Villiers Touch

by Brian Garfield

  “All right, all right. You said you wanted to talk to me about someone named Sylvia. I don’t know any Sylvia.”

  Villiers shook his head with a mild grimace. “That won’t do, and you know it.”

  “I tell you, the only Sylvia I ever heard of was Sylvia Ashton Warner, and I never met her. Sylvia Sidney, maybe? I never met her either.” Wyatt had a glittering smile and a quick glib-ness. His accent was the kind of maloccluded patois spoken by some of the upper crust who had obviously been taught as children to speak with pencils clenched in their teeth.

  Villiers said, “If the name meant nothing to you, you wouldn’t have hurried over here. Forget it, you’ll only waste both our time by stalling.”

  “I tell you I—”

  “Sylvia Hunter, now deceased, was the alcoholic wife of a real-estate financier named Farris P. Hunter. Her life was a textbook history of notoriety and divorces punctuated by psychoanalysis, tranquilizers, and a parade of gigolos, of whom you were the last.”

  Wyatt’s eyes were bright with venom. He spoke without bothering to pry his lips apart, “You fucking bastard.”

  The phrase was, in a sense, a literal description of Mason Villiers. He didn’t respond to it. What he said was, “I’ll finish this, and then you can get the wisecracks off your chest. When you graduated from Yale you spent two years drifting the international watering places, worming your way into jet-set cliques as a professional guest, bed partner, and mascot with your brassy line of patter and your well-developed seductive talents. You cut a swath with eight or nine society wives and too many unmarried girls to count—I have a sampling of names and dates here if you want them, but it’s not necessary right now—incidentally, if you’ve got a microphone on you, you’ll find this conversation has been jammed to jibberish.”

  “I’m not wired for sound,” Wyatt growled. “Go on—you’re doing the talking.”

  “You met Sylvia Hunter in nineteen-sixty-four, in Biarritz. You ripened the acquaintance in sixty-five, when you made it your business to appear in Palm Beach at a time when Mrs. Hunter and her daughter were there but Farris Hunter was wintering in New York to take care of his business affairs. The daughter was seventeen, the product of one of Sylvia Hunter’s earlier marriages. Mrs. Hunter was forty-two at that time, plenty attractive from these photographs, in spite of the punishment she gave herself.”

  “You had the draft board on your tail at the time, but Mrs. Hunter introduced you to a doctor who told you what drugs to take before your draft physical, so you were classified 4-F and didn’t serve. By this time, of course, you were already living on forgery—you wrote a lot of bad paper against the checking accounts of various people who couldn’t afford to expose you because they couldn’t afford scandals. A bit sordid for a Wyatt, you must admit. I’ve got photocopies of some of the canceled checks here with your forged signatures on them.”

  Wyatt jerked violently. The back of his hand struck his cigarette, showering sparks over his pants. He brushed them awkwardly and straightened up, trying to smile; the effect was tremble-lipped, white, ghastly.

  “To go on. You ingratiated yourself with Sylvia Hunter, and in the absence of Farris Hunter, you moved into their Palm Beach estate, living ostensibly in a guest house, but actually, of course, sleeping with Mrs. Hunter. But Mrs. Hunter’s daughter was underfoot all the time—Amy. You seduced the girl, of course. Amy was—is—a careless pretty blond who grew up with several stepfathers in seasonal homes in New York, Palm Beach, and the Adirondacks, with the usual visits to Riviera spas. She hated her mother. When you seduced her, she taunted her mother by revealing that she was taking you away from her mother. It was too much for Sylvia. She died of what the doctor friend called heart problems caused by an accidental overdose of reducing pills. The fact is, Mrs. Hunter didn’t take reducing pills, she didn’t need to. Was Mrs. Hunter so enraged by the way you let her daughter capture your attentions that she threatened to throw you out and expose you? And when she threatened you with exposure, did you kill her to keep her quiet? Probably not—and anyhow, I doubt anybody could prove premeditated murder at this late date. But the doctor who signed the false death certificate can be reached, and there’s enough circumstantial evidence lying around to put you in a bad fix if anybody decides to resurrect the case. Any comment?”

