Villiers Touch

by Brian Garfield

  “That’s why I picked Fleischer’s bank,” Hackman said. “They’ve got a network of correspondent firms. They’ll get the thing moving all over the country. But of course you realize we can’t tell how it’ll really go until we run it up the flagpole and see if anybody salutes.”

  Sidney Isher made a face.

  Hackman added, “It’s a fluid situation, Mace.”

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  Isher said, “A fluid situation is what you drown in, George.”

  Hackman flushed and puffed rapidly on his cigar. After a moment he said, “Not to change the subject, but I made contact with Colonel Butler for you—you know, the president of Heggins Aircraft. You said you wanted to talk to him.”

  “I know what I said. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what he said?”

  “I was coming to that.”

  “Anytime you’re ready, George.”

  “You don’t have to get sarcastic. Listen, I had a hell of a time reaching the son of a bitch. He’s always off on safari someplace collecting big-game trophies. I got him between planes last week. Told him what you told me to tell him. I’m not sure it worked. He thinks—”

  Villiers said, “If Colonel Butler thought anything, he wouldn’t be a colonel.”

  “Don’t underestimate him. He’s a retired colonel, but that doesn’t make him senile. He’s maybe fifty-two or -three and he acts like one ballsy tough bird.”

  “It’s a bluff,” Villiers said. “He’s on the ropes and he knows it. But you still haven’t told me whether you set up a meeting.”

  “I tried to have him here this afternoon—he’s in New York right now. He wouldn’t go for it. I needled him a little, and he finally admitted he didn’t want to be seen going into a business meeting with you. Nothing personal, Mace, but you know you do have a rep. A guy with Butler’s defense contracts on the line can’t afford to be seen at a conference with you.”

  Villiers gave no indication whether or not he felt slighted. He said, “You’re hanging onto the punch line. What is it?”

  “Well, I said suppose I could arrange a meeting on neutral ground where it would look accidental and nobody’d think anything of it. He didn’t say no, so I told him I’m having a party tonight at my place, which is true. There’ll be plenty of people there for camouflage. He said he’d come. He didn’t sound too happy about it but I dropped the hints you told me to drop, and he won’t ignore them. He won’t be able to let them alone—he’ll have to pick at it until he finds out what you want and what he can get out of it.”

  Villiers said, “I detest parties.”

  “What the hell do you want from me? I should set up a meeting in the bus-station restroom? Look, all you got to do is show up, mingle a few minutes, and go back to the guest bedroom. He’ll join you there, and you can lock the door from the inside, get your business done, and leave. I went to a lot of trouble to set this up, Mace. How about it?”

  “I suppose so. But try to be less clumsy next time.”

  Pleased with his success, Hackman sat back grinning, ignoring the chastisement. “Yes sirree Bob.” He opened the lid of his cigar box and pushed it forward. “Help yourself. Real Cuban Upmanns—cost me a hundred bucks from a U.N. diplomat.”

  Villiers ignored the offer. Sidney Isher said abruptly, “I’ve kept my mouth politely shut through all this, but I’d be obliged if you’d let me in on it. What’s all this about Heggins Aircraft and the colonel? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Elementary tactics,” Villiers said, not smiling. “Heggins has been in trouble for years. They brought in Colonel Butler a few years ago in the hopes he could swing Air Force contracts their way. He did, but that was some time ago, and the contracts are running out. The Pentagon’s changed its policy since then—there aren’t any negotiated contracts anymore, it’s all competitive bidding now, and Heggins is too loaded with sloppy management to be able to underbid the big companies. They’ve put in sealed bids that are due to be opened next week on two new VTOL planes, but they’re not likely to get the contracts, and even if they do, they’ll lose money in production. The company’s on the verge of collapse any way you look at it.”

  “And?” Isher said.

  “And I step in with an offer to bail the colonel out.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To get my hands on a Big Board company name. Heggins is listed on the New York Stock Exchange.”

  “Maybe, but it’s hardly what you could call gilt-edged. I don’t get it,” Isher said.

  “You don’t have to,” Villiers said.

