He had agreed to meet the Dunstone company man this way, but he hoped his tone of voice had conveyed his annoyance. He had been perfectly willing to take a taxi, or rent a car, or hire a chauffeur, if any or all were necessary, but if Dunstone was sending an automobile for him, why not send it to the Savoy? It wasn’t that he minded the walk; he just hated to meet people in automobiles in the middle of congested streets. It was a goddamn nuisance.
The Dunstone man had had a short, succinct explanation that was, for the Dunstone man, the only reason necessary—for all things: «Mr. Julian Warfield prefers it this way.»
He spotted the automobile immediately. It had to be Dunstone’s—and/or Warfield’s. A St. James Rolls-Royce, its glistening black, hand-tooled body breaking space majestically, anachronistically, among the petrol-conscious Austins, MGs, and European imports. He waited on the curb, ten feet from the crosswalk onto the bridge. He would not gesture or acknowledge the slowly approaching Rolls. He waited until the car stopped directly in front of him, a chauffeur driving, the rear window open.
«Mr. McAuliff?» said the eager, young-old face in the frame.
«Mr. Warfield?» asked McAuliff, knowing that this fiftyish, precise-looking executive was not.
«Good heavens, no. The name’s Preston. Do hop in; I think we’re holding up the line.»
«Yes, you are.» Alex got into the backseat as Preston moved over. The Englishman extended his hand.
«It’s a pleasure. I’m the one you’ve been talking to on the telephone.»
«Yes … Mr. Preston.»
«I’m really very sorry for the inconvenience, meeting like this. Old Julian has his quirks, I’ll grant you that.»
McAuliff decided he might have misjudged the Dunstone man. «It was a little confusing, that’s all. If the object was precautionary—for what reason I can’t imagine—he picked a hell of a car to send.»
Preston laughed. «True. But then, I’ve learned over the years that Warfield, like God, moves in mysterious ways that basically are quite logical. He’s really all right. You’re having lunch with him, you know.»
«Fine. Where?»
«Belgravia.»
«Aren’t we going the wrong way?»
«Julian and God—basically logical, chap.»
The St. James Rolls crossed Waterloo, proceeded south to the Cut, turned left until Blackfriars Road, then left again, over Blackfriars Bridge and north into Holborn. It was a confusing route.
Ten minutes later the car pulled up to the entrance canopy of a white stone building with a brass plate to the right of the glass double doors that read SHAFTESBURY ARMS. The doorman pulled at the handle and spoke jovially.
«Good afternoon, Mr. Preston.»
«Good afternoon, Ralph.»
McAuliff followed Preston into the building, to a bank of three elevators in the well-appointed hallway. «Is this Warfield’s place?» he asked, more to pass the moment than to inquire.
«No, actually. It’s mine. Although I won’t be joining you for lunch. However, I trust cook implicitly; you’ll be well taken care of.»
«I won’t try to follow that. ‘Julian and God.’»
Preston smiled noncommittally as the elevator door opened.
Julian Warfield was talking on the telephone when Preston ushered McAuliff into the tastefully—elegantly—decorated living room. The old man was standing by an antique table in front of a tall window overlooking Belgrave Square. The size of the window, flanked by long white drapes, emphasized Warfield’s shortness. He is really quite a small man, thought Alex as he acknowledged Warfield’s wave with a nod and a smile.
«You’ll send the accrual statistics on to Macintosh, then,» said Warfield deliberately into the telephone; he was not asking a question. «I’m sure he’ll disagree, and you can both hammer it out. Good-bye.» The diminutive old man replaced the receiver and looked over at Alex. «Mr. McAuliff, is it?» Then he chuckled. «That was a prime lesson in business. Employ experts who disagree on just about everything and take the best arguments from both for a compromise.»
«Good advice generally, I’d say,» replied McAuliff. «As long as the experts disagree on the subject matter and not just chemically.»
«You’re quick. I like that… Good to see you.» Warfield crossed to Preston. His walk was like his speech: deliberate, paced slowly. Mentally confident, physically unsure. «Thank you for the use of your flat, Clive. And Virginia, of course. From experience, I know the lunch will be splendid.»
«Not at all, Julian. I’ll be off.»
McAuliff turned his head sharply, without subtlety, and looked at Preston. The man’s first-name familiarity with old Warfield was the last thing he expected. Clive Preston smiled and walked rapidly out of the room as Alex watched him, bewildered.
«To answer your unspoken questions,» said Warfield, «although you have been speaking with Preston on the telephone, he is not with Dunstone, Limited, Mr. McAuliff.»
Alexander turned back to the diminutive businessman. «Whenever I phoned the Dunstone offices for you, I had to give a number for someone to return the call—»
«Always within a few minutes,» interrupted Warfield. «We never kept you waiting; that would have been rude. Whenever you telephoned—four times, I believe—my secretary informed Mr. Preston. At his offices.»
«And the Rolls at Waterloo was Preston’s,» said Alex.
«Yes.»
«So if anyone was following me, my business is with Preston. Has been since I’ve been in London.»
«That was the object.»
«Why?»
«Self-evident, I should think. We’d rather not have anyone know we’re discussing a contract with you. Our initial call to you in New York stressed that point, I believe.»
«You said it was confidential. Everyone says that. If you meant it to this degree, why did you even use the name of Dunstone?»
«Would you have flown over otherwise?»
McAuliff thought for a moment. A week of skiing in Aspen notwithstanding, there had been several other projects. But Dunstone was Dunstone, one of the largest corporations in the international market. «No, I probably wouldn’t have.»
«We were convinced of that. We knew you were about to negotiate with I.T.T. about a little matter in southern Germany.»
Alex stared at the old man. He couldn’t help but smile. «That, Mr. Warfield, was supposed to be as confidential as anything you might be considering.»
Warfield returned the good humor. «Then we know who deals best in confidence, don’t we? I.T.T. is patently obvious… Come, we’ll have a drink, then lunch. I know your preference: Scotch with ice. Somewhat more ice than I think is good for the system.»
The old man laughed softly and led McAuliff to a mahogany bar across the room. He made drinks rapidly, his ancient hands moving deftly, in counterpoint to his walk. «I’ve learned quite a bit about you, Mr. McAuliff. Rather fascinating.»
«I heard someone was asking around.»
They were across from one another, in armchairs. At McAuliff’s statement, Warfield took his eyes off his glass and looked sharply, almost angrily, at Alex. «I find that hard to believe.»
«Names weren’t used, but the information reached me. Eight sources. Five American, two Canadian, one French.»
«Not traceable to Dunstone.» Warfield’s short body seemed to stiffen; McAuliff understood that he had touched an exposed nerve.
«I said names weren’t mentioned.»
«Did you use the Dunstone name in any ensuing conversations? Tell me the truth, Mr. McAuliff.»
«There’d be no reason not to tell you the truth,» answered Alex, a touch disagreeably. «No, I did not.»
«I believe you.»
«You should.»
«If I didn’t, I’d pay you handsomely for your time and suggest you return to America and take up with I.T.T.»