Текст книги "The Villiers Touch"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

The old man’s face crinkled in an anguished smile, and he spread his hands in an ancient old-world gesture. “Guilt. In the old days society was work-oriented and success was a measure of denial, self-sacrifice, thrift, hard work, all virtues. Big money used to be the symbol of that kind of achievement-remember Horatio Alger? Wealth was a reward for courage and clean living and hard work. Now wealth is only a symbol of your ability in choosing an accountant smart enough to allow you to dodge taxes. Today money is a prize, not a reward. People play the market because they’ve learned you don’t need to work-you only need luck. They’re out to get something for nothing. They’re gamblers-and they feel guilty because deep down they know they ought to be leaning over a hot sledgehammer to justify all the money they’re trying to make. They’re hagridden with anxieties and guilt-and we’re back to Freud.”

He shook his head in pain. “The human race is the constant victim of congenital idiocy. I have pointed out for fifty years to my clients that a fool and his money rush in where angels disdain to tread-what is it after all but money? Money! Money is useless, literally and actually. If it wasn’t useless you couldn’t use it for money. You see? So money is an abstraction itself, but the stock market is an abstraction once removed-we don’t even work with money, we work with paper arithmetic. We print paper and call it stock, and hang it on the hook end of a line and see if anybody swallows it. Money? It’s not what you have that makes you rich nowadays-it’s what you owe.”

The old man took a breath and began to talk again, but one of his phones rang and he reached for it. Hastings sat still, amused and entertained. The old man’s surgical wit was a good counterpoint against his own feeling of dull lassitude; he enjoyed listening to Cohen’s darting rapier talk.

Cohen finished his phone conversation and turned back to him. “You want to learn about us-you want to learn what the stock market is. You can’t do that, you know-nobody can say what the stock market is. The only thing that can be described is what it was. The only way to anticipate the market is to know how all the people in it are going to behave, and no man alive can do that-oh, I know the big portfolio houses are using computers to analyze the market and make forecasts, but no computer can give an accurate answer on the basis of incomplete inputs, and who can program a computer with every vagary of human neurosis that may affect the market tomorrow? It can’t be done.”

Cohen showed a gentle smile, his face a labyrinth of creases. “This on the phone was one of my oldest clients, a lady who’s been with me forty-one years. We’ve seen a lot together in that time. I almost feel we were around to see the first bulls and bears gather beneath the buttonwood tree on the old Wall Street, where all this madness got its start. I do remember some of the panics after the war-the First World War, that is. I moved into this very office in nineteen-nineteen, and I’ve been here ever since. Of course I have vivid memories of Black Thursday. October the twenty-fourth, nineteen-twenty-nine. The big fellows had gone to the well once too often, and confidence was cracking all over-you’d be amazed how many of us did see it coming, and got out well ahead of the crash. I was out of the market entirely by the end of September, and then I just sat back and watched. You could hear the bear traders’ artillery start to rumble, and the news spread like wildfire-the specialists on the floor were forced to execute whole notebooks full of stop-loss orders at a rate so fast it dumped millions of shares on the market. I was in the arena that day, and you couldn’t believe it. The floor was flooded up to my eyebrows with paper that got cheaper by the minute. Everybody decided to sell, and of course when that happens, there is no market any longer-no such thing as a market, just a junkyard, a dumping ground. And as prices go down, people who hold stock on margin are forced to sell into the new lows to pay off their margins, and that pushes prices down even faster. Once a crash starts, you can’t stop it. Of course, we all pretend Black Thursday was the big one, there’ll never be another like it, but it can happen again, and it very well may. On the twenty-eighth of May in nineteen-sixty-two we had a crash with a paper loss of twenty-one billion dollars in one day’s trading-that was double the loss of Black Thursday, it was the greatest dollar loss of any single day’s trading in the history of Wall Street. There was nothing your SEC boys could do about it-there never will be. And in the meantime we’ve got stocks selling at a hundred times earnings, new issues skyrocketing within twenty-four hours of going public. Do you know what ‘one hundred times earnings’ means? It’s like buying a building for one thousand dollars and being forced to rent it out at ten dollars a year. But people go right on buying it. They’re just crazy. All the golden, beautiful paper profits don’t produce a single new tangible object. There’s no creation here, no productivity, no material advance-only inflation. And now, with our foreign exchange snarled up and our domestic financial policies all out of line with this rate of spending, there’s a very good chance the entire international monetary system will collapse.