  Isher cleared his throat to speak again, but Hackman frowned at him with a warning shake of his head. Isher dropped the subject, displaying his pique with a brief catarrhal bark, and reached into his briefcase. “About the Nuart Galleries business, Mace, were you apprised of the fact that Mrs. Hastings would save a good chunk of money if you were to buy into Nuart with stock instead of cash? If it’s a share-for-share trade, you avoid personal tax, both for Mrs. Hastings and yourself.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I just want to make sure I understand the deal. You’re going to back Nuart with your own capital when she goes public?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Will Mrs. Hastings realize that?”

  “She’ll realize however much is necessary for her to realize,” Villiers said. “Leave Mrs. Hastings to me.”

  “Gladly. But inasmuch as you’re dealing with Elliot Judd’s daughter, it’s my opinion your scheme has the smell of insanity.”

  Villiers said quietly, “Thank you for your candor, Sidney.”

  Isher shrugged. “You’re made out of poured concrete, aren’t you? All right, be it on your head. Back to the matter at hand—”

  “No,” Villiers said. “I’ll make one thing clear. We’re going into this to get control of Melbard, not Nuart Galleries. I have no intention of taking over Mrs. Hastings’ business—only taking over her controlling interest in Melbard when she obtains it. You follow me? She’s only the middleman in this. The Melbard stock goes through her hands into mine, that’s all. That’s the way you’ll set up the legal documentation with her, once I’ve sold her on the program. I don’t want to leave any openings for her to get suspicious that I’m trying to get my hands on her God damned art business. What the hell would I do with an art business?”

  George Hackman said, “Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. Where do you get the capital? Money’s tight.”

  “We issue stock and exchange it for the Melbard stock, through Mrs. Hastings.”

  “What stock do we issue?”

  Villiers said, “I’ve got a Maryland insurance company that’ll do the trick. We’ll issue the stock as part of the terms of an exchange-merger—on paper it will be a merger with Nuart Galleries, but you’ll arrange that the actual exchange is for Melbard shares. Since the stock’s to be issued by the insurance company as part of the terms of a merger, it won’t have to be registered as a public offering.”

  “Memorize that,” Isher said to Hackman, “and then throw your head away.” He had a sharp, irritating laugh, like a small dog’s yapping.

  “Piece of cake,” Hackman remarked. “It’s beautiful. Melbard’s unlisted. Insiders and control stockholders don’t have to reveal their trading in the stock, which you’d have to do if it was listed.”

  Villiers said dryly to Isher, “Give that man a raise.”

  Hackman guffawed. “Aw, shit, you don’t—”

  “I mean it,” Villiers said. “We’ll put you down for a bonus commission on this job.”

  “Well—Christ, thanks, Mace, I mean—”

  “Don’t thank me. The more you stand to make, the more you’ve got to lose if you louse it up.”

  “Yeah. But thanks anyway. God knows I can use it.”

  Villiers glanced at Isher. “That’s all for you for today. I’ll call you day after tomorrow, after I’ve seen Diane Hastings. We’ll want the arti
cles of incorporation drawn up for Nuart by then.”

  “Forty-eight hours? You’re moving too fast.”

  “Maybe by your clock. Not by mine. Keep your staff after hours if you need to.”

  “Is next week a holiday, or what? Christ, we’ve got to go through the Corporation Commission, X and Y and Z and divers others. You can’t just—”

  “Don’t bitch, Sidney. Just do it.”

  “Will you listen to me, Mace?”

  Hackman said, “What’s to listen? You heard the man.”

  “I want no lip from you, George.”

  Hackman grinned at Villiers. “Mace, don’t give it another thought. He just likes to go on record with a few complaints. He’s a smart Jew—he’ll get it done.” Then, seeing the sudden shift of Isher’s expression, he said hastily, “What I meant to say, Sidney—”

  Isher snapped, “You don’t need an interpreter. You made yourself clear the first time.”

  “For God’s sake, I was only—”

  “All right, shut up, both of you,” Villiers said, without raising his voice.

  Isher was on his feet. “I’ll need the information on that insurance company.”

