Moroccan Traffic: Send a Fax to the Kasbah

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He was dressed formally, too, in a navy club blazer and flannels, which flattered his weight. His hair was stuck down and his eyes didn’t quite match his smile. Behind him sat Mr. Morgan, now in a short-sleeved shirt and old shorts and passable shoes. A lump of hair had fallen over his face: it moved when he lifted his brows at me. The look said Problems, Problems, and I believed him. Then Lady Kingsley said, ‘Well, that’s it, then? I’d better leave you. How is your mother, Miss Helmann? Well, I hope.’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ I said. I had spent a lot on a nice cotton suit with a strapless top under it. I could be an Executive Secretary or someone taking tea at the Mamounia or even someone sunbathing at the Mamounia, if things had been different. But with Mr. Roland G. Reed on the way, no one knew what to expect.

  Lady Kingsley departed gracefully to what appeared to be a private dining room, where I could see an easel set up on the balcony. It reminded me of something, and I resolutely dismissed it. The door closed behind her and Sir Robert said, ‘Since tea is here, we might as well have it. Mr. Reed will be here in five minutes. Wendy, the papers?’

  I gave them to him, along with two curling Fax messages already decoded. He had others, I saw, on a table, including an envelope that must have come from London by courier. We hadn’t risked bringing Paul Pettigrew, but he was in touch with our accountant all right. He didn’t waste time, either, on preliminaries. ‘Wendy, today we re-open the talk if possible in general terms, without troubling too much about figures. Mr. Morgan has agreed to leave most of the running to me. You’ll be introduced simply as my confidential secretary. He may not want formal notes taken. In that case, memorise what you can.’

  I nodded. In my dispatch-case was a small recording machine, ready to activate. I hoped Mr. Morgan wouldn’t hear it. If MCG agreed to contemplate an offer from Kingsley’s, then Mr. Morgan’s innocence, his talent and his eccentricity might, I thought, be one of our assets. Or even his photographs. I said, ‘Mr. Morgan told you what happened this morning?’

  Sir Robert glanced at his Board member, and then at me. ‘Yes. There is something about that I have to tell you both. I think it should wait until after the meeting. Meanwhile, from what you say, there seems to be some chance that your meeting with Reed was coincidence. Since he treats it that way, then we should. I gather that, when you met, there was no discussion of company business?’

  Mo Morgan said, ‘No, I told you. They didn’t ask what we did, and we didn’t even mention our surnames.’

  Sir Robert said, ‘Then I think you should put it all down to sheer chance. For the moment.’

  I didn’t argue, but I thought it preposterous. It didn’t explain what Johnson and Sullivan thought they were doing, sending a message to a house that was closed. I hoped there would be time to return to the puzzle. Sir Robert said, ‘Anyhow, there is nothing in it to worry you, Wendy. You simply tell him the truth: that you realised for the first time who he was when you read the name on his card. It is what Reed himself says that will interest me.’

  He turned and finding a newspaper on his chair, flung it out of the way and sat down. He was less cool than he seemed, and I was sorry the news I had brought couldn’t wait. I said quickly, ‘Sir Robert, you know there is a party of Canadian journalists in town? Ellwood Pymm is among them. The man I met lunching with Colonel Sullivan. The special Festival seems to have brought them.’

  ‘Another coincidence?’ said Mr. Morgan. There was a little piano. He wandered over and sat down before it, his brown knees apart. He looked at Sir Robert, and I saw Sir Robert’s lips tighten. I had meant to tell, too, about Daniel Oppenheim, but suddenly thought better of it. There is a limit. As Cassandra found, there is a limit.

  Then the door opened, and Mr. Roland Reed was announced and walked in, with our eyes riveted upon him.

  Being of the same stamp as Sir Robert rather than that of Mo Morgan, he had changed out of shorts and into a shirt and tie with expensive pants in fine, pale material. His briefcase and shoes were Italian, his watch plain, and strapped with black leather. His curly brown hair had been brushed, and his smooth brown face wore a look of pleased enquiry. His gaze travelled round us and back to the Chairman. He said, ‘Sir Robert. I’m glad to see you. I’m even more puzzled. These are friends of yours?’

