by Lewis Orde
‘It’s none of your business what I do and with whom I do it!’ Catarina shot back as Roland stepped in Juan’s path. ‘You mind your own business!’
‘You are my business!’ Juan tried to push his way past Roland. Because Juan was four inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, it was no contest. Roland held him easily, while the friend looked on, uncertain what to do.
‘Are you going to calm down a bit?’ Roland asked.
‘Get your hands off me or I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ Roland smelled alcohol on Juan’s breath and realized he was drunk; the liquor was giving him the courage to continue the struggle.
‘You’ve kidnapped my sister!’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’ Roland opened his arms and Juan sprang free. Quivering with anger, he pointed a finger at his sister.
‘Wait until father learns of this. Then see if he ever allows you to go away for the weekend again.’
‘Please don’t tell him.’ There was fear in Catarina’s voice.
‘Of course I’ll tell him. Even if you have no respect for yourself, I still care about our family name and reputation.’
‘You’re doing a lot for it yourself right now,’ Roland couldn’t resist saying.
None of them heard the steady measured tread of approaching footsteps. ‘What’s all this about, then?’
Roland turned around to face the middle-aged beat constable who had heard the raised voices. ‘Nothing, officer. A discussion, that’s all.’
‘That your version, too, miss?’ the policeman asked Catarina, who nodded. ‘What about you, sir?’ he asked Juan. ‘You’re the one doing all the yelling.’
‘I am Juan Menendez, son of the Argentinian ambassador. And I am trying to rescue my sister from that man.’
‘Are you his sister, miss?’ The constable realized that he had to tread softly. Criminals were his meat, not diplomatic family fights where it wasn’t even worth going after a drunk-and-disorderly charge.
‘Yes, I am. And there is no need for rescuing, thank you. I’m with this man’– she slipped her arm through Roland’s – ‘by choice.’
‘I reckon that’s it then, sir,’ the constable said to Juan. ‘Now how about moving on? Go home and sleep it off.’
Juan fired a final, angry glare at Roland, then turned on his heel and stormed away, followed by his friend.
Catarina and Roland sat in the car for a few minutes, deciding what to do. They had no doubt that Juan would tell the ambassador. Menendez would be furious that his daughter had lied to him about spending the weekend in the country. But his anger would know no bounds if he ever learned that she’d spent the weekend at Roland’s apartment. ‘You’d better go to your friend’s place,’ Roland said at last. ‘We’ll pick up your clothes from my flat, then I’ll run you over to Marble Arch. Maybe your father won’t be too upset if he thinks you just wanted to have some fun with your friends.’
‘I suppose so.’ Catarina sat back, wiping tears from her eyes as Roland drove toward Regent’s Park. The weekend had suddenly died and she felt a headache coming on. This one had nothing to do with guilt, though; it was from anger at her brother who she knew would betray her.
Roland dropped off Catarina at her friend’s house and stayed at the party for a short while. When he returned to Regent’s Park, he sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by the money from Leicester and cursing both Juan Menendez and the Jaguar. If he hadn’t bought the car they never would have bumped into Juan. And if Catarina hadn’t won all the money he never would have bought the damned car to begin with.
He picked up a bundle of cash, crumpled it into a ball and threw it angrily at the wall.
*
Juan Menendez reached home just before one o’clock, too late to wake his father. He waited until morning, after his parents had returned from church. Then, in an embassy car, the ambassador and his son drove to Marble Arch. Half an hour later they returned with Catarina and her hastily packed suitcase.
The family quickly assembled in the drawing room for what Catarina felt was more of a trial than a discussion. As the defendant, she sat in the leather wing chair. Her father, prosecutor and judge, stood with his back to the fireplace beneath the painting of himself. Juan, the witness, sat on the sofa. Maria Menendez, the anxious spectator, sat on a straight-backed chair, nervously kneading a lace handkerchief between her plump fingers.
Ambassador Menendez wasted no time in leveling the accusation at Catarina. ‘You lied to your mother and to me. Is this what your English education has taught you, to show no respect for your parents?’
‘Father, I wanted to attend the party. What would you have said had I asked you?’
‘I would have said no. I saw what kind of party it was – common music, bottles lying all over the place, boys and girls sleeping on the floor. No daughter of mine attends such parties.’
‘What about Eagles?’ Juan cut in. ‘She wasn’t at the party when I saw her. She was with Eagles.’
‘Roland came to the party last night. We went out for something to eat,’ Catarina lied.
‘So, now you arrange to meet in secret, behind my back,’ Menendez said.
‘You left us no choice. It is the only way we can meet since you have virtually forbidden Roland to come here,’ Catarina answered defiantly. She turned to her mother for support; surely she could remember how it felt to be young and in love. Or had it happened so long ago that such memories no longer existed?
‘Nicanor, is there such harm in allowing Catarina to see this man?’ his wife asked.
‘I don’t like him,’ Menendez stated flatly. ‘He’s a golddigger. He isn’t interested in you, Catarina, he’s interested only in this family’s money. Believe me, if you were a poor girl he would not look twice at you. I know these things.’
