Timothy's game

“Yeah, I met her.”

“And what do you think?”

“Off the wall.”

“Yes,” Trale says sorrowfully, “that’s what other young men thought-but John Dempster saw something in her. She’s really a dear, loving woman, Mr. Cone. When my wife was ill, she couldn’t do enough for us. I’ll be eternally grateful. John saw that side of her-the warm affection, the innocent openness. Yes, he married the boss’s daughter, but there was more to it than that. I may be a foolish old romantic, but I’ve always thought that he loved her and married her for the qualities he knew he himself lacked: sympathy, sweet naivete, absolute honesty.”

“But it was also a financial leg up for him.”

“Of course. A year after the marriage, the company became Dempster-Torrey-notice that his name came first! — and he started his campaign of acquisitions and mergers, diversifying into areas that had nothing to do with our original business. I went along for the ride, and what a ride it turned out to be!”

“How did this Sanford Torrey like what Dempster was doing?”

“He and his wife were killed in a plane crash a few years after John Dempster began putting the conglomerate together. It turned out that Sanford had left everything he owned, including a majority interest in Dempster-Torrey, to Teresa. But I guess he had some reservations about John Dempster, because he tied up his daughter’s inheritance in a trust fund that J.J. couldn’t touch. But he didn’t have to be afraid of Teresa being left destitute. John took the company public, and it tripled the value of the trust. Provision has been made for the three sons, but she is still a very, very wealthy woman.”

Cone stirs restlessly. “This is all interesting, Mr. Trale. Good background stuff. But it really doesn’t cut any mustard with what I’m supposed to be doing-finding out who’s behind the eighteen cases of industrial sabotage to Dempster-Torrey plants and equipment.”

Unexpectedly, Trale smiles. “Those accidents,” he says, “they infuriated J.J., but I never could see that they were such a big deal. Every large corporation suffers the same outrages occasionally. But John thought there was a plot against us.”

“You don’t think so?”

“It’s possible, but I doubt it. Insurance covered most of our losses, and they never affected our basic financial structure.”

“Did your common stock drop after each of the incidents?”

“Oh, sure. But it came right back up again.”

“And what’s happened to the stock since Dempster’s murder?”

The little man pulls a face. “Not good,” he says. “I estimate the total value of our common stock has dropped about thirty percent since his death.”

“Still falling?”

“It seems to have stabilized the last few days. Wall Street is waiting to see who’ll be named the new CEO.”

Timothy punches out his cigarette and takes a deep breath. “Mr. Trale, I’m going to throw a wild idea at you. It’s something I’ve been kicking around ever since I was handed this file. I gotta tell you, I haven’t got any hard evidence. But you have a helluva lot more business savvy than I do, so I’d like to get your reaction.”

“All right,” the CFO says mildly, “let’s hear your idea.”

“Suppose, just suppose, some corporate raider wants to make a move on Dempster-Torrey. He’s got to-”

“Whoa!” Trale protests, putting up a white palm. “Hold your horses. You’re talking about a takeover of almost three billion dollars. That’s billion, with a capital B.”

“I know that,” Cone says patiently. “And I could name you a dozen pirates-American, English, Australian-who could raise that kind of loot. What if some takeover bandit gets the bright idea that he can force down the price of Dempster-Torrey stock and cut the cost of the raid? So before he starts buying, he engineers a program of industrial sabotage, figuring that he’s saving money every time Dempster-Torrey stock dips even a point.”

“Assuming what you say is true, it didn’t work. As I told you, Mr. Cone, the price of the stock didn’t decline that much following the incidents, and it came right back up again.”

The Wall Street dick stares at him.

Simon Trale returns the stare, then begins biting at his thumbnail. “I see what you’re getting at,” he says, his voice suddenly bleak. “The acts of sabotage didn’t have the desired effect, so the corporate raider, if he exists, murdered John J. Dempster.”

“Had him murdered. I know a little about violent crime, Mr. Trale, and Dempster’s death had all the earmarks of a contract kill. Two wackos on a motorcycle with a submachine gun. They were hired hands. And it worked. You just told me the total value of Dempster-Torrey common stock has dropped about thirty percent. What a bonanza for some bandido who’s after your company.”

“Wait a minute,” Trale says, visibly upset. “First of all, about two years ago we restructured the corporation to make a takeover extremely difficult and expensive. Since then I’ve heard absolutely nothing about anyone making a move on us.”

“The wife is always the last to know,” Cone says, but the other man ignores that.

“Second, if anyone has accumulated even five percent of Dempster-Torrey stock, he’d have to file with the SEC informing them of the purchase and stating his intentions.”

Cone pauses to light another cigarette. “Come on, Mr. Trale,” he says, “you know better than that. Let’s say four rich outlaws are sitting around a ginmill somewhere, having a few snorts, and one of them says, ‘Hey, what say we put the XYZ Corporation into play.’ So they all agree to have a fling. Each man will pick up four percent of XYZ’s stock, so no SEC statement has to be filed-correct? But between them they’ll be holding sixteen percent. In addition to that, they’ll tip off some friendly arbitrageurs to start buying XYZ. And all this time they’re trading as individuals. There’s nothing on paper to show they’re working in cahoots. That’ll come later when they figure they’ve got the muscle to make their move. Then it’s goodbye XYZ.”

“A very imaginative scenario, Mr. Cone,” the CFO says worriedly.

“But possible-isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s possible.”

“Damned right. It’s been done before and it’ll be done again.”

“And you think that is what’s happening to Dempster-Torrey?”

“I don’t know,” Cone says. “I told you it’s just a theory. But I can’t spot any holes in it-can you?”

“I just can’t believe that any corporate raider would murder Dempster just to inflate his profits.”

“You can’t believe it because you’re a moral man with no more than a normal share of greed. But believe me, there are guys on the Street who’ll run a bulldozer over their grandma to make a buck.”

Trale is silent. Suddenly he looks even smaller, shrunken and defeated. “Maybe I should retire,” he says in a low voice. “Jack Dempster played rough, and I went along with him. That was business. But murder? Never! I get the feeling that the world has passed me by. I don’t recognize it anymore. I’ve become obsolete.”

“Nah,” Timothy says, reaching out to pat the little man’s shoulder. “You’re not obsolete, and you’re not going to resign. I need your help.”

“Yes?” Trale says, looking up. “What can I do?”

“You have contacts on Wall Street?”

“Of course. A lot of them. … Oh, I understand. You want me to find out if there are any rumors about an attempted takeover of Dempster-Torrey.”

“Right,” Cone says approvingly. “I’ve got a few snitches myself, but nothing like what a man in your position must have.”

It buoys Trale, and he straightens up in his chair, squares his shoulders. “Yes,” he says, “I can do that. I have a number of chits out on the Street, and I’ll call them in.”

“Just what I was hoping you’d say. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Not long. Probably by tomorrow.”

“Good enough. You’ll let me know?”

“Of course. As soon as I have anything definite-for or against.”

“Thanks,” Cone says. “Now I’ve got a couple of more short questions and then I’ll let you off the hook. You