  Sir Robert shook his hand, smiling. ‘I knew it was a small world, but I’d never have guessed this would happen. Do you realise how they felt, when they read your card and saw who you were? Let me introduce Mr. Morgan, one of the most prestigious Executive Directors of Kingsley’s. And this is Wendy Helmann, my invaluable Executive Secretary. If I’d known you were going to feed them, I should have invited myself to the banquet. Please sit. We are very happy to see you.’

  He indicated a place on the settee, and Morgan and I reseated ourselves. Mr. Reed remained standing. He said, ‘If they’d introduced themselves, I should have telephoned you like a shot. How extraordinary.’ He stared at Sir Robert.

  Sir Robert said, ‘Well, you were amazingly generous, both with your help and your hospitality. I long to hear about this film you are making. Do please sit down.’

  Roland Reed said, ‘You really didn’t know who I was?’ Still smiling, he was speaking to Morgan.

  I sat on the edge of my seat. I could see Sir Robert’s mouth tighten. Mo Morgan said, ‘Brother, if I’d known who you were I’d have sold you Kingsley’s. Come on and sit down. They think you think there’s a conspiracy.’

  Quite unexpectedly, the other man laughed. He said, ‘I don’t think I’d have bought it. No. It’s all right, of course. Delighted. Let’s get down to business. By the way, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I brought along a second opinion. A two-man team like your own, as it were.’

  ‘Please!’ said Sir Robert. His expression had eased. As he spoke, someone tapped on the door. To the uniformed man who came in, he nodded acceptance. The uniformed man stood aside, looking behind him. He was smothering a twitch under his tarbush.

  Roland Reed said, ‘I’m sorry she’s late. She always loses—’ and stopped. He was smiling as well, for good reason. Through the door marched the orange-haired den-mother, still attired in the hat and the gauchos. She stopped level with Roland Reed’s chest, and trained her gaze on his face.

  ‘You said they’d lead me all the way from the door, and did they hell? I’ve been to the casino, the shops and the Gents. Next time, you make the bloody dinner.’ She turned to Sir Robert. ‘Sir Robert? Mo? And Wendy.’ Her face, golden with freckles, conveyed unbounded amiability.

  Roland Reed said, ‘You recognised Mo and Wendy? Imagine the shock I got when I walked in and saw them. I wish we’d known who they were.’

  The orange-haired woman rolled up her eyes, looked at me and Morgan again, and pulling off her water-carrier’s memento, dropped neatly into a chair. She said, ‘Rolly, I can’t be bothered. We knew who they were.’

  Rolly Reed’s brown faced settled in on itself, like the face of a man who has had to put up with a lot, and rather liked it. He said, ‘You bloody rat,’ with affection.

  I couldn’t imagine Sir Robert saying that to me in a thousand years. Reed had come to a secret business meeting with his reputation and millions at stake, and his stupid mistress (secretary? No.) had pulled the plug on him. Sir Robert looked as I felt. Mo Morgan looked wholly blank, until a smile such as I had never seen spread over his long beaky face. He said, ‘Go on! How did you know?’

  She fanned herself with the hat, grinning back at him. ‘You do all you do and can’t guess?’

  They were smiling at one another when Sir Robert asserted himself. I was proud of him. Gazing tolerantly at the red hair, the hat and the gauchos he said, ‘I don’t believe, Mr. Reed, I’ve had the pleasure.’

  Roland Reed, BA, MA, LB, Finance Director and film amateur looked taken aback. He said, ‘I’m so sorry. I assumed you knew each other. Sir Robert Kingsley. Miss Marguerite Curtis Geddes, Chairman and Chief Executive of the MCG Company.’

  Chapte
r 6

  As an executive woman, I have never been as upset as I was that afternoon. Every normal canon of business procedure was flouted. Even Sir Robert, I could see, was quite shaken.

  He must have known, I suppose, that the Chief Executive of MCG was a woman. Perhaps he also knew that she had been a professional make-up artist. It was clear, however, that he had failed to connect her in any way with the flamboyant orange-haired cooking woman of Mr. Morgan’s story and mine. He had never met her before, but his breeding and experience told. He greeted her warmly and, in a friendly yet business-like manner, launched into the business of the day. It took him all of five words before she interrupted him. It took him all of three minutes to discover what he had got himself into.

