It was good of you to see me at short notice.” “You said you had a
seven-figure proposal to put to one of my clients: how could I not see
you?
Would you like a cigar?” Fett got up and proffered a box from a side
table.
Laski said: “Thank you.” He lingered a little too long over his choice;
then, as his hand descended to take a cigar, he said: “I want to buy
Hamilton Holdings from Derek Hamilton.”
The timing was perfect, but Fett showed no flicker of surprise. Laski
had hoped he might drop the box. But, of course, Fett had known Laski
would choose that moment to drop the bombshell; had created the moment
for just that purpose.
He closed the box and gave Laski a light without speaking. He sat down
again and crossed his legs.
“Hamilton Holdings, for seven figures.”
“Exactly one million pounds. When a man sells his life’s work, he is
entitled to a nice round figure.”
“Oh, I see the psychology of your approach,” Fett said lightly. “This is
not entirely unexpected.”
“What?”
“I don’t mean we expected you. We expected somebody. The time is ripe.”
“The bid is substantially more than the value of the shares at current
prices.”
“The margin is about right,” Fett said.
Laski spread his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of appeal. “Let’s not
fence,” he said. “It’s a high offer.”
“But less than what the shares will be worth if Derek’s syndicate gets
the oil well.”
“Which brings me to my only condition. The offer depends upon the deal
being done this morning.”
Fett looked at his watch. “It’s almost eleven. Do you really think this
could be done–even assuming Derek’s interested–in one hour?”
Laski tapped his briefcase. “I have all the necessary documents drawn
up.”
“We could hardly read them–”
“I also have a letter of intent containing heads of agreement. That will
satisfy me.”
“I should have guessed you would be prepared Fett considered for a
moment. “Of course, if Derek doesn’t get the oil well, the shares will
probably go down a bit.”
“I am a’ gambler,” Laski smiled.
Fett continued: “In which case, you will sell off the company’s assets
and close down the unprofitable branches.”
“Not at all,” Laski lied. “I think it could be profitable in its present
form with new top management.”
“You’re probably right. Well, it’s a sensible offer; one that I’m
obliged to put to the client.”
“Don’t play hard to get. Think of the commission on a million pounds.”
“Yes,” Fett said coldly. “I’ll ring Derek.” He picked up a phone from a
coffee table and said:
“Derek Hamilton, please.”
Laski puffed at his cigar and concealed his anxiety.
“Derek, it’s Nathaniel. I’ve got Felix Laski with me. He’s made an
offer.” There was a pause.
“Yes, we did, didn’t we? One million in round figures. You would … all
right. We’ll be here.
What? Ah … I see.” He gave a faintly embarrassed laugh. “Ten minutes.”
He put the phone down. “Well, Laski, he’s coming over.
Let’s read those documents of yours while we’re waiting.”
Laski could not resist saying: “He’s interested, then.”
“He could be.” “He said something else, didn’t he?”
Fett gave the embarrassed little laugh again. “I suppose there’s no harm
in telling you. He said that if he gives you the company by midday, he
wants the money in his hand by noon.”
ELEVEN A.M. KEVIN HART found the address the news desk had given him and
parked on a yellow line. His car was a two-year-old Rover with a V8
engine, for he was a bachelor, and the Evening Post paid Fleet Street
salaries, so he was a good deal wealthier than most men aged twenty-two.
He knew this, and he took pleasure in it; and he was not old enough to
discreetly conceal that pleasure, which was why men like Arthur Cole
disliked him.
Arthur had been very ratty when he came out of the editor’s conference.
He had sat behind the news desk, given out a batch of assignments in the
usual way, then called Kevin and told him to come around to his side of
the desk and sit down: a sure sign that he was about to be given what