by Lewis Orde
‘Was it in writing, Mr Eagles?’
Roland was stunned by the question. ‘Of course it wasn’t in writing. I came up to see your father. We sealed it with a handshake.’
‘If there is nothing in writing, then as far as I am concerned the original delivery date stands. Good evening, Mr Eagles.’
Roland slumped into a chair, still holding the receiver. He ran the conversation through in his mind, order canceled, nothing in writing, Monty Adler off sick. Something smelled. He called Catarina and told her he would be late, then ran downstairs to the Jaguar and headed for Adler’s on Regent Street. Albert had already left when he arrived. Bruce Simpkins wasn’t there. And yes, Roland was told, Monty Adler had been away all week. Roland considered driving to Albert’s home in Maida Vale. He got as far as starting the car and changed his mind. Confronting Albert in front of his family would solve nothing. A cool head was needed now. He would wait until morning. Meanwhile, he would keep his date with Catarina. If he broke it he was sure her father would find some way to use it against him . . . That was all Roland needed!
The evening was a disaster. Roland couldn’t shake thinking about his conversation with Albert and, hard as he tried not to, his conversation was mainly limited to the canceled order. So gloomy was his mood that even Catarina’s mixture of sympathy and humor failed to lift him. Ambassador Menendez was glad his daughter returned home before ten o’clock; he was even more pleased when Roland didn’t come in with her.
Roland spent most of the night sitting in his living room, but instead of thinking of a way to deal with Albert rationally, he only made himself angrier. By the time he arrived at Adler’s early the next morning, he was spoiling for a fight.
‘Your father told me to do the best I could,’ Roland said when he finally met with Albert. ‘Ask him.’
‘My father is a very sick man at the moment. I’m not about to pester him with problems I can resolve.’
‘So any promises he made don’t mean a thing now, is that it?’
‘Mr Eagles, I was firmly against allowing your company any leeway with the delivery date. When you make a deadline you stick to it, otherwise you have no right to deal with us.’
‘And what the hell am I supposed to do with almost a thousand appliances all bearing the name of Adler’s on the casings and packaging?’
‘I have no idea. But the problem isn’t mine, is it?’ Albert said staring at Roland, as if challenging him. ‘Perhaps there is a solution that might accommodate both of us.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We’ll take the order from you after all – but at your cost.’
‘What?’ Roland’s surprise at the suggestion soon passed when he realized that this was what Albert had been leading up to the whole time – canceling the order to leave him high and dry, then offering this as a means of partial salvation.
‘For your cost, Mr Eagles,’ Albert repeated. ‘You’re quite familiar with that practice, aren’t you? I seem to recall that when you first took control of Mar-Cross you offered your products to selected shops at cost. Why is it so terrible to offer Adler’s the same gracious terms? Besides,’ he said, smirking, ‘what are you going to do with almost a thousand appliances bearing Adler’s logo?’ Albert was obviously quite pleased with himself; the hundred-pound payment to Bert Phillips had certainly brought handsome dividends, and his father being ill was an additional piece of fortuitous timing. Albert had argued strongly with his father against extending the delivery date, stressing that this was just the way that they could capitalize on Roland’s misfortune – a misfortune that Albert himself had helped bring about. Given more time, Albert was sure he would have won his father over – just as he had won him over once before, many years earlier, on a far more important matter than this. But the problem had taken care of itself when Monty became sick. Now there was no one to block Albert’s sharp moves that would save the store money. By the time the old man returned it would be signed, sealed and, most importantly, delivered. Monty would be forced to look up to his son, admit that he could carry his own weight. For as long as he could remember, Albert had felt that he was merely tolerated in the family business, and the experience was humbling, with every opportunity for responsibility taken out of his hands. He was nothing more than a man given a title and a position, then forced to react like a child to his father’s mandates. Well, this episode would change all that. At last Albert would demonstrate his business acumen, and old Monty would have to recognize his worth. The only snag in Albert’s scheme – the one he hadn’t anticipated – was Roland’s refusing to take him up on his offer.
