by Stuart Woods
"Oh, Sandy," Laddie said, and he seemed a little flustered. His shoulders sagged. "I think you'd better come in here; there's been a development you have to know about."
Sandy followed Laddie into his office. A man in his shirtsleeves was seated opposite the desk, and he rose as Sandy entered.
"Sandy," Laddie said, "I don't know if you know Walt Bishop, from our legal department."
"No," Sandy said, offering his hand.
"Sit down, both of you, please," Laddie said. "Sandy… well, Walt, perhaps it would be better if you told Sandy what you've just told me."
"Of course, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said. "First of all, Mr. Kinsolving, I want to apologize for not being able to tell you this sooner. I was on vacation in the Caribbean, and, because of the airline schedules, I wasn't able to return to the office until just a few minutes ago."
Sandy shrugged. What was the man on about?
"You see," Bishop continued, "the week before last, I came into the office on Saturday morning to write some instructions for my secretary before I left town. I ran into Mr. Bailley, the elder Mr. Bailley, when I went to use the copying machine."
"Father often worked on weekends," Laddie said.
"That was when Mr. Bailley asked me to do it," Bishop said.
"Do what?" Sandy asked.
"Write his will."
Sandy froze. "Jock Bailley asked you to write his will?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand. Why didn't he just call his lawyer?"
"My impression was that it was a spur-of-the-moment thing," Bishop said. "But he was very insistent; he wanted it done that minute, and he wanted to sign it before the day was out. Anyway, he dictated some provisions to me, and I went back to my office to prepare the document."
Sandy looked at Laddie. "You didn't know about this?"
Laddie shook his head. "Remember, he had the stroke on Sunday night. I suppose he would have mentioned it on Monday morning, if he had made it to Monday morning."
"Fortunately," Bishop said, "we have a software package in the legal department that includes a sample will, so all I had to do was add the relevant paragraphs on the word processor, and inside half an hour, I had a will for Mr. Bailley to sign."
"And did he sign it?" Sandy asked.
"Well, we had some trouble finding witnesses. It was a Saturday, after all, and no one else was in the office but the two of us, and we needed three witnesses."
Sandy was having trouble containing himself. "And did you find them?" he asked, as calmly as he could.
"Well, what we finally did was, Mr. Bailley and I took the elevator downstairs to the Four Seasons."
The restaurant was in the lowest level of the building.
"Two of the restaurant's owners, a Mr. Margittai and a Mr. von Bidder, were there, and they and the bartender on duty witnessed the will."
Sandy's heart would not stop hammering against his chest.
"Then Mr. Bailley bought me the best lunch I ever had," Bishop said. "He said it was a load off his mind and his conscience. I put the will in my files and went off on vacation; I didn't hear of Mr. Bailley's death until I returned to work today."
Laddie held up a sheaf of papers. "I have the will here," he said. "I have no doubt that it's legal and proper and that it fully expresses Father's intentions."
"Thank you, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said.
"It's pretty much like the one we read last week," Laddie continued, "except Father increased the sums for the servants and for Angus's trust-that from five to ten million dollars."
Sandy wanted to hammer on the desk and scream at Laddie to tell the rest.
"And he left the wine division to you," Laddie said, finally. "Joan got a third of the remainder of the business, and I got the other two-thirds. That's it."
Sandy let out the breath that he had been holding, as slowly as he could. "Thank you, Mr. Bishop," he said. I would have thanked you a lot more last week, he thought, before I instigated the death of my wife. Christ, if I'd known, none of this would have happened. Joan and I would have been divorced, and I would have had the wine division.
Laddie spoke up again. "Walt, I want to thank you for coming to me immediately on your return. And now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Kinsolving and I have some talking to do."
"Of course, Mr. Bailley," Bishop said. He rose, shook hands with both the men and departed, closing the door behind him.
