Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

  “Eager,” said Bunch.

  “Too eager,” agreed Rudd. He hesitated. Then he said to Hallett, “Accept.”

  12

  Buckland’s town house was Regency, an imposing four-storey double-fronted white building in a cul-de-sac just off Sloane Square. The reception room curtains were undrawn and they saw Rudd’s car arrive, so it was Buckland who opened the door to the American.

  “Glad you could make it,” said Buckland. “Very glad indeed.”

  The entrance hall was large, a checkered floor in black and white marble and dominated by a many-armed chandelier which descended through the entire length of the house from a high cupola roof. A wide staircase, with niches for plinthmounted statuettes, spread out from the centre, up to a first-floor landing which ringed the vestibule in an open-sided, pillarsupported balcony. There were more alcoves and statues throughout the circle. The impression was of great height: it reminded Rudd of a church. Buckland cupped his arm, leading him back into the reception room. Rudd was uncomfortable at the gesture but didn’t try to remove his arm. “Harry Rudd,” announced Buckland, just inside the door.

  Rudd had come without any idea of how many people would be at the dinner party but he had expected it to be large, maybe including some other Buckland House directors. Only two women turned towards him.

  “My wife Margaret. And my sister, Vanessa Hartland,” introduced Buckland.

  The sister approached first, hand outstretched. Rudd saw a yellow-haired, angular woman whose make-up hadn’t been applied with any particular care. She wore a long black evening skirt and a white blouse, high at the neck. From the movement as she walked she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the blouse. The handshake was firm, masculine almost, and she held his eyes during the greeting. Rudd broke the gaze, looking to the other woman. Lady Margaret Buckland was formally dressed, in long-skirted blue silk. The gown was off the shoulder, but discreetly so: a single diamond glittered from a gold strand at her throat. The handshake was soft and brief, almost as if she didn’t welcome the physical contact. He thought she looked attractive with her dark hair short: he wondered what she looked like when it was long.

  “Welcome to our house,” she said. From the colour of her skin and the deepness of her eyes Rudd had expected the accent to be foreign, not cultured English.

  “It was kind of you to invite me.”

  “Should have done it yesterday,” said Buckland briskly. “Thoughtless of me.”

  Rudd became aware of the approaching butler; there was only champagne on the tray. Rudd took a glass and then a brief sip. He would have preferred gin; champagne gave him gas.

  “How long will you be staying in England?” said Margaret, opening the polite small talk.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said Rudd. “Some time, I think.”

  “I think the theatre in London is far better than New York, don’t you?” said Vanessa taking up the politeness.

  Rudd made a deprecating movement with his hand. “I don’t think I attend either sufficiently to be able to make a judgment,” he said.

  “Lincoln Centre’s jolly convenient, everything grouped together like that, but I still think our National has the edge,” said Vanessa.

  “Perhaps I should try to go while I’m here,” said Rudd. “What would you recommend?”

  Vanessa blinked at the question. “Just got down from Yorkshire,” she said. “Which culturally might as well be the Arctic. I don’t know what the Season is.” She turned to the other woman. “Do you, Margaret?”

  “There have been some good reviews of Gielgud,” said Margaret. “And there’s a Greek production, but I understand it’s very experimental.”

  Buckland’s wife had a shy, almost retiring attitude, but Rudd didn’t think she was overpowered by the other people in the room; rather it was as if she’d withdrawn as a spectator, to watch them perform. It was something he found easy to recognize because he frequently did it himself, but at gatherings larger than this.

  “Don’t get much time for the theatre myself,” said Buckland. “Prefer something more active. Do you like gambling, Harry?”

  “We’ve got it in Atlantic City,” said Rudd. “But not legally in New York. So I don’t get much opportunity, unless I go to Vegas. We’ve two hotels there.”

  “Thought we might go on after dinner. That all right with you?”

  “Before Rudd could respond, Vanessa said “I love it!”

  “Fine,” accepted Rudd.

