The lobby of his apartment building was well furnished, and there was a doorman sitting behind a desk, guarding the passage to the lifts. I asked him about Shoffman, giving him the old-friend-from-England routine.
Yes, he remembered Mr Shoffman. Yes, he had been on duty on the evening of April nineteenth. No, he had not seen Mr Shoffman come home, neither had the doorman who relieved him at midnight. Yes, he would have remembered, he had been looking out for him to give him a parcel. No, the parcel was nothing special, just some books from a book club. No, he could not show me the apartment, it had a new owner.
I left defeated, hailed a cab, and went back to the hotel.
Back in my room I flopped on to my bed, stared at the ceiling and thought.
It looked as though I had drawn a blank on the answer to my first question. I only had a day left in New York. I was sure the policeman was right. My chances of finding out what really happened to Shoffman were very small. But I was still convinced that his disappearance so soon after his phone call to Honshu Bank was not a coincidence. Someone had found out that he had discovered Tremont Capital was a fraud, and he was now dead.
That still left the second question. How had Waigel put together the Tremont Capital deal? Who had he been dealing with? Where had the money raised by the private placement been paid?
There must have been some paperwork associated with the transaction. Hamilton would soon be looking for traces of it in Curaçao. But there must also have been some at Bloomfield Weiss. The librarian in London had been adamant that none of it was in any central filing system. Of course it might have all been thrown away. But on the other hand the shell company still existed, it was still paying interest. No, it was quite possible that Waigel might have some of the records concerning the deal in his own private files. How could I get to his filing system?
I called Lloyd Harbin.
‘Hallo. This is Paul Murray. I was just calling to thank you for showing me around yesterday.’ I tried to keep the insincerity out of my voice.
‘Oh sure, think nothing of it,’ Lloyd said in a get-off-the-phone-quick-I’ve-got-something-better-to-do voice.
‘I wonder if you could give me Tommy Masterson’s home number?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid Tommy has been terminated. He no longer works here.’
‘None the less, I would be very grateful if you could help me. You see, I lent him my pen, and he didn’t get a chance to return it. I have owned it for several years and it means a lot to me.’
‘I am sorry, Paul. I just can’t give out information about former employees.’
I should have known the sentimental approach wouldn’t work with Lloyd Harbin. I would have to speak to him in his own language. ‘Lloyd, listen carefully. De Jong & Co. is soon going to start a buying programme of junk bonds. It will total two hundred million dollars’ (a lie but who cared?). ‘Now, we can either buy them from Bloomfield Weiss or we can buy them from Harrison Brothers. The choice is yours.’
It worked. ‘Now, hold on, don’t do anything rash. I’ll just get it for you.’ He was back in less than half a minute. ‘342-6607.’
‘Thank you. It will be a pleasure to do business with you,’ I lied, and rang off.
I caught Tommy at home and asked him if he would mind meeting me for lunch. We agreed on an Italian restaurant, Café Alfredo, near where he lived in Greenwich Village.
Tommy without a job seemed much the same as Tommy with a job. The same laid-back air, the same amiability.
‘I was sorry to see you let go yesterday,’ I said, using the standard euphemism for ‘getting fired’.
‘Thank you,’ said Tommy. ‘It was a bit of a surprise.’
‘I was’ amazed at the way they did it. Is that how it normally works? You get hauled off to some office somewhere and don’t even get a chance to go back to your desk.’
‘That’s the way it works,’ said Tommy, ‘although usually you get a little more warning of what is going to happen.’
‘Why did he do it?’ I asked.
‘He doesn’t like me,’ Tommy said. ‘“My attitude did not fit in with the Bloomfield Weiss culture.” And, “I was undermining his authority.” I don’t think they like too much independent thought at Bloomfield Weiss. They don’t like people who call a rip-off a rip-off instead of a “unique investment opportunity”. Still, without me they will sell less bonds and make less money, so that is something to be grateful for.’
