Paper Money Page 17

  "Um--of course not."

  Something in the reporter's voice told Laski he had struck a chord of fear. He pressed the point home. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, young man, but if I hear any more about all this nonsense, I'll know from where the rumors originated."

  Hart said: "What is your relationship with Tony Cox?"

  "Who? Good-bye, young man." Laski put the phone down.

  He looked at his wristwatch: it was a quarter past three. There was no way he could raise a million pounds in fifteen minutes. It looked as if it was all over.

  The bank was going to go under; Laski's reputation was to be destroyed; and he would probably be involved in criminal proceedings. He contemplated leaving the country, this afternoon. He would be able to take nothing with him. Start all over again, in New York or Beirut? He was too old. If he stayed, he would be able to salvage enough from his empire to live on for the rest of his life. But what the hell kind of a life would it be?

  He swiveled around in his chair and looked out of the window. The day was cooling; after all, it was not summer. The high buildings of the City were casting long shadows, and both sides of the street below were shaded. Laski watched the traffic and thought about Ellen Hamilton.

  Today, of all days, he had decided to marry her. It was a painful irony. For twenty years he could have had his pick of women: models, actresses, debs, even princesses. And when at last he chose one, he went broke. A superstitious man would take that as a sign that he should not marry.

  The option might no longer be open to him. Felix Laski, millionaire playboy, was one thing; Felix Laski, bankrupt ex-convict, was quite another. He was sure his relationship with Ellen was not the kind of love that could survive that level of disaster. Their love was a sensual, self-indulgent, hedonistic thing, quite different from the eternal devotion of the Book of Common Prayer.

  At least, that was how it always had been. Laski had theorized that the permanent affection might come, later, from simply living together and sharing things; after all, the near-hysterical lust that had brought them together was sure to fade, in time.

  I shouldn't be theorizing, he thought: at my age I should know.

  This morning, the decision to marry her had seemed like a choice he could make coolly, lightly, even cynically, figuring what he would get out of it as if it were just another stock market coup. But now that he was no longer in command of the situation, he realized--and the thought hit him like a physical blow--that he needed her quite desperately. He wanted eternal devotion: he wanted someone to care about him, and to like his company, and to touch his shoulder with affection as she passed his chair; someone who would always be there, someone who would say "I love you," someone who would share his old age. He had been alone all his life: it was quite long enough.

  Having admitted that much to himself, he went farther. If he could have her, he would cheerfully see his empire crumble, the Hamilton Holdings deal collapse, his reputation destroyed. He would even go to jail with Tony Cox if he thought she would be waiting when he got out.

  He wished he had never met Tony Cox.

  Laski had imagined it would be easy to control a two-bit hoodlum like Cox. The man might be enormously powerful inside his own little world, but he surely could not touch a respectable businessman. Maybe not: but when that businessman went into partnership--however informal--with the hoodlum, he ceased to be respectable. It was Laski, not Cox, who was compromised by the association.

  Laski heard the office door open, and swung around in his chair to see Tony Cox walk in.

  Laski stared openmouthed. It was like seeing a ghost.

  Carol scuttled in behind Cox, worrying him like a terrier. She said to Laski: "I asked him to wait, but he wouldn't--he just walked in!"

  "All right, Carol, I'll deal with it," Laski said.

  The girl went out and shut the door.

  Laski exploded. "What the devil are you doing here? Nothing could be more dangerous! I've already had the newspapers on, asking me about you and about Fitzpeterson--did you know he tried to kill himself?"

  "Calm down. Keep your hair on," Cox told him.

  "Calm down? The whole thing is a disaster! I've lost everything, and if I'm seen with you I'll end up in jail--"

  Cox took a long stride forward, grabbed Laski by the throat, and shook him. "Shut your mouth," he growled. He threw him backward in his chair. "Now, listen. I want your help."

  "No way," Laski muttered.