  Wyatt’s crooked smile slipped. “You’re asking all the questions, and you’re answering them. What am I supposed to say?”

  “I’ll go on, then. Mrs. Hunter died. You must have been sick of the kept-man role by then anyway—you could live in style, but you’d never accumulate the fortune you wanted, not even by forgery and blackmail. You’ve always wanted to restore the family fortune.”

  Wyatt snorted.

  Villiers picked up the folder and turned pages. “In April of nineteen-sixty-seven you persuaded Howard Claiborne, through your mother, to recommend you for an executive training program in a Wall Street firm, not Claiborne’s firm. You spent a year as a trainee, and with your brains and character you were well qualified to become a stock-market swindler. You—”

  “You sound like you’re describing yourself.”

  “No. I’ve never been a cheap swindler. One thing I learned early—if you’re going to take the risk, you may as well steal big. The penalty’s the same either way if you get caught. That’s something you’ll learn for yourself if you survive long enough.”

  Wyatt cocked his head; for the first time, his curiosity seemed stimulated.

  Villiers said, “Up to now, what I’ve described is ancient history, for you and for me. I have no interest in it, and I won’t use it unless you force me to.”

  “Force you?”

  “Let’s pick you up in May of nineteen-sixty-eight, when you went to work in the bullpen at Bierce, Claiborne & Myers. Your mother had to work hard on Howard Claiborne to persuade him to take you into his organization. He knew some of your background—he had a vague idea of your history. But you promised that was all behind you. You said you’d just been sowing wild oats, and now you were ready to take on adult responsibility. Claiborne swallowed it, provisionally. Not because he wanted to, but because your mother begged him to.”

  “Within a year, always keeping your books scrupulously clean, you were made an account executive, and you—”

  “Account executive,” Wyatt barked. “A two-dollar name for a ten-cent job. Salesman, that’s all I was.”

  “With your ambition, I suppose it was menial. It would have been for me. But it was a leg up, and you used it. You got your chance late last year, didn’t you? You finally persuaded Claiborne to give you a crack at one of his mutual funds. He must have had misgivings, and you must have had your mother bend his ear quite a bit. But finally he let you take over the portfolio of the Wakeman Fund. You started carefully, but it appears it wasn’t long before you were manipulating it like a high-wire juggler.”

  “Crap. Prove it.”

  “Do you think I can’t? You committed the portfolio deep in Petrol stock, far deeper than Claiborne would have allowed if he’d still been auditing your performance as closely as he did the first year. You used the portfolio to cover your own operations—you bought and sold in the name of the fund, but the trades went into your own dummy accounts. I suspect you must have embezzled from the fund to get it started, but it’s immaterial, and I’m sure you put the money back before anybody could find out. The scheme succeeded spectacularly, and you must have put the money back fast—you didn’t want to get caught out by a minor indiscretion like penny-ante embezzlement.”

  “You were deep in Petrol stock. Through the fund, you borrowed heavily to pay for the stock. You pyramided Petrol on factor margins, paying about ten percent cash and borrowing the rest from the factors. You started with ten thousand shares, which you bought for a hundred thousand dollars. It went up a few points, and you took the profits and applied them against the purchase of more stock on the same factored margin. Now you had approximately twenty times your initial cash investmen
t, all tied up in Petrol stock.”

  “But then, six months ago, the stock dropped three points, and you had to pony up twenty-five thousand dollars to cover with the factors. You managed to do that, but Petrol kept going down, and you got desperate. You short-sold a block of NCI, hoping to recover there, but NCI went up about three points. So now you had to produce the NCI stocks to cover your short sales, at a higher price.”

  “Working through Claiborne’s bullpen, you started a rumor that Petrol’s new Chilean oil field was going to be taken over by the Chilean government. Then you sold ten thousand shares of Petrol short. That worked, didn’t it? There was a plunge, and you stepped in to buy the stock at a lower price and cover your previous short sales. It was a little clumsy, but a good trick, and you got away with it—as far as everyone was concerned but me.”