‘You must be angry,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’ll be all right. This has probably been a good thing. It will force me to go and find somewhere better to work, somewhere that employs human beings. I may even go back to California and let the Bad Apple rot.’
For all the brave face he was putting on it, Tommy could not suppress the bitterness in his voice. Good, I thought.
‘I wonder if I could ask you for some advice,’ I said.
‘Sure.’
‘My firm is the proud owner of one of those “unique investment opportunities” you were talking about. In fact it’s so unique, I am pretty sure it’s illegal. I can’t do anything about it until I have some hard evidence.’
‘What was the transaction?’ Tommy asked.
‘It was a private placement done eighteen months ago called Tremont Capital. Dick Waigel structured the deal.’
‘Never heard of it. I’m afraid I can’t give you any advice on that.’
‘I don’t need any advice on the deal itself,’ I said. ‘But I do need advice on how to gain access to Waigel’s files.’
I looked at Tommy closely, hoping I had not gone too far.
He looked back. ‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘What if they found out I helped you?’
‘They can hardly fire you,’ I pointed out.
‘True,’ Tommy smiled. ‘But if they did catch me, their lawyers would have me for breakfast.’
‘I’m sorry, Tommy,’ I said. ‘I had no right to ask you. Please just forget we ever had this conversation.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Tommy relaxed again and smiled. ‘Hell, why not? I don’t owe them anything and it sounds like they owe you a lot. I’ll help.’
‘Great!’
‘Waigel runs a department of five or six people. They all work in one room, but he has had his own office built. It takes up half the space, and has curtains for greater privacy.’
Typical Waigel, I thought. His ego required as much space as all six people who worked for him.
‘I know Waigel’s secretary, Jean, quite well. She’s a nice woman, but she can’t stand his guts. She’s on the point of quitting. I think she will probably help us, especially when she hears what has happened to me. She can let us know when he is out. We go up there, and she shows us into his office, as though we had an appointment with him. Simple.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘But how do we get in the building? Haven’t they taken your pass away?’
‘Yes they have, but I am sure Jean can take care of that.’
‘There’s no need for you to come,’ I said. ‘I can go by myself.’
‘Oh yes there is. If Jean’s going to let you into Waigel’s office, I am going to have to be there too.’
‘Is there anything between you and this Jean?’ I asked smiling.
Tommy laughed, ‘Oh no, nothing, I promise you.’
We finished our lunch, I paid, and then we set off for Tommy’s apartment so that he could ring Jean. I needed to get into Waigel’s office that afternoon.
Tommy’s apartment was on the second floor of an old brownstone on Barrow Street. We walked up the stairs, and as Tommy fished for his keys, he hesitated. ‘Oh, I have a friend of mine staying with me. Gary. He works in the evenings, so he may well be in.’
He opened the door, and I followed him through a small hallway into a tastefully decorated living room. There was an expensive oriental rug on the floor, and another on one wall. A number of attractive abstract paintings adorned the other walls. Gary was sitting in a comforta
ble leather armchair. He shouted a welcome as we came in.
Gary had a full moustache, a crew cut, and was wearing tight light blue jeans, the uniform of the gay New York male. So this was why Tommy had laughed when I had mentioned the possibility of a relationship between him and Waigel’s secretary. I looked again at Tommy. There was no outward sign of his sexual orientation.
Tommy caught my look. ‘OK, so I’m gay. Does it surprise you?’ he said.
‘I suppose it does a little,’ I said. ‘But I’ll get over it.’ I couldn’t suppress an involuntary chuckle.
‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Tommy, looking at me suspiciously.
‘Oh, I was just thinking of Lloyd Harbin’s face if he ever found out.’
Tommy smiled. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Mind you, I saw him in a bar on Christopher Street a few months ago with some very unsavoury company. Do you want some coffee?’
Tommy made some coffee and then called Waigel’s secretary. While he was on the phone I sipped my coffee and chatted to Gary.
