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 or—-“
“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.”
Laski paled. “What?”
“Do the Cotton Bank’s troubles have anything to do with the attempted
suicide of Tim Fitzpeterson?”
How the hell did they know? Laski’s mind raced.
Maybe they didn’t know. They might be guessing–flying a kite, they
called it; pretending to know something in order to see whether people
would deny it. Laski said: “Does your editor know you’re making this
call?”
“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