‘How dare you insult him like that? You only think you know about such things because you married into wealth, but you don’t know anything about Roland!’ It was the first time Catarina could ever remember raising her voice to her father, and she had picked a subject that was sure to wound – in fact, one his political opponents often used. The ambassador’s own family had been comfortable when he had married Maria Menendez, but their wealth was paltry when compared to his wife’s. Maria Menendez was an only child, and when her parents died control of the copper mine and the ranches had passed into Menendez’s hands. From that base he had expanded his own family’s single hotel in Buenos Aires into a small chain located in South American capitals.
Catarina saw the shocked expression on her father’s face and for a moment she was too stunned by her own boldness to continue. Finally she broke the silence. ‘He does not need our money’, she said quietly. ‘He has enough of his own.’
‘He certainly has enough to buy an expensive sports car,’ Juan cut in. ‘You could be killed in a car like that. He even boasted that he’s driven it at more than a hundred miles an hour.’
‘I noticed you looking at it with envy dripping from your eyes.’
Juan fell silent, knowing his sister was right. He would give his right arm to own such a car, and his jealousy fostered hatred for this man his sister had grown so fond of.
‘Were you with him when he drove that fast?’ Menendez asked.
‘No.’ Catarina was not about to be trapped into admitting that she had gone to Leicester with Roland the previous day. ‘And I don’t think he ever drove that fast. He just said it for the benefit of Juan’s friend.’
‘Tell us about Roland, Catarina,’ Señora Menendez said. Her husband’s hard line approach was obviously solving nothing; it only served to increase Catarina’s stubbornness. Surely a more sympathetic attitude would help . . .
‘What is there to tell? He is a friend. I like him very much.’
‘Catarina, your father and I are only concerned for your welfare. If we knew more about Roland, perhaps we wouldn’t be so worried. What about his family? Have you ever met them – does he talk about them?’
; ‘He has no family. His parents died in the war. His brother and sister, also. An air raid.’
‘Tragic, tragic,’ her mother said sympathetically. ‘Is he a Catholic?’
Catarina lowered her eyes and stared at the carpet. ‘His mother was.’
‘And his father?’
‘He was Jewish.’ When she raised her eyes to look at her family, it was as if their expressions had been carved from stone.
‘Do you love him?’ Señora Menendez asked.
‘No.’ Catarina hated herself for the lie, but she had to assuage her parents’ concern. ‘I enjoy his company and he treats me well. What more could you ask from an escort?’
‘Catarina, will you please excuse us?’ Menendez said. ‘You as well, Juan.’
Juan held open the door for his sister. As she passed, she returned his smirk with an angry glare.
Ambassador Menendez sat down wearily in the chair that Catarina had vacated. ‘We must put a stop to this friendship immediately, Maria. Do we forbid her to see him again – or do we send her away?’
‘Why do we have to stop it at all?’ his wife replied. ‘It is harmless.’
‘It is anything but harmless. I don’t care if this Eagles has money of his own, if he has his own business. As far as I’m concerned this man is only interested in increasing his wealth. We must protect her from someone like that.’
‘Catarina is our only daughter. Would you really drive her from us by sending her away?’
‘I know she is our only daughter and that is why we must act. Did we raise her to marry such a man?’
‘Do you mean Jew – a half-Jew?’
‘What does it matter what I mean?’ Menendez said angrily. ‘He is not fit for her. All right,’ he admitted when he saw his wife’s expectant look. ‘Did we raise her to marry some half-Jew? What would our . . . our friends say?’
‘Do we have to worry about such an eventuality?’ Maria Menendez recalled the way Catarina had looked to her for support; now she felt she should side with her daughter, otherwise Catarina would feel she had no support and would run even faster into the arms of any man who showed affection. ‘Catarina said herself that she is not in love with this Roland Eagles.’
‘Of course she is in love with him. She is infatuated with him. Do you think she would defy us as she has for friendship?’
‘Nicanor, take your time. Let this friendship, this romance, continue for a while. Perhaps he will grow tired of her.’
‘Never. Such a man never tires of the company of money.’
‘Then we must hope she will tire of him. Let it pass instead of sending her away or locking her up at home. If you stop them from seeing each other you will only drive her to him more. Give her a chance to come to her senses on her own. When she sees that it is wrong, she will thank us for our concern.’
Menendez raised his hand to his forehead. His wife was right . . . there was no point in driving a wedge between them now. His daughter had enough intelligence – enough Menendez blood – to know the difference between what was right for the family and what was wrong.
Or at least so he hoped.
Chapter Five
On Monday morning Bert Phillips found himself in a quandary over the fact that his employer refused to make a financial compromise to ensure a smooth production schedule. And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to make such an offer, Phillips decided grudgingly as he thought about the new Jaguar he’d seen Roland drive to the factory that morning. Phillips had heard through the factory grapevine about the massive win on the horses over the weekend. Typical, he thought – money goes to money. We slave our guts out so the boss can treat himself to a car like that; then he’s too bloody selfish to toss a few sheets my way.
