Villiers Touch Read online

  She recognized his voice immediately but refused to give him the satisfaction of it; she said coolly, “Who is this?”

  “I was hoping you’d know my voice,” he said. She gave him no encouragement. After a moment he said, “It’s Mace Villiers. Remember?”

  “Yes, I do.” Giving away nothing, she was trying to make up her mind whether to be pleased or angry.

  “I left a message I’d call. Didn’t you get it?”

  “It must have slipped my mind,” she lied.

  He said, “I thought we might have dinner.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a date.” She saw Cynthia’s ferocious frown and headshake.

  “Break it,” Mason Villiers said. •

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I want to see you. It’s a business matter as well.”

  She thought, As well as what? But what she said was, “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She realized she was smiling; she composed her face and added, “I’m afraid the rest of the week is blocked in quite solidly.”

  “Oh, come on. Let’s make it tomorrow night. Do I have to horse-trade with you? I’m altogether serious, and it’s an important matter.”

  “What business could you possibly have to discuss with me? We’re hardly in the same line.” She ignored Cynthia’s impatient scowl.

  “I don’t do business over the phone,” he said. Then his voice turned low and ultramasculine: “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven, your apartment.”

  “Do you always press so hard?”

  “My luck? I always push that. You walked away from me once.”

  “And you’d like to have me believe that never happened to you before, and you can’t stand it.”

  He laughed. “Exactly. I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.” He hung up.

  She put the receiver slowly in its cradle.

  Cynthia said immediately, “Villiers?” And when there was no reply, she assumed she had guessed correctly; she said, “You’re scared of him. Are you going to meet him?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  Cynthia grinned happily. “You are? Why, that’s even better than Emiliano Upton. Hell, Mace Villiers is the world’s champion fornicator. If he can’t—”

  “We’re going to discuss a business deal,” Diane said.

  “Horse shit. Admit it, why don’t you? You’re just as attracted to him as any other woman with all her faculties would be, but you’re afraid of him because he’s a man you can’t control. But don’t you see that’s why he’s just what you need? Mace Villiers is strong enough to—”

  “Will you please just shut up?” Diane demanded.

  “Honey, I only want to see you regain your self-assurance as a woman.” Cynthia gave an emphatic nod of her head and batted out of the room.

  Diane said aloud, to her disappearing back, “May the gods save us from meddling busybodies.” But she was smiling.

  4. Russell Hastings

  After a dull lunch with two junior SEC attorneys Russ Hastings walked the steaming sidewalks to Chatham Square to find a taxi bound uptown through the Bowery. He waved down a vacant cab and got in.

  “Well?” the driver growled. “Where ya wanna go?”

  He had to look it up in his notebook. “Forty-fourth and Sixth.”

  “Unh.” The traffic light was green, but the driver was busy writing the address down on his clipboard. “You got the time, mister?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “Thanks. I got to put it down on my ride sheet here, see, and I busted my watch last night.” The dashboard of the taxi was festooned with plastic madonnas, American flags, religious medallions. The driver finished scribbling and looked up; the light had just turned red against him. He put the shift in neutral and revved the snarling engine, startling a passing pedestrian. When the light changed, they started off with a neck-snapping jerk and careened across the intersection. Hastings sat back and tried to ignore the taxi’s violent progress through the traffic; watching, from the perspective of the back seat, always made him tense with alarm.

  It was a big cab, a Checker, the high old body style with jump seats. A warped sliding plexiglass window separated the back from the front seat; it was open, against the heat.

  The driver was a compulsive talker: “You one of them broker guys? My daughter works for one of them guys—Howard Claiborne, maybe you heard of him. Now an’ then I get tips on the stock market, y’understand what I’m saying?”

  Hastings only grunted to indicate he was listening. The driver was a hulking big man with a thick brutal chin and a polished bald head; from the rear quarter he looked like a thug.

  An errant car crossed the taxi’s bows, and the driver roared in a voice like a bassoon, out the window: “Whassamatta with you, ya dumb asshole—tryin’ to getcha stupid fuckin’ balls creamed?” The driver shook his head and said in exasperation to Hastings, “Mutterfuckinsonsuhbitches think they own the road or somep’n. Y’understand what I’m saying?”

  Hastings glanced at the license sign on the glove-compartment door. He made out the driver’s name on the placard: Barney Goralski. The photo wasn’t much worse than his own passport photograph. It gave a vague indication of a big fleshy face, nothing more.

  “Yeah,” Barney Goralski was musing, “that stock market sure a hell of a place. My daughter, Anne, now, she gets all kindsa inside dope, y’know, but she’s a good kid, she don’t go spreadin’ it around the wrong places. Y’understand? Yeah, I fool around some with them stocks myself—I’m an independent businessman, y’know, own this cab myself. Ain’t one of your hired minority-group thugs what don’t know how to drive a cab. It’s a fuckin’ disgrace the punks they put behind a wheel nowadays. Half these stupid fleet drivers ain’t got no idea at all how to get from one place to another. You gotta keep movin’ to make a living in this racket, mister, I can tell you—you get yourself caught in fuckin’ traffic jams, and you lose your shirt. Y’understand what I’m saying?”

  Hastings grunted. Goralski gunned and braked violently, slithering between cars, outwitting traffic. In the taxi everything seemed slightly loose—taximeter, doors, windows, ashtrays, plexiglass, horn ring, change counter—so that a constant din of rattles assaulted the ear, symphonic accompaniment to Barney Goralski’s nonstop monologue. “One time, see, I buy a hundred shares of this five-dollar stock. So right away it becomes a three-dollar stock.”