  “Tod Sanders has it down in the car.”

  “All right. You’ll call me and let me know how it went with Mrs. Hastings.” Without further talk, Isher left the office.

  When the door closed, George Hackman chuckled. “Time you’re through, you’ll be able to drive your Cadillac right through Melbard’s board of directors. Christ, I don’t know how you do it. You’ve got a thousand-volt charge keeps you running, I swear—you’re a thirty-six-hour-a-day man. Nobody keeps up with you, do they? Watch out galloping senility don’t catch up with you by the time you’re forty.”

  Villiers watched while Hackman went to the door, opened it, and looked out, then closed it and went back to his desk, saying, “He’s a sensitive son of a bitch, ain’t he? What the hell did I say that got him up on his high horse?”

  “It wasn’t what you said. It was the way you said it.”

  “Christ, you’d think I was anti-Semitic or something. Thin-skinned bastard.”

  “George,” Villiers muttered, “I couldn’t possibly care less. Don’t parade your wounds in front of me, it’s a matter of no interest. Let’s get down to cases—you were supposed to have some private detectives’ reports for me.”

  Hackman tilted the cigar in his teeth. “That’s all set. Hell, it’s open and shut—the cat’s in the bag, and the bag’s already on its way to the river.”

  “Quit bragging and spell it out.”

  Hackman halved his smile. “All right. Your boy’s a kid named Steve Wyatt, one of the portfolio managers over at Bierce, Claiborne & Myers. You wanted a man with a respectable name who could be controlled. He’s it. Young and fast, and he plays pretty loose. He’s what you might call a high-society black sheep—if your name’s Wyatt it means you can hobnob with Phippses and Cabots, it’s a wealth-symbol name, but Wyatt’s father was a klutz who spent the whole damned family fortune, or otherwise separated himself from it. Mostly in the twenty-nine crash, of course, but it had help from him. The Wyatt kid’s got the name but not the substance—he’s out to regain the family’s lost wealth any way he can, so he can resume his proper place in the scheme of things and mingle with the kind of people he thinks he deserves to mingle with. He’s got most of the credentials for it—fancy prep school and a Yale degree, you’ll find it all in the file.”

  Hackman opened a desk drawer, withdrew a folder, and pushed it across the desk. Villiers reached for it. “I’ve got no use for Yale men.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’ve got no sand. Will you go on?”

  “Okay. I went into this in considerable detail after I heard from you last month. I think Wyatt’s the one we want. We looked over quite a few, believe me.”

  Villiers leafed through the file, not making any pretext of reading it. “How reliable is this information?”

  “Impeccable. Ironclad. I had eight private dicks on it for a month. You’ll get the bill.”

  “How did a man with his record get a job with Howard Claiborne?”

  “It’s all in there. Family connections. Wyatt’s mother’s related to Claiborne, cousin or something.”

  With more vehemence than he usually displayed, Villiers said, “I don’t trust anybody whose family put him where he is.”

  “What’d I do, step on a sore bunion? Listen, if you wanted somebody trustworthy, you wouldn’t be able to use him. Wasn’t the idea for me to find somebody who’d be willing to sell out? What are you worried about? You can buy him, and he’ll stay bought—you’ve got enough in that file to make him jump through hoops.”

  “All right.”

  “You want me to interview him, or do you talk to him yourself?”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Villiers looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. Get him over here in twenty minutes.”

  “That may be a little rough—”

  Villiers lifted his eyebrows. Hackman swallowed the rest of his statement, swiveled in his chair, and reached for the phone. He spoke into it briefly and hung up. “He probably won’t come on such short notice.”

  “When you get him on the line, I’ll talk.” Villiers sat back and opened the file folder. “Then I’ll want a private office where I can study this before he gets here.”

  “I’ll fix something up.” The phone buzzed; Hackman grunted into it, pushed a button, and said, “Wyatt? This is George Hackman of Hackman and Greene—that’s right. Can you hold on one second?”

  Hackman cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and nodded. Villiers got up and reached across the desk for the phone.

  “Wyatt? My name’s Mason Villiers, possibly you’ve heard of me.”