  "Shut up! I want your help, and you're going to give it, or I'll make bloody sure you do go to jail. Now you know I done this job this morning--a currency van."

  "I know no such thing."

  Cox ignored that. "Well, I've got nowhere to hide the money, so I'm going to put it in your bank."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Laski said lightly. Then he frowned. "How much is it?"

  "Just over a million."

  "Where?"

  "Outside in the van."

  Laski jumped to his feet. "You've got a million pounds in stolen money, outside here in a fucking van?"

  "Yes."

  "You are insane." Laski's thoughts were racing. "What form is the money in?"

  "Assorted used notes."

  "Are they in the original containers?"

  "I'm not that daft. They've been transferred to packing cases."

  "Serial numbers out of sequence?"

  "You're getting the idea slowly. If you don't get a move on they'll tow the van away for parking on a yellow line."

  Laski scratched his head. "How will you carry it into the vault?"

  "I got six of the boys out there."

  "I can't let six of your roughnecks carry all that money into my vault! The staff will suspect--"

  "They're in uniform--Navy surplus jackets, trousers, shirts and ties. They look like security guards, Felix. If you want to play twenty questions, leave it till afterward, eh?"

  Laski decided. "All right, get moving." He ushered Cox out and followed him as far as Carol's desk. "Ring down to the vault," he told the girl. "Tell them to prepare to take in a consignment of cash immediately. I will be dealing with the paperwork personally. And give me an outside line on my phone."

  He strode back into his office, picked up the phone, and dialed the Bank of England. He looked at his watch. It was three twenty-five. He got through to Mr. Ley.

  "It's Laski here," he said.

  "Ah, yes?" The banker was cautious.

  Laski forced himself to sound calm. "I've sorted out this little problem, Ley. The necessary cash is in my vault. Now I can arrange delivery immediately, as you suggested earlier; or you can inspect today and take delivery tomorrow."

  "Um." Ley thought for a moment. "I don't think either will be necessary, Laski. It would rather throw us to have to count so much money this late in the afternoon. If you can deliver first thing in the morning, we'll clear the check tomorrow."

  "Thank you." Laski decided to rub salt in the wound. "I'm sorry to have irritated you so much, earlier today."

  "Perhaps I was a little brusque. Good-bye, Laski."

  Laski hung up. He was still thinking fast. He reckoned he could drum up about a hundred thousand in cash overnight. Cox could probably equal that from his clubs. They could swap that cash for two hundred thousand of the stolen notes. It was just another precaution: if all the notes he delivered tomorrow were too worn to be reissued someone might wonder at the coincidence of a theft one day and a deposit the next. A leavening of good-condition currency would allay that suspicion.

  He seemed to have covered everything. He allowed himself to relax for a moment. I've done it again, he thought: I've won. A laugh of sheer triumph escaped from his throat.

  Now to supervise the details. He had better go down to the vault to provide reassurance to his no doubt bemused staff. And he wanted to see Cox and his crew off the premises fast.

  Then he would phone Ellen.

  30

  Ellen Hamilton had been at home almost all day. The s
hopping trip she had told Felix about was invented: she just needed an excuse for going to see him. She was a very bored woman. The trip to London had not taken long: on her return she had changed her clothes, redone her hair, and taken much longer than necessary to prepare a lunch of cottage cheese, salad, fruit, and black coffee without sugar. She had washed her dishes, scorning the dishwasher for so few items and sending Mrs. Tremlett upstairs to vacuum-clean. She watched the news and a soap opera on television; began to read an historical novel, and put it down after five pages; went from room to room in the house tidying things that did not need to be tidied; and went down to the pool for a swim, changing her mind at the last minute.

  Now she stood naked on the tiled floor of the cool summerhouse, her swimsuit in one hand and her dress in the other, thinking: If I can't make up my mind whether or not to go swimming, how will I ever summon the willpower to leave my husband?

