'I hear Cordova is a beautiful country,' Augusta said.
Micky prayed Papa would not do anything embarrassing. However, he could be charming when it suited him, and he was now playing the role of romantic South American grandee for Augusta's benefit. 'I can promise you that we would welcome you like the queen you are,' he said in a low voice; and now it was obvious that he was making up to her.
But Augusta was a match for him. 'What an extraordinarily tempting prospect,' she said with a shameless insincerity that went right over Papa's head. Withdrawing her hand from his without missing a beat, she looked over his shoulder and cried: 'Why, Captain Tillotson, how kind of you to come!' And she turned away to greet the latest arrival.
Papa was bereft. It took him a moment to regain his composure. Then he said abruptly: 'Take me to the head of the bank.'
'Certainly,' Micky said nervously. He looked around for old Seth. The entire Pilaster clan was here, including maiden aunts, nephews and nieces, in-laws and second cousins. He recognized a couple of members of Parliament and a sprinkling of lesser nobility. Most of the other guests were business connections, Micky judged--and rivals, too, he thought as he saw the thin, upright figure of Ben Greenbourne, head of Greenbournes Bank, said to be the richest man in the world. Ben was the father of Solomon, the boy Micky had always known as Fatty Greenbourne. They had lost touch since school: Fatty had not studied at a university or done a European tour, but had gone straight into his father's business.
The aristocracy generally thought it vulgar to talk about money, but this group had no such inhibitions, and Micky kept hearing the word 'crash.' In the newspapers it was sometimes spelled 'Krach' because it had started in Austria. Share prices were down and the bank rate was up, according to Edward, who had recently started work at the family bank. Some people were alarmed, but the Pilasters felt confident that London would not be pulled down with Vienna.
Micky took Papa out through the French windows onto the paved terrace, where wooden benches were placed in the shade of striped awnings. There they found old Seth, sitting with a rug over his knees despite the warm spring weather. He was weak from some unspecified illness, and he looked as frail as an eggshell, but he had the Pilaster nose, a big curved blade that made him formidable still.
Another guest was gushing over the old man, saying: 'What a shame you aren't well enough to go to the royal levee, Mr. Pilaster!'
Micky could have told the woman this was the wrong thing to say to a Pilaster.
'On the contrary, I'm glad of the excuse,' Seth harrumphed. 'I don't see why I should bow the knee to people who have never earned a penny in their lives.'
'But the Prince of Wales--such an honor!'
Seth was in no mood to be argued with--indeed he rarely was--and he now said: 'Young lady, the name of Pilaster is an accepted guarantee of honest dealing in corners of the globe where they've never heard of the Prince of Wales.'
'But Mr. Pilaster, you almost sound as if you disapprove of the royal family!' the woman persisted, with a strained attempt at a playful tone.
Seth had not been playful for seventy years. 'I disapprove of idleness,' he said. 'The Bible says, 'If any would not work, neither should he eat.' Saint Paul wrote that, in Second Thessalonians, chapter three, verse ten, and he conspicuously omitted to say that royalty were an exception to the rule.'
The woman retired in confusion. Suppressing a grin, Micky said: 'Mr. Pilaster, may I present my father, Senor Carlos Miranda, who is over from Cordova for a visit.'
Seth shook Papa's hand. 'Cordova, eh? My bank has an office in your capital city, Palma.'
'I go to the capital very little,' Papa said. 'I have a ranch in Santamaria Province.'
'So you're in the beef business.'
'Yes.'
'Look into refrigeration.'
Papa was baffled. Micky explained: 'Someone has invented a machine for keeping meat cold. If they can find a way to install it in ships, we will be able to send fresh meat all over the world without salting it.'
Papa frowned. 'This could be bad for us. I have a big salting plant.'
'Knock it down,' said Seth. 'Go in for refrigeration.'
Papa did not like people telling him what to do, and Micky felt a little anxious. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Edward. 'Papa, I want to introduce you to my best friend,' he said. He managed to ease his father away from Seth. 'Allow me to present Edward Pilaster.'
Papa examined Edward with a cold, clear-eyed gaze. Edward was not good-looking--he took after his father, not his mother--but he looked like a healthy farm boy, muscular and fair-skinned. Late nights and quantities of wine had not taken their toll--not yet, anyway. Papa shook his hand and said: 'You two have been friends for many years.'
'Soul mates,' Edward said.
Papa frowned, not understanding.
Micky said: 'May we talk business for a moment?'
They stepped off the terrace and onto the newly laid lawn. The borders were freshly planted, all raw earth and tiny shrubs. 'Papa has been making some large purchases here, and he needs to arrange shipping and finance,' Micky went on. 'It could be the first small piece of business you bring in to your family bank.'
Edward looked keen. 'I'll be glad to handle that for you,' he said to Papa. 'Would you like to come into the bank tomorrow morning, so that we can make all the necessary arrangements?'
'I will,' said Papa.
Micky said: 'Tell me something. What if the ship sinks? Who loses--us, or the bank?'
'Neither,' Edward said smugly. 'The cargo will be insured at Lloyd's. We would simply collect the insurance money and ship a new consignment to you. You don't pay until you get your goods. What is the cargo, by the way?'
'Rifles.'
Edward's face fell. 'Oh. Then we can't help you.'
Micky was mystified. 'Why?'
'Because of old Seth. He's a Methodist, you know. Well, the whole family is, but he's rather more devout than most. Anyway, he won't finance arms sales, and as he's Senior Partner, that's bank policy.'
'The devil it is,' Micky cursed. He shot a fearful look at his father. Fortunately, Papa had not understood the conversation. Micky had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Surely his scheme could not founder on something as stupid as Seth's religion? 'The damned old hypocrite is practically dead, why should he interfere?'
'He is about to retire,' Edward pointed out. 'But I think Uncle Samuel will take over, and he's the same, you know.'
Worse and worse. Samuel was Seth's bachelor son, fifty-three years old and in perfect health. 'We'll just have to go to another merchant bank,' Micky said.
Edward said: 'That should be straightforward, provided you can give a couple of sound business references.'
'References? Why?'
