his cigar on a large glass ashtray. 'Where does it get us?'
Cole summed up. 'Cox and Laski blackmail Fitzpeterson. Fitzpeterson tries to kill himself. Cox does a raid. Laski goes bust.' He shrugged. 'There's something going on.'
'What do you want to do?'
'Find out. Isn't that what we're here for?'
The editor got up and went to the window, as if to make time in which to consider. He made a small adjustment to his blinds, and the room became slightly brighter. Slats of sunshine appeared on the rich blue carpet, picking out the sculptured pattern. He returned to his desk and sat down.
'No,' he said. 'We're going to leave it, and I'm going to tell you why. One: we can't predict the collapse of a bank, because our prediction on its own would be enough to cause that collapse. Just to ask questions about the bank's viability would set the City all a-tremble.
'Two: we can't try to detect the perpetrators of a currency raid. That's the police force's job. Anyway, anything we discover can't be printed for fear of prejudicing a trial. I mean, if we know it's Tony Cox, the police must know; and the law says that if we know an arrest is imminent or likely, the story becomes sub judice.
'Three: Tim Fitzpeterson is not going to die. If we blunder around London asking about his sex life, before you know it there will be questions in Parliament about Evening Post reporters scouring the country for dirt on politicians. We leave that sort of thing to the Sunday rags.'
He laid his hands on his desk, palms down. 'Sorry, boys.'
Cole got up. 'Okay, let's get back to work.'
The three journalists left. When they got back to the newsroom, Kevin Hart said: 'If he was editor of The Washington Post, Nixon would still be winning elections on a law-and-order ticket.'
Nobody laughed.
THREE P.M.
29
'I have Smith and Bernstein for you, Mr. Laski.'
'Thank you, Carol. Put him on. Hello, George?'
'Felix, how are you?'
Laski put a smile into his voice. It was not easy. 'On top of the world. Has your service improved any?' George Bernstein played tennis.
'Not a bit. You know I was teaching George junior to play?'
'Yes.'
'Now he beats me.'
Laski laughed. 'And how's Rachel?'
'No thinner. We were talking about you last night. She said you ought to be married. I said: 'Didn't you know? Felix is gay.' She said: 'Gay? So why can't happy people be married?' I said: 'No, I mean he's a homosexual, Rachel.' She dropped her knitting. She believed me, Felix! Would you credit it?'
Laski forced another laugh. He was not sure how much longer he could keep this up. 'I'm thinking about it, George.'
'Marriage? Don't do it! Don't do it! Is that what you called to say?'
'No, that's just a little thought hovering around in the back of my mind.'
'So what can I tell you?'
'It's a little thing. I want a million pounds for twenty-four hours, and I thought I'd put the business your way.' Laski held his breath.
There was a short silence. 'A million. For how long has Felix Laski been in the money market?'
'Since I found out how to make a real profit overnight.'
'Let me in on the secret, will you?'
'All right. After you lend me the money. No kidding, George: can you do it?'
'Sure we can. What's your collateral?'
'Uh-surely you don't normally ask for collateral against twenty-four-hour money?' Laski's fist tightened on the phone until the knuckles bulged whitely.
'You're right. And we don't normally lend sums like this to banks like yours.'
'Okay. My collateral is five hundred and ten thousand shares in Hamilton Holdings.'
'Just a minute.'
There was a silence. Laski pictured George Bernstein: a thickset man with a large head, a big nose, and a permanent broad grin, sitting at an old desk in a poky office with a view of St. Paul's, checking figures in The Financial Times, his fingers playing lightly over the keys of a desktop computer.
Bernstein came back on the line. 'At today's price it's not nearly enough, Felix.'
'Oh, come on, this is a formality. You know I'm not going to screw you. This is me-Felix-your friend.' He wiped his brow with his sleeve.
'I'd like to do it, but I've got a partner.'
'Your partner is sleeping so heavily there's a rumor he's dead.'
'A deal like this would wake him if he was in his grave. Try Larry Wakely, Felix. He might do something for you.'
Laski had already tried Larry Wakely, but he did not say so. 'I will. How about a game this weekend?'
'Love to!' The relief in Bernstein's voice was obvious. 'Saturday morning at the club?'
'Ten pounds a game?'
'It'll break my heart to take your money.'
'Look forward to it. Good-bye, George.'
'Take care.'
Laski closed his eyes for a moment, letting the phone dangle from his hand. He had known that Bernstein would not lend him the money: he was just trying anything now. He rubbed his face with his fingers. He was not beaten yet.
He depressed the cradle and got a purring tone. He dialed with a chewed pencil.
The number rang for a long time. Laski was about to dial again when it answered. 'Department of Energy.'
'Press Office,' Laski said.
'Trying to connect you.'
Another woman's voice. 'Press Office.'
'Good afternoon,' Laski said. 'Can you tell me when the Secretary of State is going to make the announcement about the oil-'
'The Secretary of State has been delayed,' the woman interrupted. 'Your news desk has been told, and there is a full explanation on the PA wire.' She hung up.
Laski sat back in his chair. He was running scared, and he did not like it. It was his role to dominate situations such as this: he liked to be the only one in the know, the manipulator who had everyone else running around trying to figure out what was going on. Going cap in hand to moneylenders was not his style.
The phone rang again. Carol said: 'A Mr. Hart on the line.'
'Am I supposed to know him?'
'No, but he says it's in connection with the money the Cotton Bank needs.'
'Put him on. Hello, Laski here.'
'Good afternoon, Mr. Laski.' It was the voice of a young man. 'I'm Kevin Hart of the Evening Post.'
Laski was startled. 'I thought she said-Never mind.'
'The money the Cotton Bank needs. Yes, well, a bank in trouble needs money, doesn't it?'
Laski said: 'I don't think I want to talk to you, young man.'
Before Laski could hang up, Hart said: 'Tim Fitzpeterson.'