  She dropped the clothes and let her shoulders sag. There was a full-length mirror on the wall, but she did not look in it. She took care of her appearance out of scruple, not vanity: she found mirrors quite resistible.

  She wondered what it would be like to swim in the nude. Such things had been unheard of when she was young: besides, she had always been inhibited. She knew this, and did not fight it, for she actually liked her inhibitions--they gave to her lifestyle a shape and constancy which she needed.

  The floor was deliriously cool. She was tempted to lie down and roll over, enjoying the feel of the cold tiles on her hot skin. She calculated the risk of Pritchard or Mrs. Tremlett walking in on her, and decided it was too great.

  She got dressed again.

  The summerhouse was quite high up. From its door one could see most of the grounds--there were nine acres. It was a delightful garden, created at the beginning of the last century, eccentrically landscaped and planted with dozens of different species of trees. It had given her much pleasure, but lately it had palled, like everything else.

  The place was at its best in the cool of the afternoon. A light breeze set Ellen's printed cotton dress flapping like a flag. She walked past the pool into a copse, where the leaves filtered the sunlight and made shifting patterns on the dry earth.

  Felix said she was uninhibited, but of course he was wrong. She had simply made an area in her life where constancy was sacrificed for the sake of joy. Besides, it was no longer gauche to have a lover, provided one was discreet; and she was extremely discreet.

  The trouble was, she liked the taste of freedom. She realized that she was at a dangerous age. The women's magazines she flicked through (but never actually read) were constantly telling her that this was when a woman added up the years she had left, decided they were shockingly few, and determined to fill them with all the things she had missed so far. The trendy, liberated young writers warned her that disappointment lay in that direction. How would they know? They were just guessing, like everyone else.

  She suspected it was nothing to do with age. When she was seventy she would be able to find a lively nonagenarian to lust after her, if at that age she still cared. Nor was it anything to do with the menopause, which was well behind her. It was simply that every day she found Derek a little less attractive and Felix a little more. It had reached the point where the contrast was too much to bear.

  She had let both of them know what the situation was, in her indirect manner. She smiled as she recalled how thoughtful each had looked after she had delivered her veiled ultimatums. She knew her men: each would analyze what she had said, understand after a while, and congratulate himself on his perspicacity. Neither would know he was being threatened.

  She emerged from the copse and leaned on a fence at the edge of a field. The pasture was shared by a donkey and an old mare: the donkey was there for the grandchildren and the mare because she had once been Ellen's favorite hunter. It was all right for them--they did not know they were getting old.

  She crossed the field and climbed the embankment to the disused railway line. Steam engines had puffed along here when she and Derek were gay young socialites, dancing to jazz music and drinking too much champagne, giving parties they could not really afford. She walked along between the rusty lines, jumping from sleeper to sleeper, until something small and furry ran out from under the rotting black wood and scared her. She scampered down the bank and walked back toward the house, following the stream through rough woodland. She did not want to be a gay young thing again; but she still wanted to be in love.

  Well, she had laid her cards on the table, as it were, with both men. Derek had been told that his work was edging his wife out of his life, and that he would have to change his ways if he was to keep her. Felix had been warned that she would not be his fancy piece forever.

  Both men might bow to her will, which would leave her still with the problem of choice. Or they might both decide they could they could do without her, in which case there would be nothing for her to do except to become de'sole'e, like a girl in a novel by Franc oise Sagan; and she knew that would not suit her.

  Well, suppose they both were prepared to do as she wished: whom would she choose? As she rounded the corner of the house she thought: Felix, probably.

  She realized with a shock that the car was in the drive, and Derek was getting out of it. Why was he home so early? He waved to her. He seemed happy.

  She ran to him across the gravel and, full of guilt, she kissed him.

  31

  Kevin Hart should have been worrying, but somehow he could not summon up the energy.