“Add it all up, and what do you get? You could easily have a stock-market debacle like nobody’s ever seen before. You’ll see Dow-Jones drop to ground zero. It’ll be like Weimar. The world economy will crumble to powder. It’ll be a blight, a disappearance.”

The old man’s smile was sly. “I paint a grim picture, no? It’s only one side of the coin, you know, but you need to be aware of it. On the other side, what can I say that you don’t know? You can get very rich very fast here, everybody knows that. Right now two new millionaires come into existence for every hour of every working day, did you know that? Six thousand new millionaires in this country every year. Most of them do it in the stock market, and most of them will never get around to spending the fortunes they make. Like me. They don’t enjoy the money-money’s just a symbol of victory down here, nobody actually uses it. There isn’t time. That’s a shame, isn’t it?”

The wistfulness of his tone made Hastings smile. Saul Cohen shook his head. “It makes odd mathematics, I know, but you will find there are more horses’ asses than there are horses.”

“That happens everywhere, Saul-not just down here.”

“We exaggerate it. Take the basics, which nobody stops to think about. A stock is selling at X dollars. Why? What makes it worth X dollars today and X plus two or X minus five tomorrow? The value of a share depends not on its real worth but on what one fool thinks another fool is willing to pay for it. Most often that judgment comes not from rational appraisal but from whispered tips and floating rumors that have less reliability than a tout’s tip at Aqueduct. And the euphemisms, I ask you. Does a broker ever admit the market is falling? No. It makes readjustments, it eases, it makes technical corrections, it retrenches. It never falls.”

“Wall Street’s got no monopoly on rose-colored glasses. When did you last hear a Pentagon general admit we hadn’t won the war in Vietnam?”

“What are you, Russ, a cynic or an optimist?”

It made him grin. “Both. I’m as inconsistent as the next guy. But my job doesn’t include indicting investors because they’re horses’ asses. It’s my job to enforce the full-disclosure provisions of the law. Truth in securities-if there is any such thing. See that nobody manipulates prices. Investigate unusual activity, weed out fraud, nail manipulators. That much I can do, Saul. But I can’t keep people from making fools of themselves. That’s up to them.”

The old man twinkled. “You’ve always been earnest, Russ. But from the champing-at-the-bit look on your face, I doubt you’ve learned the limitations of your power yet. You’re in the most frustrating of professions-they’ll give you a tough job to do, and then they’ll prevent you from doing it. Why? Because the private interests have strong lobbies, and the public doesn’t. If you don’t move fast enough, you’re accused of lying down on the job, and if you do, you’re accused of ruining the whole financial barrel just to get at a couple of rotten apples. How can you win? The best you can do is avoid losing.” The smile was more pained than ever.

Hastings said, “Maybe that’s enough. That’s the world we live in. Nobody tries to win wars anymore, either. You just try to keep from losing them.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Saul Cohen snapped. “All right, then, you’ve got something on your mind. You came to Delphi to consult the oracle, and the oracle has monopolized the conversation. I apologize. What can I do for you?”

Hastings shifted his seat and examined a fingernail; he said, “I believe in intuition, Saul, I always have. And my intuition tells me there’s something stirring in Northeast Consolidated.”

An eyebrow went up; the old man didn’t smile. “Elliot Judd’s organization. Is that why you’re interested?”

“That may be why it attracted my attention.”

“What sort of hints have you found?”

“It’s hard to pin down. There’s a bit of activity, people buying the stock, quite a few Canadian orders and Swiss numbered accounts.”