  The meal was announced. Rudd put his untouched champagne glass on a side table and looked around enquiringly. Margaret offered her arm for him to take her into the diningroom: as with the handshake, it was just token contact.

  “You’ve a lovely house,” said Rudd, as they crossed the spacious hall.

  “I spend most of my time in the country,” she said. “But I enjoy it when I’m here.”

  The dining-room was big, like everything else in the house, but the main table which Rudd supposed could easily have accommodated twenty people was unlaid. The setting was at a smaller circular table, close to a window annexe. The curtains were undrawn here as well, with a view of the street. Rudd felt vaguely disconcerted at the idea of being looked in at; maybe it was something to do with spending so much time at the top of high buildings.

  “Do you know London well?” asked Vanessa. She had a strident, glass-rattling voice.

  “Not particularly,” said Rudd. “I worked here for a couple of months, but it was a long time ago.”

  “Doing what?” asked Buckland. It was a casual question.

  “Working at the Berridge,” said Rudd.

  The three other people came up from their plates practically in unison. “You worked at the Berridge!” said Vanessa.

  “Ten years ago,” said Rudd.

  “But what as?”

  “The title was assistant manager,” said Rudd. “But actually I was a kind of dog’s body attached to the reception desk.”

  “I don’t understand how,” said Buckland.

  “My father-in-law thought it a good idea for me to learn the hotel business here.” A lie, thought Rudd. Morrison had split them up to show his power, the sort of power he had intended to use throughout the rest of their married life.

  “It must seem quite different to you now?” said Margaret. Unlike her husband and sister-in-law, she kept the surprise from her voice.

  “Not really,” said Rudd. “Not a lot seems to have changed.”

  “What do you think of it?” asked Buckland.

  Rudd pulled back from the table for the course to be changed and more wine added to his glass. “I think it’s extravagant,” he said.

  Buckland began to smile, imagining a compliment, but the expression faltered. “Extravagant?”

  “I think the staff level is too high, I think your reception area needs completely redesigning for greater efficiency, and if you insist upon the sort of fabrics and furnishings that you’re maintaining at the moment, your refurbishing costs are going to be enormous.”

  “The staff, design and fittings are necessary for the sort of hotel it is,” said Buckland tightly.

  “It’s magnificent,” agreed Rudd. “The service is impeccable: I was just giving a professional answer.”

  Rudd felt pressure against his leg from the side upon which Vanessa was sitting. He looked towards her. She smiled at him but said nothing.

  Buckland was clearly irritated. Margaret attempted to cover the awkwardness, using another course change as an excuse. “Hope you like grouse?” she said.

  “It’s excellent,” said Rudd. “Not the sort of thing we get the chance of often in New York.”

  “Ian shot them himself: we’ve a shoot in Scotland,” said his wife.

  “Do you have a place in the country?” said Vanessa.

  “No,” said Rudd. Why was he aware of sounding dull? He continued quickly, “But I often go up to Connecticut and I sometimes sail out of Rhode Island.” Rudd stared down at his plate, astonished wi
th himself: now he was lying!

  “Sail!” exclaimed Buckland, his earlier offence gone. “What a coincidence. I’ve a yacht down on the Hamble. Twelve-metre but I don’t race. Decided on comfort instead. Perhaps we can take it out?”

  “We’ll have to see how the time goes,” said Rudd, seeking an escape. His face was burning, not so much from embarrassment but from anger at the stupidity of what he’d done.

  “It would be great fun,” insisted Vanessa. “We could make up a party; maybe go across to France. Why don’t we make a definite date?”

  Rudd had dismissed the first occasion as a mistake but he was sure the pressure this time was deliberate. He shifted his leg even further. Making a conscious effort to recover, he said, “I expect to be quite busy while I’m here; I couldn’t make any positive commitment.”

  “Perhaps we should just keep it in mind,” said Margaret.