After three or four minutes Tommy put down the phone. ‘Waigel’s out now, and won’t be back for an hour. If we are quick, we should be able to find what we want before he comes back. Just wait a moment while I get changed.’
A minute later Tommy emerged from his bedroom in a suit. I put down my coffee, said goodbye to Gary, and followed Tommy out of the door. We quickly found a cab, and headed downtown to Wall Street.
We pulled up outside the great, black, looming building of Bloomfield Weiss. We took a lift up to the reception area on the forty-sixth floor, which was where Corporate Finance was located.
Tommy walked up to the receptionist and said, ‘Tommy Masterson and James Smith to see Mr Waigel.’
The receptionist looked at Tommy and said, ‘Don’t you work here, Mr Masterson? I thought you were on the trading floor.’
Tommy gave her a friendly smile. ‘I used to work here until very recently,’ he said.
The receptionist looked at her book. ‘Well if you have an appointment, I guess it’s OK.’ She tapped some buttons on her phone. ‘Jean? Mr Waigel’s guests are in reception.’ She put the phone down. ‘Please wait here, gentlemen.’
Jean was out in a flash. She was a tall woman with round Lennon glasses and long brown hair plaited down her back. She had a baggy blouse and a long skirt. She looked as much like a hippy as one can look on Wall Street, which is not very much. She showed no hint of recognition of Tommy. She led us through some corridors and into an open-plan office. There were six desks cramped into a small area. Five of them were occupied with people hard at work. One guarded a glass-encased office on one side of the room. There were curtains on the inside of this office, making it impossible to see in.
‘I am afraid Mr Waigel is not expected back for another half-hour,’ Jean said. ‘I am terribly sorry for the mix-up on appointment times. I can’t think how it could have happened. Would you like to wait or come back later?’
‘We would like to wait if we may,’ Tommy said.
‘Well, why don’t you wait in Mr Waigel’s office until he returns?’ said Jean.
As she showed us into the office, Tommy gave her a broad wink. She smiled back at him and closed the door on us.
The office was large, with a big desk, two armchairs, a sofa, and a coffee table. The room was littered with ‘tombstones’, advertisements of previous deals encased in clear plastic blocks. Waigel had done a lot of deals, and he wanted everyone to know about them. There were two framed photographs on the wall, one of Waigel shaking hands with Lee Iacocca and another with Mayor Ed Koch. The Koch one would have done any New York Chinese restaurant proud.
Along one wall was a row of wooden filing cabinets. Two full cabinets were marked ‘completed deals’. I tried them. They were locked.
Tommy went outside, and under the pretext of asking for some coffee, came back with a key from Jean. He opened the cabinets.
Inside were rows of files in alphabetical order. I quickly flipped through until I came to T. No Tremont Capital. Damn. I began to look back through some of the other files. I noticed that many of them had titles which were obviously code words.
‘What do we do now?’ Tommy said.
‘There’s nothing for it but to go through each file individually,’ I said.
‘But there are at least a hundred. It will take an hour! We only have twenty minutes.’
‘We’ve got no choice. I’ll start at A and you start at Z and work back.’
‘Just a moment. Let me see if I recognise any of the code words,’ Tommy said.
I was riffling through my second file which turned out to be about the takeover of a beauty-products company code-named ‘Adonis’, when Tommy whispered, ‘Here, I’ve got it!’ He held up a file labelled ‘Music Hall’.
‘How did you work that one out?’ I asked.
Tremont Capital reminded me of Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. There was a music hall there that used to be very popular.’
‘Well done!’ I said, and grabbed the file. I hadn’t connected the word ‘Tremont’ with the Bronx. Interesting.
I laid out all the documents in the file on the desk and worked my way through them. There were drafts, and then the final version of the prospectus I had looked through back in London. There was correspondence with the lawyers Van Kreef, Heerlen discussing a number of detailed legal points. One letter dealt with how to ensure that the ownership of Tremont Capital was kept strictly anonymous. Needless to say the owners were not mentioned there.