‘I wouldn’t offer you the drippings off the end of my nose!’ he said, turned abruptly and left. Driving back to the factory, his mind seethed with thoughts of Albert and Adler’s. Roland wanted revenge; he would settle for nothing less. By the time he reached his office he thought he knew how he would have it.
Roland’s first move was to call Lawrence Chivers into the office, then he telephoned Simon Aronson and Sally Roberts and asked each of them the same question: did they know anything about getting a permit for a street market? Specifically, the Berwick Street Market in the West End, less than half a mile from the Adler’s store on Regent Street. Neither did. Sally, however, suggested that Roland contact Alf Goldstein. Cab drivers knew everything.
Sally’s intuition proved correct. Goldstein told Roland who to contact and how much it would cost. The best booths would already have been allocated for the Christmas season, but bribery could work wonders. This time Roland had no qualms about paying off anyone. He wanted one of the top spots so he could sell off all the merchandise at his regular wholesale price and simultaneously cause considerable embarrassment to Adler’s.
Once he had arranged for a booth for the week preceding Christmas, he called Albert Adler. ‘I’ve thought over your proposition.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Albert’s thin voice disguised the relief he felt. Roland’s initial rejection of his offer had been a shock, forcing Albert to question his tactics. Sharp moves like his were only acceptable when they showed a reward, not when they resulted in a loss. And if Adler’s came up with nothing – no reduced price, no delivery – how in God’s name was he going to explain that to his father? ‘When can we expect delivery?’
‘You can’t.’ Roland wished he could see Albert’s face as the conversation unfolded. ‘My answer’s still the same.’
‘Then why did you bother calling me?’ Confusion would be showing on Albert’s face now, Roland thought.
‘Because I want you to be the first to know what I’m planning to do.’
‘What do you mean?’ Concern now, as a yawning chasm began to open in front of Albert.
‘I’m selling everything myself, from a stall in Berwick Street, right alongside all those stalls selling fruit and vegetables. And I’m going to advertise it as merchandise that would normally sell at Adler’s for twice the price. It’s even got your company’s name on it, so people will know they’re getting authentic bargains.’
‘You can’t do that! It’s our merchandise!’ Finally horror, as Albert began the long fall.
‘Just watch me.’ Roland hung up, immensely satisfied. At one time he’d thought that Albert was so thin because of the tension from being around his father. Now he was convinced that the man’s anxiety was more likely due to his own blind incompetence.
*
Monty Adler returned to the store the following week. Within ten minutes he was on the telephone to Roland. Less than an hour later, Roland was at the store, riding the elevator to the executive offices.
‘Just what the hell has been going on while I’ve been away?’ Monty demanded. He looked pale, and the massive head seemed to have shrunk; but his voice was just as strong, his manner just as belligerent.
‘Ask your son,’ Roland said, nodding toward Albert who stood by Monty’s desk.
‘He’s given me some cock-and-bull story about you holding on to the order
because you want to try selling it yourself from some stall in Berwick Street Market. Listen, sonny, you can do whatever you want with your own goods but you’d better be damn careful what you do with goods that have my name on them.’
‘I haven’t been left with much choice. Your son called my factory at five-thirty on the date of the original delivery and informed me that the deal was off because we hadn’t kept to the original date. Then he offered to take the stuff from me at my cost.’
Monty spun around to face Albert. ‘Did you do that?’ For a long moment, Albert remained perfectly still. Finally he nodded. ‘Who the hell do you think you are to break my word? I gave Eagles a promise that we’d accommodate any reasonable lateness on his part because of the strike. You knew that, you even tried to talk me out of it. So the moment my back’s turned you do it anyway.’
As father and son squared off, they seemed to forget Roland’s presence in the office. ‘He gave small shops a break when he was getting started!’ Albert retorted. ‘What’s wrong with trying to get the same terms for Adler’s?’
‘Because I gave him my word, that’s what’s wrong with it! What kind of business are you running when you don’t honor your promises?’
Albert’s face turned paler. He knew why his father was reacting this way. ‘If it had been Meir who’d done it, you’d have approved wouldn’t you?’ he said, referring to his dead older brother. ‘Even if it had cost Adler’s money you’d still have patted him on the back and told him he was right for trying. But because it’s my idea it’s no good – right?’