  “Of course,” said Rudd. He saw she was looking directly at him and wondered if, from her spectator’s position, she realized what had happened.

  He was relieved when the meal ended and the women followed the English custom, leaving him and Buckland to port and cigars. The Englishman offered him the humidor but Rudd shook his head. He’d smoked at school, experimentally like everyone else, and at university fooled with marijuana and been disappointed. Buckland passed the decanter and Rudd helped himself.

  “Have you had the chance to look at the figures?” said Buckland.

  “Yes,” said Rudd. “They were very full. Thank you.”

  “What did you think?”

  Until they had obtained English legal opinion, the only thing he could do was keep the ball in court, decided Rudd. “They’re expensive,” he said. Conscious of the other man’s frown, Rudd added, “But I don’t think it would be impossible to run them economically.”

  Buckland brightened visibly. For a negotiator, the man’s emotions were too near the surface, thought Rudd. He accepted the decanter again.

  “I’d like to bring it to the notice of my board as soon as possible,” said Buckland.

  There was no legal commitment and therefore no danger, decided Rudd. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t say that discussions have started between us; it would be wrong at this stage to put it any stronger than that,” he said.

  The door from the hallway opened abruptly and Vanessa came into the room, her wrap already around her shoulders. “Time’s up,” she declared, in her echoing voice. “It’s time to go and win a fortune.”

  They used Rudd’s car. As he got in he wondered which one of them would be lucky. And not just tonight.

  Nearly everyone was in evening dress and an effort had been made, with chandeliers and velvet drapes, but Rudd’s immediate impression was of shabbiness; the casino was smaller, too, than he had expected. He was introduced to Tommy Ellerby and effusively Buckland guaranteed the credit for any cheque Rudd wanted to cash. He went with Buckland and Vanessa to the caisse: both drew £20,000. Rudd took £5000. Buckland and his sister went to separate blackjack tables. Rudd put his chips in his pocket and walked to where Margaret was standing, near the door leading to the separate bar.

  “Not gambling?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I can’t understand the attraction,” she said. “Ian loves it.”

  Rudd looked to where her husband sat: he was intent upon the game. “I can see,” he said.

  “What about you?”

  “Both the hotels in Las Vegas have casinos,” said Rudd. “I prefer the house odds.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, back at the house?”

  “I wanted to see what it was like in London.” The roulette table was at the top of the room. “Come and give me luck,” he said.

  Rudd waited, watching the run of play and as soon as the colour changed, followed the ball with evens bets. There was a consecutive run for five spins of the wheel. He let his £500 ride for three turns, halved his stake and held back from playing on the turn when the colour changed from red to black, giving him a profit of £5500.

  “That was done almost clinically,” said Margaret.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a rule about quitting while you’re ahead?”

  She looked to where her husband sat but said nothing.

  “Shall we go to the bar?” invited Rudd.

  “If we’re not going to gamble any more, that’s about all we can do.”

  Instinctively he took her arm, not realizing the gesture until he touched her. He pulled away. She appeared not to notice. They walked directly behind the tables at which Buckland and Vanessa were sitting. There was a tiny wall of chips in front of Vanessa but Buckland’s stake seemed to have diminished. In the bar Rudd chose brandy, but Margaret only wanted mineral water.

  “Are you going to buy the ships?” she said.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Ian will be angry that I mentioned it; he said we shouldn’t during dinner.”

  “Why did you?”

  “It seemed a stupid pretence: that’s why you’re here, after all.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend him about the Berridge,” said Rudd.

  “Recently he seems to have become very protective about the hotels.”

  “Wasn’t he always?”

  She made an indecisive movement but didn’t reply. Instead she said, “You mustn’t mind Vanessa.”

  “I didn’t say that I did.”

  “You didn’t have to: I saw what happened at dinner.”

  “Does this sort of analysis always come so quickly after a first meeting?”

  “Now you’re offended.”

  “No, really,” said Rudd sincerely.

  “Embarrassed then?”