  The editor had quite explicitly told them not to investigate the Cotton Bank. Kevin had disobeyed, and Laski had asked: "Does your editor know you are making this call?" The question was often asked by outraged interviewees, and the answer was always an unworried No--unless, of course, the editor had forbidden the call. So, if Laski should take it into his head to ring the editor--or even the Chairman--Kevin was in trouble.

  So why wasn't he worried?

  He decided that he did not care for his job as much as he had this morning. The editor had good reasons for killing the story, of course; there were always good reasons for cowardice. Everyone seemed to accept that "It's against the law" was a final argument; but the great newspapers of the past had always broken the laws: laws at once harsher and more strictly applied than those of today. Kevin believed that newspapers should publish and be sued, or even arrested. It was easy for him to believe this, for he was not an editor.

  So he sat in the newsroom, close to the news desk, sipping machine tea and reading his own paper's gossip column, composing the heroic speech he would like to have made to the editor. It was the fag end of the day as far as the paper was concerned. Nothing less than a major assassination or a multiple-death disaster would get in the paper now. Half the reporters--those on eight-hour shifts--had gone home. Kevin worked ten hours, four days a week. The industrial correspondent, having taken eight pints of Guinness at lunch, was asleep in a corner. A lone typewriter clacked desultorily as a girl reporter in jeans wrote an undated story for tomorrow's first edition. The copytakers were arguing about football and the subeditors were composing joke captions for spiked pictures, laughing uproariously at each other's wit. Arthur Cole was pacing up and down, resisting the temptation to smoke and secretly hoping for a fire at Buckingham Palace. Every so often he would stop and leaf through the sheets of copy impaled on his spike, as if worrying that he might have overlooked the big story of the day.

  After a while Mervyn Glazier sauntered across from his own small kingdom. His shirt was hanging out. He sat down beside Kevin, lighting a steel-stemmed pipe and resting one scuffed shoe on the rim of the wastepaper basket.

  "The Cotton Bank of Jamaica," he said by way of preamble. He spoke quietly.

  Kevin grinned. "Have you been a naughty boy too?"

  Mervyn shrugged. "I can't help it if people ring me up with information. Anyway, if the bank ever was in danger, it's out now."

  "How do you know?"

  "My
tight-lipped contact at Threadneedle Street. 'I have looked more closely at the Cotton Bank since your call, and I find it to be in excellent financial health.' Unquote. In other words, it's been quietly rescued."

  Kevin finished his tea and crumpled the plastic-paper cup noisily. "So much for that."

  "I also hear, from a quite separate source not a million miles from the Council of the Stock Exchange, that Felix Laski has bought a controlling share in Hamilton Holdings."

  "He can't be short of a few bob, then. Is the Council interested?"

  "No. They know, and they don't mind."

  "Do you think we made a big fuss over nothing?"

  Mervyn shook his head slowly. "By no means."

  "Nor do I."

  Mervyn's pipe had gone out. He tapped it into the wastebasket. The two journalists looked helplessly at each other for a moment; then Mervyn got up and went away.

  Kevin returned his attention to the gossip column, but he could not concentrate. He read a paragraph four times without understanding it, then gave up. Some large piece of skulduggery had gone on today, and he itched to know what it was, the more so because he felt so close to understanding it.

  Arthur called him. "Sit behind here while I go to the lav, will you?"

  Kevin walked around the news desk and took a seat behind the news editor's bank of telephones and switchboards. It gave him no thrill: he had the job because, at this time of day, it hardly mattered. He was just the nearest idle man.

  Idleness was inevitable on newspapers, Kevin mused. The staff had to be sufficiently many to cope on a big day, so they were bound to be too many on a normal day. On some papers they gave you silly jobs to do just to keep you busy: writing stories from publicity handouts and local government press releases, stuff that would never get in the paper. It was demoralizing, time-wasting work, and only the more insecure of newspaper executives demanded it.

  A Lad came across from the teleprinter room, carrying a Press Association story on a long sheet of paper. Kevin took it from him and glanced at it.

  He read it with a growing sense of shock and elation.