flat was a pied-a-terre, so Fitzpeterson might have homosexual orgies or pot parties here after all.
Stop speculating, he told himself; you'll know in a minute.
There was no avoiding the hall porter. His cubbyhole faced the single elevator across a narrow lobby. A cadaverous man with a sunken white face, he looked for all the world as if he were chained to the desk and never allowed to see the light of day. As Kevin approached, the man put down a book called How to Make Your Second Million and removed his glasses.
Kevin pointed to the book. "I'd like to know how to make my first."
"Nine," said the porter in a patiently bored voice.
"What?"
"You're the ninth person to say that."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Then you ask why I'm reading it, and I say a resident lent it to me, and you say you'd like to make friends with that resident. Now that we've got all that out of the way, what can I do for you?"
Kevin knew how to deal with smart alecks. Pander, pander, he told himself. Aloud, he said: "What number's Mr. Fitzpeterson in?"
"I'll ring him for you." The porter reached for the house phone.
"Just a minute." Kevin brought out his wallet and selected two notes. "I'd like to surprise him." He winked, and laid the money on the counter.
The man took the money and said loudly: "Certainly, sir, as you're his brother. Five C."
"Thanks." Kevin crossed to the elevator and pressed the button. The conspiratorial wink had done the trick more than the bribe, he guessed. He got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fifth floor, then held the doors open. The porter was reaching for the house phone. Kevin said: "A surprise. Remember?" The porter picked up his book without replying.