"Sandy," Laddie said. "This is only my rough estimate, of course, but I think the wine division must account for about a quarter of the value of the company; Joan's third of the remainder would account for another quarter. And, of course, you already own three percent of the stock. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you are now the majority shareholder of John Bailley amp; Son. Ironic, isn't it?"
A great deal more ironic than you know, Sandy thought. "He told me he was going to do it," Sandy said. "I thought he just hadn't gotten around to it."
"He must have had some sort of premonition of his death,"
Laddie said. "It was certainly unlike him to do anything precipitously on the spur of the moment."
"Yes, that's true," Sandy said. He was getting his heartbeat under control, now.
"What do you want to do?" Laddie asked. "I'm at your disposal."
"Laddie, I don't want your company," Sandy said. "Tell you what: Let's get your accountant together with my accountant; the two of them can choose a third man, and the group can evaluate the company. I'll pull the wine division out of the corporation, and I'll sell you my share of the liquor company for whatever the three men say it's worth. The company has no debt; you won't have any trouble raising the cash for a buyout. That way, each of us will remain his own boss."
"Done," Laddie said, slapping his palm onto the desk top.
Sandy stood. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'd like to take a walk."
"Of course."
The two men shook hands and parted.
Sandy walked up Park Avenue, the May sunshine in his face, the air unusually clear and crisp. He was his own man; he felt omnipotent. After a lifetime of toil for Jock Bailley, he had been paid off, and paid off well. He'd have been happy with just the wine division, but now, as Joan's heir, he'd have enough cash from Laddie's buyout to expand the business, open a West Coast branch, maybe even buy a small vineyard or two. He'd always wanted to grow wine, to have his own vineyard's output sold in his own shop. Now he was going to have everything he'd ever wanted, and more.
He walked all the way uptown to his apartment house. As he let himself in, he heard Angus on the phone. He walked into the kitchen.
"Hi," Angus said. "You weren't gone long."
"I didn't feel like working," Sandy replied. "Many calls?"
"A steady stream," Angus said, handing him a handful of slips. "And one wrong number. We don't have anybody named Bart living here, do we?"
"Who?"
"Some guy called and asked to speak to Bart."
Sandy's feeling of omnipotence vanished.
CHAPTER 11
Sandy walked up Madison Avenue with a lighter heart. He had just left the headquarters of John Bailley amp; Son, where he had concluded the corporate separation of the wine division from the company and where he had sold his interest in the liquor division. He gazed idly into shop windows; for many years he had been able to walk into any establishment and buy nearly anything he wanted, but today he had a wholly new sense of wealth. He had a cashier's check in his pocket for twenty-eight million dollars.
What would he buy? A jet airplane for his coast-to-coast trips? Not his style. A Rolls-Royce? Nothing gaudy. A vineyard? Maybe; he would see. But none of those things offered the immediate gratification he sought. He reversed his course and walked down Fifth Avenue; soon he stood in front of Cartier jewelers. He had never owned much in the way of jewelry. He walked into the store and was greeted by a beautiful young woman.
"May I show you something, sir?" she asked, her voice slightly French-accented.
The
accent reminded him of Duvivier, who had been very quiet for the past month, and he dismissed it from his mind. "I'd like to look at a wristwatch, please," he said.
"Of course; this way, please." She led him to a long glass case filled with watches.
Sandy examined half a dozen, then picked up a Panther watch, in eighteen-carat gold with a matching bracelet. "How much?" he asked.
"This model is fifteen thousand dollars," she said. "Plus sales tax, of course. We also have the Panther with diamonds." He shook his head. Nothing gaudy. "I'll take it," he said, and handed her his Platinum American Express card. He would get a frequent-flyer mile for every dollar charged to the card, and the little bonus pleased him.
The young woman slipped the watch onto his wrist, showed him how to work the hidden clasp, then disappeared with the instrument to have a link removed from the bracelet for a better fit.