“But nothing’s happened visibly, has it? I’ve watched the stock-I don’t recall seeing anything queer.”

Hastings said, “If anybody’s maneuvering in the dark, he’s being discreet. But there are dummies buying into it. I want to find out what they’re after and who they’re fronting for.”

The old man rearranged the wrinkles of his face into an agony of thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure I can help. Of course, the market for NCI is so broad, anybody could put half a million dollars into the stock without forcing it-they’re trading twenty, thirty thousand shares a day. So unless there’s a massive manipulation, you won’t see it reflected in the price. And anything less than massive would not be to anyone’s advantage.”

“I thought you might be able to tell me what I ought to be looking for.”

“To know what to look for, you must first know why you’re looking. What do you suspect?”

“Nothing-everything. I don’t know.”

“Do you have any reason to believe someone might challenge Elliot Judd for control? One of the large stockholders, perhaps? Someone who thinks Judd isn’t running the company as well as it should be run? Any indications of a proxy war shaping up?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Have you asked Elliot Judd?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you?”

Hastings said, “I don’t think I ought to upset him unless I’ve got something concrete to show him.”

“It could be a fight for control from inside, you know. If one of the top men in the company wanted to take it over, he might use dummies to buy stock for him, to avoid alerting Judd. Or it might be an outsider.”

“A raider.”

“He’d have to be big. Very big. A Howard Hughes would have trouble buying control of NCI.”

“There are other ways to get control of a company. You don’t have to buy it.”

“Hard to do, with a strong company,” the old man said. “Has it occurred to you there may be dummies buying the stock on behalf of an insider who knows something exciting is going to happen within the company-something that will raise the price of the stock? A new contract, perhaps? An oil discovery?”

“NCI doesn’t deal in oil very much. And as far as I know, they’re not getting ready to announce any big news. That’s what intrigues me. Somebody has a reason to buy big chunks of the stock through front men, and all the reasons I can think of are the ones we’ve just ruled out.”

“Then either one of your assumptions is wrong, or you’ve missed something.”

“Sure,” Hastings said. “I was hoping you’d spot it for me.”

“I’m sorry, my boy. I’m only a broker, not an oracle, after all.” Saul Cohen began to smile; his telephone rang.

Hastings stood up. “I don’t want to kill the rest of your morning,” he said. “The market’s about to open. I’ll see you soon.”

“Take care,” the old man said, flapping a hand at him and reaching for the phone. When Hastings left the office he could hear Saul’s magpie voice chattering gloomily into the telephone.

11. Diane Hastings

When Mason Villiers lifted his lighter to Diane’s cigarette, she drew the smoke slowly into her mouth and kept a rigid, nervous smile on her face: Villiers’ stare unsettled her.

He kept watching her over cognac and demitasse, looking relaxed and at ease, sated after the fine meal. The headwaiter came by, gliding like a cobra; he had greeted Villiers by name and given them a choice table and since then had fawned over them effusively. Diane brought her attention back from that distraction and found Villiers’ eyes on her, his guarded smile repellent and fascinating at once. His magnetism was uncanny. She found it masculine, erotic-and frightening.

He was turning his cigar slowly in the flame of his lighter; his slate eyes studied her, and when he clicked the lighter shut he said, “You’ve had time to think it over. What do you say?”

“I haven’t decided. It’s short notice-I’m honestly not sure. Not yet.”

“It’s the sensible thing for you to do. All the new stock issues are drawing investors like flies. Last week nine companies went public, and seven of them closed Friday at premiums more than a point above the offering price. One of them shot up seven dollars. If you go public and price your shares at ten dollars, they’ll probably be selling for fifteen before you know it.”

“It sounds attractive,” she said. “I admit that. But I can’t help wondering what your angle is.”

His smile seemed genuinely amused. “Does everybody have to have six fingers, Diane?”

“I can hardly ignore your reputation, can I?”

“I know you don’t approve of me-is it bad form to notice? But you’d be smart not to judge a case by its advocate.”

