asked, more to pass the moment than to inquire.
“No, actually. It’s mine. Although I won’t be joining you for lunch.
However, I trust cook implicitly; you’ll be well taken care of.”
“I won’t try to follow that. ‘Julian and God.” Preston smiled
noncommittally as the elevator door opened.
Julian Warfield was talking on the telephone when Preston ushered
McAuliff into the tastefully-elegantly-decorated living room. The old
man was standing by an antique table in front of a tall window
overlooking Belgrave Square.
The size of the window, flanked by long white drapes, emphasized
Warfield’s shortness. He is really quite a small man, thought Alex as
he acknowledged Warfield’s wave with a nod and a smile.
“You’ll send the accrual statistics on to Macintosh, then,” said
Warfield deliberately into the telephone; he was not asking a question.
“I’m sure he’ll disagree, and you can both hammer it out. Good-bye.”
The diminutive old man replaced the receiver and looked over at Alex.
“Mr. McAuliff, is it?” Then he chuckled. “That was a prime lesson in
business. Employ experts who disagree on just about everything and take
the best arguments from both for a compromise.”
“Good advice generally, I’d say,” replied McAuliff. “As long as the
experts disagree on the subject matter and not just chemically.”
“You’re quick. I like that…. Good to see you.” Warfield crossed to
Preston. His walk was like his speech: deliberate, paced slowly.
Mentally confident, physically unsure.
“Thank you for the use of your flat, Clive. And Virginia, of course.
From experience, I know the lunch will be splendid.”
“Not at all, Julian. I’ll be off.”
McAuliff turned his head sharply, without subtlety, and looked at
Preston. The man’s first-name familiarity with old Warfield was the
last thing he expected. Clive Preston smiled and walked rapidly out of
the room as Alex watched him, bewildered.
“To answer your unspoken questions,” said Warfield, although you have
been speaking with Preston on the telephone, he is not with Dunstone,
Limited, Mr. McAuliff.”
Alexander turned back to the diminutive businessman.
“Whenever I phoned the Dunstone offices for you, I had to give a number
for someone to return the call-”
“Always within a few minutes,” interrupted Warfield.
“We never kept you waiting; that would have been rude.
Whenever you telephoned-four times, I believe-my secretary informed Mr.
Preston. At his offices.”
“And the Rolls at Waterloo was Preston’s,” said Alex.
“Yes.
“So if anyone was following me, my business is with Preston. Has been
since I’ve been in London.”
“That was the object.”
“Why?”
“Self-evident, I should think. We’d rather not have anyone know we’re
discussing a contract with you. Our initial call to you in New York
stressed that point, I believe.”
“You said it was confidential. Everyone says that. If you meant it to
this degree, why did you even use the name of Dunstone?”
“Would you have flown over otherwise?”
McAuliff thought for a moment. A week of skiing in Aspen
notwithstanding, there had been several other projects. But Dunstone
was Dunstone, one of the largest corporations in the international
market. “No, I probably wouldn’t have.”
“We were convinced of that. We knew you were about to negotiate with
I.T.T. about a little matter in southern Germany.”
Alex stared at the old man. He couldn’t help but smile.
“That, Mr. Warfield, was supposed to be as confidential as anything you
might be considering.”
Warfield returned the good humor. “Then we know who deals best in
confidence, don’t we? I.T.T. is patently obvious…. Come, we’ll have
a drink, then lunch. I know your preference: Scotch with ice. Somewhat
more ice than I think is good for the system.”
The old man laughed softly and led McAuliff to a mahogany bar across the
room. He made drinks rapidly, his ancient hands moving deftly, in
counterpoint to his walk.
“I’ve learned quite a bit about you, Mr. McAuliff. Rather
fascinating.”
“I heard someone was asking around.”
They were across from one another, in armchairs. At McAuliff s
statement, Warfield took his eyes off his glass and looked sharply,
almost angrily, at Alex. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Names weren’t used, but the information reached me.
Eight sources. Five American, two Canadian, one French.”
“Not traceable ‘to Dunstone.” Warfield’s short body seemed to stiffen;
McAuliff understood that he had touched an exposed nerve.
“I said names weren’t mentioned.”
“Did you use the Dunstone name in any ensuing conversations? Tell me
the truth, Mr. McAuliff.”
“There’d be no reason not to tell you the truth,” answered Alex, a touch
disagreeably. “No, I did not.”