‘Meir, olova sholom, would never have done such a thing. He would have honored any word I’d given.’
‘Epitome of virtue, wasn’t he?’ Albert sneered. ‘We all know how virtuous he was.’
‘Just keep his name out of this!’ Monty yelled.
Roland began to feel uncomfortable. He remembered Lawrence Chivers’ remarks about Monty Adler feeling the wrong son had died. Now, as he listened to Meir Adler’s name being bandied about he realized that Albert was still paranoid about his brother, even if he had been gone for almost thirty years. Roland brought his hand to his mouth and coughed. Instantly Albert and Monty froze in embarrassment, then turned to face him.
‘I regret that you are a witness to this disagreement, Mr Eagles,’ Monty said slowly. ‘I also regret that during my illness my son saw fit to go back on the word I had given you.’ Roland glanced at Albert and saw that he was seething with anger and humiliation; the man clearly wanted to leave but dared not. ‘Our spoken bond still stands. Let me know when you’ll be able to deliver and I’ll have my people ready.’
Roland was in a fix. Was Monty’s apology as sincere as it sounded? Certainly, the argument with Albert had been convincing, but Monty had been in business a long time. He was a canny old devil. He knew what damage it would do to Adler’s reputation to have its merchandise sold in a street market; he couldn’t afford to let that happen. Was his apology based on that fear? And what would have happened if Roland had accepted Albert’s offer? Would Monty, quite happily, have accepted it too?
‘I’m sorry, Mr Adler. I’ve already made my arrangements. Your former order goes on sale in Berwick Street Market the week before Christmas.’
Monty shook his head sadly. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake, Eagles. You’re going to upset a lot of your regular customers by selling your own goods at retail level.’
‘Not at all. Your name will be on the merchandise, not mine.’
‘We’ll never deal with you again.’
‘I can’t afford to deal with a company that doesn’t keep its word.’
‘That won’t happen again, not while I’m around.’
‘Fine, but how long will you be around, Mr Adler?’ Roland could swear he saw the old man flinch at the question. Monty Adler wasn’t frightened of dying – at his age he was resigned to it – but he was petrified at the thought of leaving the business to his remaining son. Roland couldn’t help wondering if what Albert said was true and that the old man would be more at peace with himself if his older son were still here . . .
*
A green Mar-Cross delivery van inched its way carefully down Berwick Street with barely a foot to spare on either side. The driver leaned out of his window to judge the distance between the side of the van and the stalls that lined the road. Lawrence Chivers did the same on the passenger side. This was the easy part. Backing out was even tougher. On the previous three days that the van had brought merchandise from the factory in Wembley, reversing out of Berwick Street had left scratches on the paintwork. No one could blame the driver; he hadn’t been hired to drive though the eye of the needle like this.
The van stopped in front of an empty stall where Roland stood. Chivers and the driver jumped out, then all three men unloaded the van. There wasn’t much left to sell now. The first three days had cleared sixty percent of the Adler’s order. Today, Saturday, would take care of the remainder. The advertisements Roland had placed in the Mercury had drawn the crowds, and Roland enlisted help from all quarters to meet the demands. Sally Roberts had worked for two afternoons while Alf Goldstein had put in a morning. Even Simon Aronson’s wife, Nadine, had turned up. And Catarina had promised to do her best to be there today. Roland had never sold anything in a market before and didn’t care if the people who helped him had never done so either. Just as long as they were strong in number and could shout loudly enough to drown out neighboring stall holders. Not that there was any direct competition . . . Roland’s booth was flanked by stalls selling fruit and vegetables, toys and linens. No one else in the market was selling electric irons and kettles; certainly not with the Adler’s logo.
‘Going to rain,’ Chivers remarked gloomily as he pulled his coat collar up around his neck.
‘When doesn’t it?’ Roland tugged his sheepskin coat tighter. It was cold as well, that damp chill peculiar to London that drove right through to the bones. It was a wonder these regular stall holders didn’t die of pneumonia or rheumatism by the time they were forty, Roland thought. Thank God today would be the end of it . . .