“Really?”

“I’ve told you what I stand to gain by it. I’ll go over it again, if it will help. I undertake to write the Nuart tickets, take care of preparing your prospectus, arranging to have the issue underwritten, all those details. In return I get an option on a specified number of your shares at the offering price, exercisable for three months, and I’ll also want use of a portion of your capitalization to trade into other companies. Look, I’ve developed a Jesse James reputation, and it’s hard for me to make trades in my own name-nobody wants to sell to me. I need companies to front for me. I’m being honest about this, you see. But you’ve got to understand the contracts will be drawn up so that you’ll have absolute control of Nuart at all times. You’ll have your own lawyers go over every step of it and make sure it’s set up in such a way that I can’t possibly get control away from you. You’ll retain an absolute majority of voting stock in your possession.”

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“I should-I’ve argued with enough of them. But I’m trying to lay it out without legalese double-talk. Your lawyers will examine everything. If they find anything at all to object to, you can withdraw anytime without losses. I’ll even pay the legal fees. You want to know what I’m getting out of it? Easy. I can raise capital to buy into any company, but it can be messy and costly-a lot of money gets eaten up in taxes. But if I buy in through a corporation-through Nuart-then the picture changes completely. When one company buys another, it can be reported as a pooling of interests. A merger. The buyer’s assets don’t have to reflect the cost of purchase, which would reduce his reportable profits, and he doesn’t have to pay any tax on the exchange of stock-Does this bore you?”

“No. It does confuse me. You’re handling me with kid gloves. The smile on the face of the tiger. You’re clever, Mason-I’m not. You’re an astute judge of weakness, and I can’t escape feeling you’re putting something over on me.”

“Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you? Isn’t it the way you work? Caveat emptor?”

“I’m not selling you a bill of goods, Diane. What do I have to do to convince you?”

She inspected him coolly. His suit displayed its good London tailoring, if a bit showy-he tended to wear his money on his lapels, but that hint of crudity was attractive in its way; it set off his magnetic power. He was like a natural force, not possible to control; like a volatile explosive. He surrounded himself with an electric aura of excitement-violence held precariously in check.

She pursed her lips. “Granting it’s the wise thing for me to do at this point-going public-what makes you think I won’t just take the idea to my father and let him handle it for me?”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You never have. You could have done that anywhere along the line, from the time you opened your first gallery on Third Avenue. But you didn’t. You’ve got too much pride-your ambition’s too personal, too private. I get the feeling somewhere along the line you decided you had to prove you were just as good a man as your father.”

“That’s silly. I’m not competing with my father.”

“Aren’t you?”

He let it drop softly between them and hang in the air until she heard herself utter a brief and unconvincing nervous laugh. Villiers said, “I don’t know anything about your ex-husband, but from what I hear, you had to choose between him and your business, and you chose the business. Doesn’t that suggest an unusual sort of drive?”

“That’s ridiculous. Russ and I broke up for a lot of reasons that were far too complex for you to boil down into half a dozen words. Maybe we were just two incompatible people-it happens.”

“It happens,” he agreed. “But not everybody’s father is Elliot Judd. And not every daughter of a billionaire has to prove she can succeed in business on her own, without her daddy’s help.”

“Where did you come across all this cockeyed information about me?”

“I never go into things blindfolded,” he said. “I know a great deal about you. Enough to be sure you won’t take the proposition to your father. You’ll do it with me or not at all. You may turn me down, but you won’t take it behind my back-and particularly you’ll never take it to him.”

“You’re so damned sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I learned a long time ago that only a fool goes into anything without doing his homework.” He turned his hand over and gave her a brief hard smile.

Her apartment was on the eleventh floor of a high-ceilinged old building on East 61st Street, a co-op occupied mainly by presidents of insurance companies, banks, and industries. An elderly starched doorman leaped to open the door of Villiers’ limousine when it eased in at the curb. An elevator boy in white gloves whisked them up the eleven stories in a fast, silent elevator, and Diane stood at her foyer door with key in hand, hesitating, not wanting to admit him.