  It is usual, when one company proposes to take over another, for each firm to protect its position. Sir Robert, using the broader, simpler figures from Pettigrew, set out to present an impressive portrait of Kingsley’s. Mr. Roland Reed, undermined at every turn by his Chairperson, attempted to show that MCG was broadly based, well supported, and capable of extending both its plant and its network of up-market salons. At the end of a fraught thirty minutes, his discourse was brought to an end by his employer.

  Miss Marguerite Geddes said, ‘That’s a load of codswallop, Rolly. Lousy debts, raw material hiccoughs, strikes in the salons – someone’s working us over. We’ll find out who it is and we’ll mince them. No one can beat us for branded product or service, and we’re not dependent on white goods like you are. Interest rates? Extra competition from Europe? What’s your future?’

  Sir Robert smiled. ‘I venture to say, better than yours.’

  ‘OK,’ said Miss Rita Geddes. ‘Put down your figures.’

  By this time, Mr. Reed was looking at the carpet, I was looking at Sir Robert and Mo Morgan, like an overworked snake in the Assembly of the Dead, was gazing in rapt admiration at the explosive Miss Geddes. Sir Robert said, smiling, ‘At this stage of the negotiation? Before we reach that point, Miss Geddes, I think we each of us would have to feel rather more committed.’

  ‘Well, how do we know when we’re committed?’ said the cooking lady. ‘Toss for it?’

  There was a polite silence, during which I passed round the cakes, and Mo Morgan, getting off his piano stool, poured several more strong cups of tea. Sir Robert said, ‘You mean you are unwilling to proceed further without detailed figures? I warn you, we should require the same from you.’

  ‘You can have them,’ said Miss Geddes. ‘Rolly?’

  Mr. Roland Reed, with slight reluctance, lifted his closed briefcase and lowered it. He said, ‘Whenever you like.’

  Sir Robert paused. He said, ‘I am really not sure. Compared with yours, mine is a very large firm with certain responsibilities. Unless I see my way clear, it would not be correct for me to reveal sensitive figures.’

  ‘Sensitive?’ said Miss Rita Geddes.

  I said, ‘Miss Geddes, all figures affect the market, no matter how well a firm is doing.’

  She gave me a long, considering look, woman to woman. ‘Oh, I know,’ she said. ‘The way some of your divisions have been operating, the market would go into stitches. And there’s the loan you raised to buy Mr. Morgan. But that’s all pretty well known, surely? There’s Seb Sullivan sniffing around, and Ellwood Pymm, and Danny Oppenheim and God knows who else. Even if we decide not to bite, what’s the harm? Everyone knows that Kingsley’s are in trouble.’

  ‘In trouble?’ said Sir Robert. He gazed at her, and his expression slowly softened. He said, ‘And that is why you are here?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Miss Rita Geddes. ‘Gossip says that you’re failing; we’re rocky; and if you can take us and strip off our assets, you could pay for Mo Morgan’s photographs. But I’ve an eye on the long view, not the short term. Tell me that gossip is crap, and I’ll listen. I’m here on behalf of my shareholders.’

  ‘You would make a nice sum of money,’ said Sir Robert. ‘You’ve an interest in films? You could set up your own company.’

  ‘I’ve got my own company,’ said Rita Geddes. ‘And if you’re in a terminal mess, then forget it. My backers will want to stay as they are, or find a better White Knight to depend on. So tell me. What accounts can you show me?’

  There was a small silence. Outside, soft music played, and birds sang, and there was the muted and civilised sound of rich swimmers swimming. Sir Robert said, ‘You brushed aside the matter of commitment, but I would remind you that I have shareholders to consider as well. I cannot make figures known unless I am assured of your interest.’

  Roland Reed said, ‘You are assured of our limited interest. Suppose we ask you to supply limited figures.’

  ‘And you will do so as well?’ said Sir Robert.

  ‘Why not?’ said Miss Geddes. ‘What happens? Poor wee Wendy does a round trip to London?’

  ‘I think,’ said Sir Robert, ‘that we may be able to collect what you want without exhausting Miss Helmann unduly. Would the day after tomorrow be too early?’

  It was agreed. I had the figures at my feet, and Mr. Reed’s were presumably also at his fingertips. What we had decided on was a space to consider tactics. And for once, Miss Rita Geddes let it pass.