  Wyatt’s cigarette, forgotten in his still hand, had grown a tall ash. He said, “You’d have a hard time proving that story.”

  “I can prove enough of it to raise serious questions. I can produce at least four witnesses who’ll testify they heard the rumor first from you. I can see to it that the factoring banks produce their records of the money you borrowed on big margins to pyramid Petrol stock, and I can prove you were selling Petrol short at the same time you were spreading the phony rumor about the nationalization of the Chilean oil field. The lawyers call that manipulation and fraud—they take a dim view of it.”

  “You ought to know,” Wyatt growled.

  “It’d be pathetically easy to nail you,” Villiers said. “All I’d have to do is blow the whistle. In fact, I don’t even need to do that. All I need to do is see to it that the information falls into Howard Claiborne’s hands. It’ll get you fired on the spot—and unless your portfolios are in perfect shape, which I very much doubt, you can’t afford to have the slightest whisper right now. If Claiborne fires you, he’ll audit your books—and if he finds what I suspect he’ll find, he’ll have to prosecute you.”

  Abruptly Wyatt grinned. “You’re slick, you know that?”

  “I’m glad you’re impressed.”

  “It still doesn’t mean I’ve got anything you want.”

  “I didn’t ask if you’re selling,” Villiers said. “What I’m telling you is, I’m buying.”

  “Buying what? You know I’m broke.”

  “Buying you.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Of course. What do you want me to do—and what do I get out of it?”

  The youth’s brashness both irritated and pleased Villiers. He said, “I’ll want you to take care of a few chores inside Howard Claiborne’s organization.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ll want every piece of confidential information Claiborne has on Heggins Aircraft and certain other stocks. Later on, I’ll want you to plant pieces of information in Claiborne’s files, and spread a few rumors.”

  “To affect the market price of some stock?” Wyatt pursed his lips. “You’re after big game, aren’t you? Suppose I say I’m willing—if there’s something in it for me.”

  “There will be.”

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” Villiers murmured. “You’re outside jail right now on my sufferance.”

  “I see that. Only I’d be a happier workman if I was sure I’d get adequate pay for the job.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Wyatt studied him with narrowing eyes and said slowly, “I can compile a dossier on you too, you know.”

  It made Villiers smile. “Go ahead and try.”

  “You think I can’t?”

  “When you get a little older, you’ll learn how to cover your tracks.”

  “You must have left a few tracks when you were young, before you had experience.”

  “I had experience from the day I was born,” Villiers murmured. “The difference between you and me is, you were born broke, but I was born poor. There’s a hell of a difference, even though you’ll probably never be able to distinguish it. Hell, I was peddling the streets of Chicago when I was eight years old. I state this as advice, not threat—don’t bother trying to dig into my past. You’d be wasting your time.”

  “Maybe,” Wyatt said, making his face judicious and noncommittal. “In the meantime, you want everything I can get on Heggins Aircraft, is that it? I’ll have to figure out a way to get at it—it’s not in my department. Any suggestions?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “What if I don’t? What if I can’t bring it off?”

  “I don’t think I have to spell it out, do I? Let’s not get tedious.”

  Steve Wyatt swallowed. “All right. I’ve never tried spying before—maybe it’ll be amusing.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Villiers muttered. “Now, this next is between you and me, and if it goes any further, I’ll have your head in a basket, understand that. Heggins Aircraft isn’t your main objective. What you’re really going to look for is confidential information on Northeast Consolidated Industries. Everything there is—You’ll have to get into Claiborne’s private confidential files. I particularly need to have anything you can get on Elliot Judd.”

  “Jesus. You want a lot.”

  “With parsley,” Villiers agreed.

  “Do you mean personal items on Judd?”

  “Anything. His private holdings, his politics, the state of his health.”