Sandy wandered around the store, glancing at diamond necklaces and broaches in the cases. Nobody to celebrate with, he reflected. One of these days before long he would come in here and buy some bauble for a beautiful new woman. The saleswoman returned, and he considered her for a moment. She was certainly elegant looking, and under the expensive suit she wore was surely a nicely sculpted body. He fantasized how she would look, feel in bed. It was a pleasant thought, but no. No sales clerks. He could afford any woman, now, any woman at all. He signed the credit card receipt, then slipped on the new watch and handed her his Rolex. "Would you send this to my home, please?"
"Of course, Mr. Kinsolving, and thank you for shopping with Cartier. I hope to see you again soon." She folded her business card into the receipt and handed it to him.
Maybe, he thought, looking at her breasts; maybe for some spontaneous evening of good food and sex, if he began to feel randy He didn't feel randy, not yet. It would come, though; it always did.
"Thank you…" he glanced at her card, "Ms. Duval."
"Angelique," she said.
He gave her a little wave and left the shop. He had one more business call to make, but he wanted to feel the check in his pocket for a while longer. He strolled slowly up Fifth Avenue, enjoying the sunshine and the atmosphere. He looked at the faces of the people approaching him. Perhaps one in ten seemed nearly as happy as he on this fine day. The others seemed worried, hurried, and harassed. He took as long as possible to reach his next stop, a handsome stone building off Fifth Avenue in the Sixties, not far from his apartment house. He climbed the steps and was observed by a uniformed man on the other side of the heavy door of glass and wrought iron. After the briefest of examinations, the man opened the door and showed him in.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Yes, I'd like to open an account," Sandy replied. He was in a foyer with marble floors and walls. A pair of overstuffed sofas faced each other; excellent paintings hung on the walls.
"Did you have an appointment, sir?"
"No. My name is Alexander Kinsolving; you may say that your bank was recommended by Arthur Shields of Wayne and Shields, my accountants."
"Would you please take a seat, sir?"
"Thank you." Sandy sat on one of the sofas and glanced at his new watch: two minutes past the hour. Let's see how long this takes, he thought.
The guard spoke briefly on a telephone, then returned. "Mr. Samuel Warren will see you, sir; please follow me." He ignored the stairs and showed Sandy into a small elevator. "You'll be met at the top, sir," the guard said, pressing a button and stepping out of the car.
Sandy rose four floors and stepped out of the elevator to be met by a plump, middle-aged woman.
"Mr. Kinsolving? Will you follow me, please?" She led him to the end of the hall to double doors of mahogany and opened one for him. "Mr. Warren, Mr. Alexander Kinsolving."
Warren came from behind his desk and extended his hand. "How do you do?" he asked. "I'm Sam Warren; please call me Sam. It's Sandy, isn't it?"
"That's right," Sandy replied shaking the man's hand. "I didn't know you were expecting me."
"I wasn't, exactly, but Arthur Shields rang today and said I might be hearing from you. I'm glad it was sooner than later." Warren waved him to a comfortable sofa and sat down beside him. "Would you like some coffee or tea?"
"Tea would be nice," Sandy replied.
Warren nodded to the woman, who still stood at the door, and she disappeared. The two men chatted idly until she returned with a silver tea service, then Warren poured for them both. "Now, Sandy," he said, "how can I be of service?"
"Are you acquainted with John Bailley and Son?" Sandy asked.
"Of course. Fine people, I hear."
"I've just acquired the wine division of the company, which I started some years ago, and some cash for my interest in the liquor division. I've always banked at Morgan Guarantee, the company's bank, but now that Jock Bailley is gone, and since my wife recently passed away, I feel that it's better to reestablish elsewhere. Your bank comes highly recommended by Arthur Shields."
"That's very flattering," Warren said. "Let me tell you a little about Mayfair Trust: we're private, of course-very private; we're based in London, with branches in a dozen cities around the world, and we offer a range of services that are as personal as our clients wish them to be-investments, mergers and acquisitions, money management, practically anything you might require. We have a few customers who simply deposit funds with us and deal with their affairs themselves, but nearly all of our clients ask for a more complete service."