Looking at him, she saw how fragile was her standard New York armor-the defense of brittle sophistication which, to a man like him, was no defense at all.

He gripped both her arms and turned her to face him. “Invite me in for a nightcap.”

“I don’t wear nightcaps, Mason.”

“I see. And that’s all there is to it?” He smiled slightly, and she felt the pressure of his hands drawing her toward him. She said sharply, “Please, Mason.”

“You’re a bit glacial tonight, aren’t you? You know damn well you’re a beautiful woman, desirable. We’re not adolescent kids-do you really need to have me start breathing hard and whispering sweet nothings to you?”

His hard hands were against her arms. She had a swift, sudden vision of two figures on a bed, clutching at each other-it was what she wanted; it was what she feared. She stiffened; she said, “Damn it, this city’s packed full of women that want a man. Any man. Do you have to force yourself on me?”

“You’re not just any woman.”

“Please, Mason. Don’t. You’d be wasting your time, and I’d rather not disappoint you.”

“I’ll take that chance. I’ve always-”

“Damn it, what I have to tell you is difficult enough without your impatience. I’m no good in bed. Do you understand?”

Her eyes went wide; her breath stopped in her throat.

Mason Villiers said, “Do you think I can’t arouse you?”

“Mason, please, for heaven’s sake. Do you know how hard this is for me?”

She lifted her hands and pushed his arms away, and backed up against the door, feeling the hot rush of blood to her face. “Please,” she whispered, shaking her head.

He nodded slowly. “All right.” His voice was gentle enough, but his face had closed up. He turned to the elevator and pushed the button.

She clutched her arms and stared at his wide, flat back in miserable silence. He didn’t stir. The elevator came, the doors slid open, and he stepped in.

She took a pace forward. “Mason?”

He turned to regard her with a calm air of cold, arrogant disdain.

She said in a small voice, “Go ahead and start the arrangements to incorporate.”

He nodded his head an inch. “Thank you,” he said with precise courtesy, and watched her, unblinking, while the elevator doors slid shut, cutting him off from her view.

She went through the apartment turning on lights, and sat down on the living-room couch with a cigarette. She had a sudden impulse to run from the empty apartment and rush into one of the crowded bars on Second Avenue.

She was halfway to the door before she stopped and went slowly back to the couch. She could just see herself sitting in a bar, trying not to look like a pickup, fighting off men who knew of no other reason why a woman alone should come into a bar. In her strong moments she was fully capable of turning a slow burning stare on a man that would send him hurrying away, shaking his head defensively; but right now she didn’t have the courage to look a man in the face.

She said sternly, aloud, “I am not going to crack up. I absolutely refuse to crack up. It’s ridiculous-it’s absurd. I won’t!”

She went into the bedroom, drew the blinds and draperies, and removed her clothes, putting them away with care. She sat down naked at the dressing table and fluffed her hair, watching critically in the mirror.

Lamplight on the pale blue walls depressed her; she resolved to have the room repainted. She went into the bathroom and turned on the tub faucets, and walked through the apartment to the bar, where she poured half a tumbler of straight gin over two ice cubes; carrying the drink, she went around switching off lights, checked the bolt at the front door, and came back to the bathroom in time to shut off the water. She closed the bathroom door, glanced at her expressionless face in the mirror, and stepped into the steaming tub; she took a long swallow of gin, set the glass on the rim of the tub, and lay back in the hot water, thinking about nothing in particular; and then she slowly became aware of the tingling in her breasts, the vaginal tautness, the generation of hidden excitement that made her feel shamed and sick with loathing, knowing she would spend a little while pretending it wasn’t there, and a little while more hoping it would go away, and a little while more massaging her hardened nipples while a protective cloak of serenity would seem to descend around her, and in the end she would promise she would never let it happen again, but she would begin to rub herself with her fingers until she reached that terrible guilty, lonely climax.