  “Sure. Nice to talk to you.” The voice was young, well modulated, with quick delivery and a slight snappish arrogance.

  Villiers said, “There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you that may be to the advantage of both of us.”

  “Me? Are you sure you’ve got the right boy, Mr. Villiers?”

  “Quite sure. I’m at Hackman’s office, you know where it is. Be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Well,” Wyatt’s voice said, and after a beat added, “it’s kind of rough right now—I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Break it.”

  “I really can’t—”

  Villiers cut him off. “Among the items I want to discuss with you is a woman named Sylvia.”

  There was a long silence, at the end of which Steve Wyatt said in a different voice, “I’ll remember this, Villiers.”

  “I’ll see that you do. Be here in twenty minutes.” Villiers handed the phone back to Hackman, who hung up, his face twisting up in spasms of soundless laughter.

  Hackman said, “He’ll be here, just as sure as there’s a hole in his ass.” It was wasted on Villiers, who had gone back to reading the file. Hackman said less firmly, “Well, then, uh—suppose I leave you here to read that? I’ll be out front.” When Villiers didn’t respond, he left.

  At six minutes past four the door opened and Hackman admitted the young man to the office.

  Villiers looked up without hurry. The young man stood motionless just inside the door. He was handsome in a tennis-bum fashion—thin nostrils, large clever eyes, sandy hair brushed to one side, shaggy but carefully groomed sideburns and hair fluffing out fashionably over the back of his suit collar. He had a long, spare, sinewy body which looked neat in a lean dark suit, deep blue shirt, and modishly wide blue tie. Roman-coin cufflinks and soft expensive shoes. The suit, Villiers guessed, was a Dunhill—maybe five hundred dollars.

  Villiers did not rise; Steve Wyatt did not offer to shake hands. He slid his cool glance past George Hackman and brought it to rest on Villiers. Villiers’ hard eyes penetrated him, sizing him up. “All right, you’ve had your look. I’m Villiers. Sit down.”

  Steve Wyatt settled into a chair beyond the corner o
f Hackman’s desk. “I’m listening.”

  Villiers opened the folder. “You know who I am and what I do. I’m—”

  “What’s that?” Wyatt interjected. “The story of your life?”

  “Not mine. Yours.”

  Wyatt snorted.

  George Hackman said, “Think again, boy. We’ve investigated you right down to the price you pay for pants and the brand of gin you drink and the number of women you balled in nineteen-sixty-two.”

  Wyatt bridled. “What is this? Some sort of blackmail? You’ve come to the wrong store to make that kind of buy. I’m not rich.”

  Villiers shook his head. “George, suppose you go outside.”

  “But I—”

  “It’ll be better if there are no witnesses to this conversation. Better for me and better for Wyatt.”

  “Oh—all right. I get you.” Hackman got out of his swivel chair and went.

  When the door closed Steve Wyatt lifted a flat cigarette case from his inside pocket, selected a cigarette, and lit it in the manner of an actor. Squinting through the smoke, he said, “What’s this all about?”

  Villiers closed the file and set, it down beside his chair. “You’re twenty-eight years old, not married, no close surviving family except your mother, Fran Wyckliffe Wyatt. You—”

  “Why tell me what I already know?”

  “To convince you I’m not bluffing. You went to the right schools as a child, the right summer camps, the right birthday parties and dancing classes and tennis lessons and ski resorts. You marched with the Knickerbocker Greys; you graduated with gentlemanly marks from Hotchkiss and Yale, where you made Skull and Bones, and in nineteen-sixty-four you made a good showing in the Bermuda Cup Race sailing a boat that belonged to a second cousin of your mother’s. You’re a fair shot with a skeet gun, a good horseman and beagler, and a fair if casual hand with a tennis racket. You’re a good swimmer. You can hold up your end of a conversation, whether it’s opera, pop art, stock market, or who’s who. It’s only natural, because you come from a family that represents the luster of aged vintage money, if not the money itself. You’re poor, and your mother is poor. You’ve always been a hanger-on, living off relatives. When—”