"That is what I had in mind," Sandy said. "I've always operated the wine division as a subsidiary of the larger company, but now I'm independent, and I will need a lot of advice."
"Do you have expansion plans?" Warren asked.
"I already have a London company, and I was thinking of a specialist West Coast branch, dealing primarily in California wines."
The two men talked for more than an hour, and Sandy was impressed with Warren's immediate comprehension of what he wanted to do, and with the off-the-cuff suggestions he made.
Finally, when they seemed finished with their discussion, Warren asked, "Shall I open both personal and business accounts for you, then?"
"Yes, please." Sandy took the cashier's check from his pocket and handed it to Warren.
Warren looked at it and chuckled. "And how long have you had this in your possession?"
"A couple of hours, I suppose."
Warren rolled his eyes. "Oh, dear, the earnings we've already lost! We must put this to work immediately!"
"I'd like a quarter of a million in my personal checking account and two million available for working capital. What would you suggest doing with the balance?"
"Well, I think we should keep you pretty liquid, since you're going to be expanding, and God knows, interest rates are way down at the moment. We have a short-term lending program for periods as brief as a weekend-department stores, race tracks, other businesses that need substantial cash on hand to do business. That brings in much higher rates than are available to the ordinary bank depositor at our competitors, and it's low-risk. I'll have a talk with some of our other people here, and we'll have a few other ideas ready for you, say, tomorrow?"
"Sounds good," Sandy said, turning over the check and endorsing it. "I'll have Arthur send over the corporate resolutions for the business account."
Warren went to his desk and came back with some forms. "We'll need your signature, of course, but don't worry about the rest of the information; we'll deal with that as we need to."
The door opened and the secretary entered. She handed Warren a small folder; he thanked her and handed it to Sandy. "Your checkbook," he said. "Temporary, of course; we'll order something to your specifications."
Sandy took the checkbook and examined it; it was made of black alligator, and the checks inside didn't look temporary; his name and address were elegantly printed on them. He stood to go, and Warren stood with him. The two men strolled toward the office door.
"Sandy, among our many other services we offer advice
on large purchases-airplanes, yachts, real estate. Should you feel inclined to purchase any of those or almost anything else, please let me know. We can sometimes effect large savings. In general, if you want something done and don't know who to call, call me." He handed Sandy a card. "My home number's there, too; I'm at your disposal day or night."
"Sam, it's going to be a pleasure doing business with you."
CHAPTER 12
Sandy entered his Madison Avenue shop with a fresh sense of proprietorship. He greeted his employees and took the stairs to his second-floor office overlooking the street. His secretary handed him a number of telephone messages, and the first one read: Call Bart at 4.00 p.m. eastern time. A number preceded by the San Francisco area code followed. Sandy ground his teeth. There was no avoiding this, he supposed; best to get it over with.
At a quarter to four he left his desk, asked his cashier for some quarters and left the shop. He walked over to Lexington Avenue and found a pay phone. At four o'clock sharp he dialed the number and fed in a handful of quarters.
"Well," Peter Martindale's voice said immediately on being connected. "Nice to hear from you; I said I'd wait a month."
"You didn't," Sandy said. "You called my home."
"Sorry about that," Martindale said. "I thought it best to inject a note of reality early on. By the way, congratulations on your business transaction; I read about it in the Wall Street Journal this morning. I expect my little contribution improved your position."
"I specifically asked you not to do it; I changed my mind, and I left the required message, as specified by you."
"Sorry, old fellow, didn't get the message in time," Martindale drawled.
"That's a bald-faced lie," Sandy said; he was trembling with anger. "The concierge told me that he handed it to you personally."
"A little white lie," Martindale admitted. "I thought it best to proceed as planned. Now it's time for your part of our deal."
