The mystery was in East London, but that was about all Bertie knew. He had heard an all-cars alert, but the subsequent message had been uninformative: the cars were asked to look out for a plain blue van with a certain registration number. It might simply have been hijacked with a cargo of cigarettes, or it might be driven by someone the police wanted to question, or it might have been in a robbery. The word 'Obadiah' had been used; Bertie did not know why. Immediately after the alert, three cars had been detached from regular patrol to search for the van. That meant very little.
The fuss might be over nothing at all-perhaps even some Flying Squad inspector's runaway wife; Bertie had known it to happen. On the other hand, it could be big. He was waiting for more information.
The landlady came up while he was cleaning his frying pan with warm water and a rag. He dried his hands on his sweater and got out the rent book. Mrs. Keeney, in an apron and curlers, stared in awe at the radio equipment, although she saw it every week.
Bertie gave her the money and she signed the book. Then she handed him a letter.
'I don't know why you don't have some nice music on,' she said.
He smiled. He had not told her what he used the radio for, as it was against the law to listen to police radio. 'I'm not very musical,' he said.
She shook her head resignedly, and went out. Bertie opened the letter. It was his monthly check from the Evening Post. He had had a good spell: the check was for five hundred pounds. Bertie paid no tax. He found it difficult to spend all his money. The job compelled him to live fairly simply. He spent every evening in pubs, and on Sundays he went out in the car, his one luxury, a bright new Ford Capri. He went to all sorts of places, like a tourist: he had been to Canterbury Cathedral, Windsor Castle, Beaulieu, St. Albans, Bath, Oxford; he visited safari parks, stately homes, ancient monuments, historic towns, race-tracks, and funfairs with equal enjoyment. He had never had so much money in his life. There was enough to buy everything he wanted, and a little left over to save.
He put the check in a drawer and finished cleaning the frying pan. As he was putting it away the radio crackled, and a sixth sense told him to listen carefully.
'That's right, blue Bedford six-wheeler. Alpha Charlie London two oh three Mother. Has it what? Distinguishing marks? Yes, if you look inside you'll notice it has a most unusual feature-six large boxes of used notes.'
Bertie frowned. The radio operator at headquarters was being funny, obviously; but what he said implied that the missing van was carrying a large sum of money. That sort of van did not go missing accidentally. It must have been hijacked.
Bertie sat down at his table and picked up the phone.
19
Felix Laski and Nathaniel Fett stood up when Derek Hamilton entered the room. Laski, the would-be buyer, and Hamilton, the vendor, shook hands briefly, like boxers before a fight. Laski realized with a shock that he and Hamilton were wearing identical suits: dark blue with a pinstripe. They even had the same six-button double- breasted jacket without vents. But Hamilton's gross body took away any elegance the style had. On him, the most beautiful suit would look like a length of cloth wrapped around a jelly. Laski knew, without looking in a mirror, that his own suit appeared to be much more expensive.
He told himself not to feel superior. The wrong attitude could ruin a negotiation. He said: 'Nice to see you again, Hamilton.'
Hamilton nodded. 'How do you do, Mr. Laski?' The chair squeaked as he sat down.
The use of 'Mr.' did not escape Laski. Hamilton would only employ the unadorned surname with his equals.
Laski crossed his legs and waited for Fett, the broker, to open the proceedings. He studied Hamilton out of the corner of his eye. The man might have been handsome in his youth, he decided: he had a high forehead, a straight nose, and bright blue eyes. Right now he looked relaxed, with his hands folded in his lap. Laski thought: He has made up his mind already.
Fett said: 'For the record, Derek owns five hundred and ten thousand shares in Hamilton Holdings, Limited, a public company. Another four hundred and ninety thousand are owned by various parties, and there are no unissued shares. Mr. Laski, you offer to buy those five hundred and ten thousand shares for the sum of one million pounds, on condition the deed of sale is dated today and signed at twelve noon.'
'Or that a letter to that intent is so dated and signed.'
'Quite so.'
Laski tuned out as Fett continued to enunciate formalities in a dry monotone. He was thinking that Hamilton probably deserved to lose his wife. A woman as vivacious and highly sexed as Ellen was entitled to a full-blooded love life: her husband had no right to let himself run to seed.
Here I am, he thought, stealing the man's wife and taking away his life's work, and still he can make me squirm by calling me Mister.
'As I see it,' Fett was concluding, 'the deal can be done just as Mr. Laski has outlined it. The documents are satisfactory. There remains only the larger question of whether, and under what conditions, Derek will sell.' He sat back with the air of one who has completed a ritual.
Hamilton looked at Laski. 'What are your plans for the group?' he asked.
Laski suppressed a sigh. There was no point to any kind of cross-examination. He was quite free to tell Hamilton a pack of lies. He did just that. 'The first step would be a large capital injection,' he said. 'Then an improvement in management services, a shakeout at top level in the operating companies, and some streamlining in low-performance sectors.' Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but if Hamilton wanted to read the script from the top, Laski was happy to go along with it.
'You've chosen a crucial moment at which to make your offer.'
'Not really,' Laski said. 'The oil well, if it happens, will be a bonus. What I'm buying is a fundamentally sound group which is going through a bad patch. I shall make it profitable without meddling with its infrastructure. That happens to be my particular talent.' He smiled self-consciously. 'Despite my reputation, I'm interested in running real industries, not trading in equities.'
He caught a hostile glance from Fett: the broker knew he was lying. 'So why the twelve o'clock deadline?'
'I think the price of Hamilton shares will go up unreasonably if you get the license. This could be my last chance for some time of buying at a sensible price.'
'Fair enough,' Hamilton said, taking the initiative away from Fett. 'But I, too, have set a deadline. How do you feel about that?'
'Quite happy,' Laski lied. In truth he was desperately worried. Hamilton's wish to see the money 'in his hand' at the time the deal was signed was unexpected. Laski had planned to pay a deposit today and the balance when final contracts were exchanged. But although Hamilton's stipulation was eccentric, it was perfectly reasonable. Once the letter had been signed Laski was able to trade in the shares, either selling them or using them to raise a loan. What he planned was to use the shares-at their oil-inflated price-to raise the money to pay for the original purchase.
But he had fallen into the pit he had dug. He had tempted Hamilton with a fast deal, and the old man had gone for it too well. Laski did not know what he was going to do, for he did not have a million pounds-he would have been scraping the barrel for the one-hundred-thousand deposit. But he did know what he was not going to do: he would not let this deal slip through his fingers.
'Quite happy,' he repeated.
Fett said: 'Derek, perhaps now is the time you and I should have a few minutes together-'
'I don't think so,' Hamilton interrupted. 'Unless you plan to tell me that this deal is riddled with pitfalls?'
'Not at all.'
'In that case'-Hamilton turned to Laski-'I accept.'
Laski stood up and shook Hamilton's hand. The fat man was mildly embarrassed by the gesture, but it was one Laski believed in. Men like Hamilton could always find escape clauses in a contract, but they could not bear to renege on a handshake.