  “Nervous about what you might discover.”

  “I don’t think it would be easy to discover much about you, Mr Rudd,” she said. “I’ve decided you’re a very private man.”

  “What sort of person are you?” he said. Quite different from the impression he’d formed earlier, he thought.

  She made another dismissive gesture. “Ordinary,” she said. She sighed, looking into the casino. “This isn’t very polite of Ian, is it?’ she said.

  “I’m content enough,” he said. And he was; the realization surprised him.

  “Is there a Mrs Rudd?”

  “There was,” he said. “She died, some time ago.” Ten years, two months and three days, he thought. He hadn’t visited the grave for a long time.

  “Children?”

  “No.” He decided against telling her the circumstances of Angela’s death.

  “Ian and I haven’t got any, either,” she said. “He’s very disappointed: there’s a thing in the family about continuing the line. The English love their dynasties. The Bucklands regard themselves as a dynasty.”

  A mixture of bitterness and sorrow, he judged. Her honesty was not forced: she was utterly ingenuous. It was not often he met someone like that; hardly ever, in fact.

  “About time,” she said, looking beyond Rudd. The American turned to see Buckland and his sister entering the bar together.

  “Champagne for me, hemlock for him,” said Vanessa.

  “How much did you win?” asked Rudd.

  “Four and a half thousand,” said Vanessa.

  The excitement was obvious in her voice and Rudd thought she was the sort of person who would always want to win.

  “And how much did you lose, Ian?” said his wife.

  “Bad form to discuss one’s gambling losses,” said Buckland flippantly.

  “And to abandon one’s guests,” she said.

  “I didn’t consider myself abandoned,” said Rudd.

  “How did you get on?” Vanessa asked him.

  “I won,” said Rudd.

  “Let’s cash up.”

  He let her precede him to the caisse. As he was being paid out, Vanessa said, “We should celebrate.”

  “Isn’t it a bit late?” said Rudd.

  “I didn’t mean tonight,” she said.


  Rudd pocketed his winnings. “I’d like to return tonight’s hospitality sometime while I’m here.”

  “I didn’t mean that either,” she said.

  It took thirty minutes for Grearson and Morrison to go through the Buckland House portfolio that the Boston lawer had managed to assemble through the foreign brokers. At the end of the examination Morrison said, “In the time you’ve done well, very well. Thank you.”

  He had only been able to qualify for twenty Preferential on the London market, but the subsidiary purchases, through Europe and Asia, entitled him to an additional eighty Preferential on a shareholder’s demand vote and he had 2000 Ordinary shares.

  “This was only the loose stuff,” said Grearson. “Just lying about waiting to be picked up; it isn’t going to be as easy after this.”

  “There’s a listing for Initial,” said Morrison, going back to the folder. “What are they?”

  “I’ve already made the enquiry, through Paris,” said Grearson.

  “How much has it cost so far?”

  “Cheap,” said Grearson. “A little under $500,000. Do you want to stop now?”

  Morrison stared up, surprised at the question. “Good God no!” he said. “I want more. Much more.”

  13

  Sir Ian Buckland sat almost nonchalantly in his chairman’s position at the head of the table, anticipating the meeting that was to come. He supposed it might have been wise – at least courteous – to brief in advance the directors upon whose support he knew he could rely, but he had built himself up to the announcement and didn’t want to diminish it, even slightly. It wouldn’t have been complete if Faysel had been present. It had been sensible for the Arab to avoid the later accusation of a conflict of interest and absent himself from the meeting. Buckland went patiently through the opening formalities and while the previous minutes were being read he looked around the room. Condway and Penhardy were close together, involved in some whispered conversation. The merchant bank director was assembling files and documents before him, forever like some damned clerk about to sit an examination. From the bottom of the table Gore-Pelham smiled and then winked. Buckland smiled back. Smallwood held his eye boldly, until it was Buckland who turned away. Let’s see how confident you stay in the next hour, thought Buckland.