When they had finished unloading Chivers helped the driver back out of the narrow market place, then returned to help Roland set up the stall. A tarpaulin was spread across the top to keep off the rain. Enlargements of the advertisement from the Mercury were fixed to the frame. The green-and-white boxes, all marked prominently with the Adler’s name, were piled high on the stall; those that wouldn’t fit were placed under cover.
‘Eagles’ cheap-jack market, open for another day’s business,’ Roland laughed. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Kettles and irons – buy them at Adler’s or buy them here for half the price! Buy now, they won’t last forever!’
Chivers lit his pipe and watched. He had never seen anyone enjoy work this much before.
At ten-thirty Catarina arrived, dressed sensibly in a thick raincoat, heavy boots and a red wool hat. Wound around her neck was a long red-and-white wool scarf. ‘Going to a football game?’ Roland asked as he kissed her.
‘Shopping for Christmas,’ she answered. ‘At least that’s what I told my father.’
‘Where’s your escort?’
‘Juan? I lost him in Oxford Street. I tried on some clothes in a store, and while he was looking at something else I slipped out the back way. Have you sold much so far?’
Roland nodded. ‘Have you come to watch or help?’
‘To help, of course. What do you want me to do?’
‘See that cafe over there? Bring Lawrence and me some tea before we freeze to death.’
Catarina brought the tea in heavy, awkward cups, then stood behind the stall between Roland and Chivers. She watched them for a while, listening to their pitch. ‘May I try?’
‘Go right ahead.’
‘Women!’ Catarina’s voice reached a volume Roland had never thought it possessed. ‘Are you fed up with pressing your men’s shirts? Tired of making them tea? Make your life easier by getting your men t
o treat you to a new iron or electric teapot!’
‘Not bad,’ Chivers murmured around his pipe. ‘Girl’s got talent.’
Roland grinned as two middle-aged women approached the stall with their husbands. Catarina’s approach had created new interest. Another man walked up, alone, but he was not interested in the merchandise on sale. ‘Aren’t you Ambassador Menendez’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’ Catarina seemed mystified at being recognized. Belatedly, Roland recognized the man; he was one of the reporters who had been sitting at the press table on the night of the banquet at Claridge’s.
‘What are you doing working in Berwick Street Market?’
Roland was too slow to step in between Catarina and the reporter, and Catarina was too happy and too proud to even consider lying. ‘Helping my boyfriend,’ she answered brightly.
Roland felt his stomach sink. All he needed now was for this to appear in some newspaper. The ambassador would go through the roof. ‘Do you want to buy something?’ he asked the man roughly. ‘If not, there are people behind you who do.’
‘Sure, I’ll take a kettle for my mother.’ The man grinned as he handed over the money, took the package and walked away. Watching him leave Roland breathed a little easier. Maybe it was the reporter’s day off and he wasn’t interested in a story. Roland hoped so.
By four o’clock, as the sky began to darken, only six electric irons remained. Roland decided to wait half an hour, then he would give them away to the first people who walked past the stall. He was more than satisfied with his market venture. Lawrence Chivers had already left with the bulk of the money taken in to deposit it in a night safe. Just six more irons and they could pack it in. Impetuously, he grabbed hold of Catarina and kissed her. As they broke apart, a bright flash of light seared his eyes. He heard Catarina scream something in Spanish. When his vision cleared Roland saw the reporter who had bought the kettle; standing next to him was a man in a raincoat and hat holding a press camera. Roland had no doubt what was on the film.
He leaped from behind the stall and threw himself at the photographer, but the reporter stepped in the way while his companion made his escape. Roland managed to push past the man but the photographer already had a thirty-yard lead, the camera swinging from his hand as he raced down the narrow alley leading to Brewer Street. Roland gave chase until someone’s foot hooked around his ankle and he went flying onto the wet ground. The last thing he saw before his head hit the road was Catarina attacking the reporter, punching him in the head and kicking at his ankles until a group of shoppers surged forward to stop the melee.