  Everyone rose. Miss Geddes shook hands vigorously with us all, and pausing by the small piano, bent and dashed off a phrase close by Mo Morgan’s shorts. He swung round, his prehensile fingers lifted. For a moment, I thought they were going to play a duet, then Mr. Reed called from the doorway. ‘Spoilsport,’ said Miss Marguerite Geddes, and got up and left.

  Sir Robert said, ‘I think, Mo, we need a stiff drink.’ There was a bar, discreetly camouflaged, in one corner. Mo Morgan cast me a brief, opaque look, and then wandered over and opened it. Sir Robert said, ‘Well. That’s a tricky one. I could have made a deal with Reed in a moment. The problem is that silly woman.’

  ‘Dead true it is,’ said Mo Morgan, slinging glasses before us and sitting. ‘He’s only the front. She’s the tough one.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Sir Robert. He sipped his drink. ‘My God, Mo. Do you always drink them this strong? She’s a little make-up girl, that’s all, by profession. Then ten years ago, she came into a fortune, raised some collateral and established the company. And a little make-up girl in mentality she still is. Did you hear she lost her way?’

  ‘There’s no secret,’ said Morgan. ‘She does. They ribbed her about it this morning.’

  ‘Did they also tell you,’ said Sir Robert, ‘that she can’t read or write? She’s retarded.’

  Mo Morgan said, ‘It sounds more like dyslexia.’

  ‘That’s what they call it,’ said the Chairman. ‘Nice name. It still means she’s illiterate. The poor sod with the ink in the square could manage a business better than she could. Which brings me to what happened this morning.’

  My ears were buzzing. I heard him through the fumes of the alcohol Mo Morgan had poured for us all. It came to me that he hadn’t liked being asked to pour it, and that he was not behaving as a loyal employee truly ought. For Executive Directors were employees, just as I was, and could be sacked. Then I remembered that Mo Morgan really couldn’t be sacked, because the prosperity of Kingsley’s depended on him. Mo Morgan said, ‘Yes. About this morning. Reed knew who we were, but concealed it. So it wasn’t an accident. We were directed to the square from the café. Johnson and Sullivan saw us lurking, and amused themselves sending us into Reed’s arms. Probably Reed and his pals haunt the Jemaa every morning.’

  ‘But why?’ I said. ‘Mr. Reed didn’t ask us any questions. Why take all that trouble and gain nothing from it?’

  Mo Morgan said, ‘It gave them a chance to weigh us up before the meeting, and us, if you like, a chance to underrate them. And since they were meeting us soon, it suited them to seem to be civilians. They’re clever, Sir Robert. The smartest thing that woman did was to admit that they knew us all along.’

  I couldn’t see how. I said, ‘It did nothing to help her own side. Now we kn
ow to link MCG with Johnson and Sullivan.’

  Sir Robert was gazing at me without really seeing me. ‘Yes. Johnson,’ he said. ‘The man without whom you and I wouldn’t be here. I find Johnson’s provocative role in all this a little disturbing. The more so, since I have some new facts about the gentleman. If gentleman is the word I am looking for.’

  He didn’t sound quite as calm as he looked. I wondered how he could have found out anything about Mr. Johnson from Marrakesh, unless the Balkan lady had turned up.

  What had turned up wasn’t the Balkan lady, but a report from London on MCG shareholders. Most were known. Some had identities which, for one reason or another, were harder to cull from the Register. In the case of a takeover, it was usual to spend quite some effort on tracing them. I sat and heard Sir Robert tell us all that. ‘And?’ said Mo Morgan. But by that time, we both guessed what the score was.

  ‘One such case,’ said Sir Robert, ‘has just yielded to enquiry. Under another name, and not publicly recognised, a holding amounting to ten per cent of the equity in MCG is owned by Mr. Johnson Johnson. He held substantially more, but sold the rest when they went to the market. He has known Mr. Roland Reed for a long time. Reed, in fact, was Johnson’s personal accountant.’

  There was a silence. ‘And Rita Geddes?’ said Mr. Morgan. He had flushed.

  Sir Robert raised his brows. ‘Surprising though it seems, I understand there exists a long, confirmed friendship between the lady and Johnson. It dates back to the death of his wife, and there is presumably not much doubt of its nature. I am afraid,’ said Sir Robert, ‘that my delightful portrait is being painted by a man who wishes no good to Kingsley’s, since his mistress and his money are bound up in the firm we intend to take over.’