  “You think he’s not well?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “It rings a bell,” Wyatt said. “He’s been hidden away on that Arizona ranch for almost a year. He’s about as accessible as Howard Hughes. I may not come up with much.”

  “Howard Claiborne’s his broker. He probably knows more about Elliot Judd than Judd’s doctor knows. It will be in Claiborne’s files.”

  “Those files are locked up, damn it.”

  “Do you think I’d have gone to all this trouble to nail you down if Claiborne’s files were out in the open like merchandise on a dimestore counter?”

  “All right—all right. You’ve made your point.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Villiers muttered. Without stirring in his chair, he closed his eyes and said, “You can go.”

  “How do I get in touch with you?”

  “Through Hackman.”

  “How much does he know about this?”

  “Best for you to assume he knows absolutely nothing about it. You’ll make appointments with me through Hackman. Other than that, you’ll tell him nothing. You may get instructions from me through him from time to time. If so, don’t argue with him, because he’ll only be delivering messages.”

  “I understand,” Wyatt said, and got up. Glancing up at him, Villiers saw he had already gained his resilient composure. Wyatt grinned impudently. “So long.” And left the office.

  Villiers picked up the file of investigators’ reports and folded it shut.

  6. Steve Wyatt

  Wyatt emerged from the office with a pulse pounding in his throat, walked forward through the corridor, and saw George Hackman in the front reception room. Hackman stood close behind the receptionist’s chair, leaning forward to read something on her desk, his left forearm balanced casually across her shoulder, fingers trailing one firm high breast. When Wyatt came in sight, Hackman removed his hand quickly, and the girl gave him a saucy upward look—one lifted eyebrow and a smirking upturn of one lip corner.

  Wyatt strode toward the door, but Hackman came around the desk to intercept him. Hackman beamed and put a thick arm across his shoulders to walk him to the door, talking expansively. “Glad you’ve joined our team, kid.”

  “Sure. Welcome aboard, Ishmael.” Wyatt smiled synthetically.

  At the door Hackman turned him with hand pressure. “Hold up a minute.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the office before closing time.”

  “This’ll just take a sec. Stay put.” Hackman went back to the desk and rummaged through a drawer until he found a Xeroxed sheet of paper. He brought it back to the door. “Here
. Long as you’re joining up, be a good idea for us to get to know each other. My wife and I are throwing a little party tonight, nine o’clock. I ran off this little map to show folks how to get to our place from Thornwood. You know Thornwood?”

  “No.”

  “You go up the Saw Mill Parkway to—hell, have you got a car?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Fine, fine. Otherwise I could send somebody to pick you up at the station. Anyway, all you do is drive up the Saw Mill to Hawthorne Circle, keep going on the Saw Mill past the Circle, and it’s the first exit. Take a right and go across the railroad tracks, and you’re on the main drag, this street here.” He planted a stubby finger on the map. “From there, follow the map. Look, it’s all sociable, bring your girl, okay? See you tonight?”

  Wyatt’s shrewd eyes lifted to Hackman’s florid face. “Actually,” he began, but then he hesitated and pursed his lips. “I may be able to come. I’ll let you know later.”

  Hackman clapped him on the shoulder. “Great, kid—great. You take care, now.” He grinned affably.

  Wyatt left without making an answer. He came out of the building into sweltering heat and hurried the two blocks to the baroque building at 42 Wall Street, which housed a number of distinguished brokerage firms and two investment-banking partnerships, of which one was Bierce, Claiborne & Myers, occuping the seventh and eighth floors. Wyatt went into the feudal-hall lobby and crossed the echoing marble, hurrying.

  At the eighth floor the elevator doors slid open with a soft, almost soundless scrape. The hallway was wide and carpeted, broken at intervals by wide, double, carved oak doors. He looked at his watch and was surprised that it was only ten till five. He entered the bullpen by the side door, to attract less attention; coming into the big room by way of carbon-paper-filing-and-clerical country, he tightened his lips and hurried on past rows and rows of desks toward his own, near the head of the room.