Then I found a letter with the Harzweiger Bank letterhead. It was from Hans Dietweiler. It confirmed account numbers for the payment of funds raised by Tremont Capital from its bond offering.
Damn. If the money De Jong had paid for the private placement had gone into Switzerland, it would be next to impossible to trace it.
I moved on. Then I found it. It was just a scrap of yellow legal-pad paper. Scrawled on the top was the word ‘STRUCTURE’. Below were a series of boxes. It laid out the complete structure of the fraud.
I took a piece of paper from Waigel’s desk and copied out the diagram. I was interrupted by a tap on the door. It was Jean. ‘You guys had better hurry up. Dick will be back any minute now.’
I hurriedly finished the diagram, carefully reassembled the ‘Music Hall’ file and placed it back in the filing cabinet. Tommy and I checked the office to make sure everything was as we had found it. My eyes fell on Waigel’s desk diary. I quickly checked the week Debbie had been killed. It was filled with appointments, all of which seemed to be in New York. There was no mention of cancelled meetings or flights to London.
‘Come on,’ said Tommy, and I followed him out of the door. Looking irritated, Tommy stopped at Jean’s desk and said, ‘Tell Dick we waited for him. Mr Smith has another appointment, and we are already late. Have him call me, please.’
‘I can’t think what can have happened to him,’ said Jean. ‘I am very sorry you and Mr Smith had to wait so long. I am sure he will be back in a minute.’
‘We can’t afford to wait any longer. Goodbye.’ With that, Tommy and I marched out of Waigel’s department into the corridor. Our act had drawn one or two bored glances from the people working in the outer office. It was enough to be plausible, not enough to be memorable.
We waited for what seemed an age for a lift to come. Finally one arrived. It was crowded with Japanese businessmen, clients of Bloomfield Weiss. They went through a complicated dance to decide which one of them should get out of the lift first. Behind them all, ushering them out, was the short, bald figure of Dick Waigel. I saw him before he saw me.
‘Quick, Tommy. Fire exit!’ I said.
Without dithering, Tommy darted to the stairway. I couldn’t follow him since I was caught up in the mêlée of Japanese. Waigel saw me.
‘Paul, what brings you here?’ he asked, his eyes suspicious.
‘Oh, I was in the building and I thought I would drop by to follow up on one or two of the comments yo
u made at lunch yesterday,’ I said. ‘I found them very interesting.’
‘Oh good,’ said Waigel, staring at me thoughtfully, trying to decide whether I was telling the truth.
The group of Japanese were looking at Waigel expectantly. I coughed nervously and said, ‘Well, this doesn’t look like a good time for you. If you are going to be at the conference in Phoenix, perhaps we can chat then.’
I knew I wasn’t convincing. Waigel’s stare hardened. I stared back. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but it unsettled him. He hesitated for a moment, but his guests were waiting. ‘See you then,’ he muttered.
I got into the lift, and breathed out loudly as the doors closed behind me. My heart was beating rapidly, and I could hear the blood rushing round my ears. I hoped Jean would be able to bluff her way round the awkward questions Waigel would be bound to ask her. But at least I had the diagram.
I met Tommy in the lobby. He was clearly enjoying his afternoon. ‘Wow, that was close!’ he said, eyes shining. ‘I just caught the gleam of his bald head, so I beat it. Did you speak to him? Did he suspect anything?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. I shuddered. ‘What a nasty little man!’
Tommy laughed. ‘One of Bloomfield Weiss’s finest.’
‘I hope Jean is all right,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry. The worst Waigel can do is fire her, and she wants to quit anyway. So what did we find? Was the mission successful?’
‘It was indeed,’ I said, patting my pocket. ‘I think this diagram will explain a lot.’
‘Well, let’s get it out and look at it, then.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can show it to you.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Tommy was upset. ‘I just risked getting fired for the second time in one week. I have a right to know. Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about it.’
Free to Trade Page 20