By Monday evening, Phillips knew that negotiations between union and management at Carters had broken down. A strike was set for Wednesday morning, the same day that the delivery to Mar-Cross was scheduled. The delivery would be made since the drivers weren’t on strike – but what was the point in ordering his workers to black Carters’ merchandise if neither he nor they could profit by it? Oh, it would look fine to act on behalf of the Carters’ people, but it was a principle Phillips couldn’t afford – not when there was something to be gained by it.
It was a dilemma to tax the mind. Eagles had shown clearly that he wouldn’t pay. Then who would? Certainly not Simon Aronson, even if he had floated the idea initially. He’d be sure to side with his partner. Then what about one of the customers who was expecting merchandise for the Christmas season? How desperate were they for their orders? Phillips stayed up thinking about it until long after his wife had gone to bed. Finally, he reached his decision. Most of the outstanding orders were small, with the exception of one large retail firm that would be caught up short if its order was late. Phillips decided to pay a call on Adler’s.
The following morning he phoned the factory saying he was sick and would try to be in later. Then, wearing his one good suit, he traveled from his apartment in Burnt Oak to the West End. By ten o’clock he was at Adler’s, asking to see the electrical goods buyer on an urgent matter. After ten minutes, Bruce Simpkins came out to see him. ‘Mr Phillips, I’m a very busy man. You don’t have an appointment. What can I do for you?’
‘I think I might be able to help you.’ Without waiting for an invitation, Phillips entered Simpkins’ office and sat down. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard yet, but there’s going to be a strike at the factory which supplies Mar-Cross with heat-resistant plastic components.’
‘I was aware that a strike was possible, but I’ve been assured that our order will not be affected.’
‘It won’t. The parts for your order are being delivered tomorrow morning. The only problem is, the men are threatening to black Carters’ goods once they arrive.’
‘I see.’ Simpkins bit his lower lip. ‘Where do you come into this?’
‘I’m shop steward at Mar-Cross.’
‘Would your union members black Carters’ merchandise completed before the strike began?’ Phillips nodded. ‘Why have you come to see me about it?’ Simpkins asked.
‘Because I’m disturbed by the stand our management is taking. They just don’t seem to care. They’re getting ready for a head-on clash with the workers and they don’t give a damn about who gets hurt.’
‘Like people waiting for orders, eh? What can you do about it, Mr Phillips? I assume you can do something, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I can stop it. The men will listen to me.’
‘I see.’ Simpkins reached for the telephone. ‘Blackmail, is it?’
‘Calling Mar-Cross about my visit won’t help you, Mr Simpkins. I’ll catch hell and have to find another job, but your order will still be delayed indefinitely. Empty shelves at Christmas time won’t do much for your store’s profits.”
‘We could order elsewhere.’
‘Not this late, you couldn’t.’
Simpkins removed his hand from the telephone, aware that if the order went sour he might be held to blame. However, he was not about to bribe this crooked union official from his own pocket. It was time to shift responsibility onto those who could afford to carry it. ‘Just a moment,’ he told Phillips. He left the office and walked up the corridor toward the woman who sat in front of the executive offices. Monty Adler was busy, so Simpkins settled for Albert. He spent five minutes in the office, then returned to Phillips. ‘Come with me.’
Albert Adler was standing by the window when Phillips entered the office. He waved for Simpkins to leave. ‘Hardly the bearer of good tidings, are you?’ he greeted Phillips in his high, reedy voice.
‘I’m just doing my best to avoid a nasty situation, Mr Adler.’ Phillips looked around the office and selected the most comfortable chair, confident that he held all the aces. He was perfectly at ease; Albert was just another member of management – another of the thems.
‘And profit yourself at the same time, no doubt,’ Albert said. ‘Not that I’ve
got anything against profit, let me hasten to add.’
Management never does, Phillips felt like saying. Instead, he remained quiet and waited for Albert to continue.
‘How much did you have in mind to persuade your men not to interfere with our order?’
‘I was thinking of a hundred pounds.’ Phillips warmed to the thin, bony man in the overly formal clothes; he understood the rules of the game exactly. All in all, a much better man to deal with than Roland Eagles.
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘You’re expecting a big order.’
‘True. But by ensuring the smooth passage of production you would also be helping other retailers. I don’t see why we should pay a hundred pounds for their benefit.’ Albert walked around the office, head bowed in thought. He knew he should throw this blackmailer out on his ear. His father would do just that. But who was to say that his father was always right? Perhaps Albert could use this situation to his advantage, and show his father just how shrewd a businessman he was. ‘Will the strike at Carters be a lengthy affair?’
‘It could go a month.’
‘All right.’ Albert had reached his decision. ‘I’ll give you a hundred pounds. But only if your men refuse to handle Carters.’
‘What?’ Phillips blinked in shock.
Albert smiled and Phillips couldn’t help thinking that the pale man looked like a grinning corpse. ‘You heard me. A hundred pounds to disrupt Mar-Cross. Make our order late.’
‘But why would you want to do that?’ Phillips started to flounder, realizing too late that he was hopelessly out of his depth.
‘None of your business, Mr Phillips. Just do it. Otherwise I get right onto your factory and you’re out of work. And even if we do have glaring gaps in our shelves come Christmas time, that won’t be much consolation to you, will it?’ Albert opened the door.
