“So people tell me. It’s just that I prefer to spend the hours between
Six P M. and midnight making fifty thousand dollars than watching
actors–pretend to kill each other on television.”
Peters laughed. “The most imaginative brain in the city turns out to
have no imagination.”
“I don’t follow that.”
“You don’t read novels or go to the cinema, either, do you?”
“No.”
“You see? You’ve got a blind spot–you can’t empathize with fiction.
It’s true of many of the most enterprising businessmen. The incapacity
seems to go with heightened acumen, like a blind man’s hypersensitive
hearing.”
Laski frowned. Being analyzed put him at a disadvantage. “Maybe,” he
said.
Peters seemed to sense his discomfort. “I’m fascinated by the careers of
great entrepreneurs,” he said.
“So am I,” Laski said. “I’m all in favor of pinching other people’s
brainwaves.”
“What was your first coup, Felix?”
Laski relaxed. This was more familiar territory.
“I suppose it was Woolwich Chemicals,” he said.
“That was a small pharmaceuticals manufacturer.
After the war they set up a small chain of High Street chemists’ shops,
with the object of guaranteeing their markets. The trouble was, they
knew all about chemistry and nothing about retailing, and the shops ate
up most of the profits made by the factory.
“I was working for a stockbroker at the time, and I’d made a little
money playing the market. I went to my boss and offered him a half-share
in the profits if he would finance the deal. We bought the company, and
immediately sold the factory to ICI for almost as much as we paid for
the shares.
Then we closed the shops and sold them one by one-they were all in prime
sites.”
“I’ll never understand this sort of thing,” Peters said. “If the factory
and the shops were worth so much, why were the shares cheap?”?”
“Because the enterprise was losing money. They hadn’t paid a dividend
for years. The management didn’t have the guts to cash in their chips,
so to speak. We did. Everything in business is courage.” He started to
eat his sandwich.
“It’s fascinating,” Peters said. He looked at his watch. “I must go.”
“&g day?” Laski said lightly.
“Today’s one of the days–and that always means headaches.”
“Did you solve that problem?”
“Which?”
“Routes.” Laski lowered his voice a fraction.
“Your security people wanted you to send the convoy a different way each
time.”
“No.” Peters was embarrassed: it had been indiscreet of him to tell
Laski about that dilemma.
“There is really only one sensible way to get there.
However …” He stood up.
Laski smiled and kept his voice casual. “So today’s big shipment goes by
the old direct route.” Peters put a finger to his lips. “Security,” he
said.
“Sure.”
Peters picked up his raincoat. “Goodbye.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Laski said, smiling broadly.
ARTHUR COLE climbed the steps from the station, his breath rattling
unhealthily in his chest. A gust of warm air came up from the bowels of
the Underground, wrapped itself snugly around him, and blew away. He
shivered slightly as he emerged into the street.
The sunshine took him by surprise–it had hardly been dawn when he
boarded the train. The air was chilled and sweet. Later it would become
poisonous enough to knock out a policeman on point duty. Cole remembered
the first time that had happened: the story had been an Evening Post
exclusive.
He walked slowly until his breathing eased.
Twenty-five years in newspapers have ruined my health, he thought. In
truth, any industry would have done the same, for he was prone to worry
and to drink, and his chest was weak; but it comforted him to blame his
profession.
Anyway, he had given up smoking. He had been a nonsmoker for–he looked
at his watch-one hundred and twenty-eight minutes, unless he counted the
night, in which case it was eight hours. He had already passed several
moments of risk: immediately after the alarm clock went off at
four-thirty (he usually smoked one on the we); driving away from his
house, at the moment when he got into top gear and turned on the radio
ready for the five o’clock news; accelerating down the first fast