“I believe you.”
“You should.”
“If I didn’t, I’d pay you handsomely for your time and suggest you
return to America and take up with I.T.T.”
“I may do that anyway, mightn’t I? I do have that option.”
“You like money.”
“Very much.”
Julian Warfield placed his glass down and brought his thin, small hands
together. “Alexander T. McAuliff. The ‘T is for Tarquin, rarely, if
ever, used. It’s not even on your stationery; rumor is you don’t care
for it……
“True. I’m not violent about it.”
“Alexander Tarquin McAuliff, forty-four years old. B.S., M.S., Ph.D.,
but the title of Doctor is used as rarely as his middle name. The
geology departments of several leading American universities, including
California Tech and Columbia, lost an excellent research fellow when Dr.
McAuliff decided to put his expertise to more commercial pursuits.” The
man smiled, his expression one of how-am-I-doing; but, again, not a
question.
“Faculty and laboratory pressures are no less aggravating than those
outside. Why not get paid for them?”
:’Yes. We agreed you like money.”
“Don’t you?”
Warfield laughed, and his laugh was genuine and loud. His thin, short
body fairly shook with pleasure as he brought Alex a refill. “Excellent
reply. Really quite fine.”
“It wasn’t that good.”
“But you’re interrupting me,” said Warfield as he returned to his chair.
“It’s my intention to impress you.”
“Not about myself, I hope.”
“No. Our thoroughness … You are from a close-knit family, secure
academic surroundings-”
“Is this necessary?” asked McAuliff fingering his glass, interrupting
the old man.
“Yes, it is,” replied Warfield simply, continuing as though his line of
thought was unbroken. “Your father was-and is, in retirements highly
regarded agro-scientist; your mother, unfortunately deceased, a
delightfully romantic soul adored by all. It was she who gave you the
‘Tarquin, and until she died you never denied the initial or the name.
You had an older brother, a pilot, shot down in the last days of the
Korean War; you yourself made a splendid record in Vietnam. Upon
receipt of your doctorate, it was assumed that you would continue the
family’s academic tradition.
Until personal tragedy propelled you out of the laboratory.
A young woman-your fiance-was killed on the streets of New York. At
night. You blamed yourself… and others.
You were to have met her. Instead, a hastily called, quite unnecessary
research meeting prohibited it … Alexander Tarquin McAuliff fled the
university. Am I drawing an accurate picture?”
“You’re invading my privacy. You’re repeating information that may be
personal but hardly classified. Easy to piece together. You’re also
extremely obnoxious. I don’t think I have to have lunch with you.”
“A few more minutes. Then it is your decision.”
“It’s my decision right now.”
“Of course. Just a bit more…. Dr. McAuliff embarked on a new career
with extraordinary precision. He hired out to several established
geological-survey firms, where his work was outstanding; then left the
companies and underbid them on upcoming contracts. Industrial
construction knows no national boundaries: Fiat builds in Moscow; Moscow
in Cairo; General Motors in Berlin; British Petroleum in Buenos Aires;
Volkswagen in New Jersey, U.S.A.; Renault in Madrid-I could go on for
hours. And everything begins with a single file folder with complicated
technical paragraphs describing what is and is not possible in terms of
construction upon the land. Such a simple, taken-for granted exercise.
But without that file, nothing else is possible.”
“Your few minutes are about up, Warfield. And, speaking for the
community of surveyors, we thank you for acknowledging our necessity. As
you say, we’re so often taken for granted.” McAuliff put his glass down
on the table next to his armchair and started to get up.
Warfield spoke quietly, precisely. “You have twenty-three bank
accounts, including four in Switzerland; I can supply the code numbers
if you like. Others in Prague, Tel Aviv, Montreal, Brisbane, Sdo Paulo,
Kingston, Los Angeles, and, of course, New York, among others.”
Alexander remained immobile at the edge of his chair and stared at the
little old man. “You’ve been busy.”
. “Thorough. Nothing patently illegal; none of the accounts is
enormous. Altogether they total two million four hundred-odd U.S.
dollars, as of several days ago when you flew from New York.
Unfortunately, the figure is meaningless. Due to international
agreements regarding financial transfers, the money cannot be
centralized.”
“Now I know I don’t want to have lunch with you.”
“Perhaps not. But how would you like another two million dollars? Free