Hofer, for his part, just loved tall women, especially big-breasted ones. Since Claudine had come into his life, Paris no longer meant complicated foreign exchange controls, an eternally wobbly franc, and hordes of uncouth Americans. No, the City of Light had become a haven, a place of respite, where he could snuggle his rather Roman nose, and moustache, between those mounds of ever-refreshing pleasure.
Claudine had appeared at the end of a most unfortunate incident in Dr. Hofer’s personal life. His secretary, Heidi, had been endowed with both the height and bust measurement so prized by the five-foot-five Alpine magnate. Also she had been willing to provide comfort to her boss even during banking hours. This should not appear as perverse as you might imagine, since banking hours in Switzerland are unusually long. It was also not as imprudent as you might suppose. For in the General Bank of Switzerland, all top executive offices were equipped with a signal system very common in that country. Right next to the door leading into such offices is mounted a quite unobtrusive light. When switched on, it serves to every law-abiding Swiss as a sacred barrier never to be violated, regardless of the emergency, no matter how urgent.
But bulbs will burn out.
Dr. Hofer now had a male secretary and a greatly increased sympathy for astronauts, Grand Prix pilots, and the like whose lives were constantly exposed to the vagaries of modern technology. After a certain period of introspection, long office hours had to some degree given way to an increased regularity of overnight trips within Europe.
And now because of that damned fog in Paris he was going to face a complete waste of the better part of the twenty-four hours in London which, as so often in the past, he had planned with meticulous care.
He picked up the phone. “Give me Paris, Trocadero 7534, please. This is suite 717–20.”
“I’ll call back, sir.”
At least they could sympathize with each other by phone. He unzipped his bag and sorted out his toilet articles, eleven in all. It was just a short trip. He decided to take a shower and then eat downstairs. After five minutes the phone rang.
“I’m afraid that Trocadero 7534 does not answer, sir.”
“Well, try it again.”
“I’ve dialed three times already to be sure. No one answers.”
“Then cancel the call. One moment, though. Could you now connect me with Zurich, 51–35–94.” He hung up. This time he had the connection immediately. “Martha, this is Walter. I’m at the Savoy and everything is fine,” said Hofer.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” replied his wife. “You know how I always worry about you when you fly. Especially in the fall, when there is so much fog.”
Oh God, thought Hofer. Fog again.
His wife continued: “Walter, are you sure you will come home tomorrow night as planned? You know, you promised. But it seems that every time, something comes up, and then…”
Hofer didn’t really listen any longer. After five minutes or so he finally interjected, “Martha, I’m expecting a call from New York about this time, so I think we had better hang up. I hate to leave you alone so much as a result of these trips, but you know they are simply unavoidable. I’ll try, I promise, to make it home tomorrow.”
“I know, Walter,” replied his wife. “Just don’t work too hard.”
Twenty minutes later he entered the Grill Room. It was very crowded, but the headwaiter, recognizing Hofer though not quite placing him, found a quiet table by the windows in the far corner.
This was probably the third time in ten years that Hofer had dined alone in a public restaurant. But he made the best of it and enjoyed his steak Diane, which, he found, was almost as well prepared as at the Carlton in Brussels. Over coffee, which was certainly not up to Swiss standards, he pored through the Economist. Glancing up, he suddenly noticed two men in an intensive discussion well across the rather large room—men whom he knew quite well.
Damn peculiar! Crosby and Bollinger, alone together in London? He had just seen Bollinger the other day in Basel, and no mention had been made of any special meeting this week. To be sure, as secretary-general of the Bank for International Settlements, Bollinger had to be rather close-lipped. But still. It was also rather funny that he had heard nothing about the American secretary of the treasury being in London right now. Crosby was a type who relished publicity. Evidently this was not a chance meeting. Both were, at times, referring to a document which Crosby had obviously brought with him. Bound in glaring red. Only the Americans would do that.
By now all lingering thoughts about the phone call that had remained unanswered in Paris completely disappeared. Dr. Walter Hofer was trying intensely to calculate the possible significance of the scene he was witnessing across the room. He deliberately tarried over his coffee, even ordering a second cup, something which was by no means in keeping with his usual dining habits.
Finally the pair got up to leave. It was Bollinger, not the American, who now was carrying the red-covered papers. Both appeared extremely solemn.
Fifteen minutes later Hofer was in bed. But the peculiar happening in the Grill Room kept him awake for at least an hour. Something was up.
3
THE next morning at nine on the dot Dr. Walter Hofer stepped into the waiting Rolls. Fifteen minutes later he was in the City. Sir Robert Winthrop was there to greet him at the door of the bank. Bad sign. First a meeting scheduled for nine-thirty, the crack of dawn by City standards, and now the personal touch.
“Walter! So good to see you again. It was extremely kind of you to come over at such short notice.”
“You know it is always a pleasure for me to come to London, Sir Robert,” replied Hofer. “Is David here?”
“Yes. I think we might as well go right up to my office and join him.”
They took the oak-panelled elevator to the fourth floor. Hofer was always infected with more than a touch of envy when he visited this old merchant bank. Everything at Winthrop’s was in such good taste—unplanned taste. In a way it was a pity that such tradition was being wasted on these increasingly incompetent bankers. But at least the people here at Winthrop’s were the best of the lot in London.
A tall gentleman rose to greet Hofer as he entered Sir Robert’s office. It was David Mason, president of the third largest bank in New York. Mason was more than a banker. He was Establishment. A staunch Republican, he had served his government in various posts, most recently on the Cabinet level. Mason had the easy manners of eminently successful men. But when the three men took their chairs at the coffee table, these easy manners immediately gave way to extreme alertness and wariness. The American knew that there was more than a shade of cunning in the apparent superciliousness of Sir Robert. He also knew that the practiced straightforwardness of Dr. Hofer was often a perfect cover for the most deliberate deceit.
Both Europeans shared quite the same opinion regarding their American friend. As experience had so often shown, the glad handshake could be followed by almost naked brutality within minutes. The ever-present American humour was rarely amusing, all the more so since it so often contained deliberate barbs, designed to serve as ill-disguised warnings, or even insults.
In other words, the attitudes in his room were quite typical of those present at so many meetings which bring businessmen from both sides of the Atlantic together. The difference, perhaps, was that these three men had been arm’s-length cronies for almost twenty years. This was not by any means the first time they had met in the rather peculiar office of Sir Robert Winthrop.