  Goralski cursed a double-parked truck, bucked loudly past it, and once more launched into his history of his battles with the stock market: “’Nother time I get this tip, so I buy a hundred shares of a six-fifty stock. I pay thirteen and a quarter commission.”

  It awed Hastings that the cab driver could remember the exact figures, let alone believe anyone could conceivably be interested.

  “But then I find out the fucking stock’s selling at eighty times earnings, y’know what I mean? Eighty times earnings, Christ-sake. So I get shaky. The stock goes up half a point, and I sell out everything, both them stocks. I end up with a net loss of a hundred and thirty-seven bucks and seventy-five cents, thirty bucks of which is commissions to the crooked bastards that sold it to me in the first place.”

  “Then I buy a hundred shares of this Trymetronex—cost me damn near thirteen hundred, time I paid the commission. And the minute I buy, it starts to slide. I put in a bunch of sell orders a point above the market—I admit I was pushin’ for that extra point, y’understand what I’m saying? I figured, shit, it’s bound to bounce back sooner or later. So it goes down to nine. From twelve and a half down to nine mutterfuckin’ dollars. Then they pull some legal hocus-pocus, the bastard corporation calls its convertible debentures. You know what that does?”

  Hastings grunted, which was a mistake, because Goralski had to explain.

  “Well, they got convertible debentures worth ten million bucks, and when they recall them they issue shares of common stock to replace the debentures. Debentures�
��that’s bonds. Y’understand? So they shovel out ten million bucks’ worth of new stock onto the market, and naturally the price drops to seven mutterfuckin’ dollars. You can bet your sweet ass those insiders knew all about the debenture recall in advance. It’s little outside guys like me that get grabbed by the balls. Then I go back to the stupid asshole broker, and you know what he says to me? He says my stocks was overvalued when I bought them, he says. He says I shoulda known better. Jesus Christ, the mutter-fucking sonofabitch didn’t say that when I BOUGHT them!”

  Mercifully they had arrived at 44th Street. Hastings’ ears rang. He paid Goralski, tipped him half a dollar, and got out quickly. A small old lady darted past him into the cab. He walked down 44th Street a few doors to the address the brokers had given his secretary on the phone. It was one of the medium-sized midtown hotels, not far from the Algonquin. Miss Carol McCloud—probably a white-haired old lady, like so many who lived in residential-hotel apartments, clipping her coupons and keeping miniature dogs. Miss McCloud had recently bought a large block of NCI stock. Why? Who had touted her onto it? Rumors were wildfire in the stock market, but not even little old ladies spent a quarter of a million dollars on the sole basis of rumors.

  He went into the narrow lobby and found a house phone; after four rings a low female voice answered. The voice sounded younger than he had expected, but it was hard to tell. She seemed drugged with sleep. He glanced involuntarily at his watch.

  “Miss McCloud? This is Russell Hastings, Securities and Exchange Commission.”

  “Oh yes—of course. What time is it?”

  “Ten till two. I realize I’m a little early—we did say two-fifteen. If it’s not convenient, I can—”

  “No. Give me five minutes, and come on up—it’s ten-oh-eight. Turn right when you get out of the elevator.”

  He went into the coffee shop and had a cup of coffee at the counter, finished it, and went to the elevator. It was self-service. On the tenth floor he found 1008 in an Edwardian rotunda at the end of the corridor. He recalled some literary acquaintance once telling him this old hotel had been one of Stanford White’s less memorable architectural monuments. Before the war it had been the home of several Algonquin Roundtable celebrities. It appeared to have been well kept up—not luxurious, but far from dingy: a select small hotel which would not cater to conventioneers.

  Her telephone voice had changed her image in his mind; he wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he knocked. Nevertheless, he had a shock when she opened the door.

  She was stunning.

  She gave him a radiant smile. “Mr. Hastings.”

  “Miss McCloud?” He felt he ought to have a hat, if only so that he could doff it. He walked in past her. The room surprised him, as well. It was large, informally divided by sectional settees and comfortable chairs, punctuated by walnut end tables, stern classic lamps, and a big fireplace that dominated one end of the room. The suite was done in shades of beige, brown, and pale green. A curved bar was built into one corner. The far end of the room opened through glass doors onto a narrow terrace rimmed by potted shrubs, big enough for two lawn chairs and a white iron table.

  Hastings brought his attention around to Carol McCloud. She had shut the door and walked into the room ahead of him. Her hair was soft rich brown, full and loose to the shoulders. She had dark, dramatic eyes. She wore blouse, skirt, and sandals; there was no indication she had hurried to get dressed. Her splendidly turned legs would provoke fascinated stares on any sidewalk corner; she had a long waist, high classic breasts, good warm skin tones, and a striking face that was curiously strong and delicate at once. No pose, no artifice—beauty, but not beauty’s arrogance. She had a good fresh pride in her loveliness that was neither vain nor imperfected by false humility.

  She laughed. “Well, sit down.”

  “I expected you to have white hair and a cane. I feel like a fool.”

  Her laugh was low, husky, smoky; she settled on the divan opposite him, full of supple grace. The appraisal she had given him was not the usual casual sizing-up an attractive woman would give a masculine stranger; it was more direct, aware, intense—and slightly provocative, because it was carried on a glance of slightly sardonic private amusement. With gentle irony she said, “I must say your approach is new. What can I do for you that hasn’t already been done?”

  She was smiling; but her words took him aback. Before he could answer she was up, briskly moving toward the bar in the corner. “I imagine you’d like a drink.”

  “Kind of early in the day,” he said.

  She stopped; she seemed puzzled for the first time; she said, “Coffee, then?”

  “Just had some, downstairs.”

  Her head was tipped quizzically to the side; she touched a finger to the point of her jaw. “Then you’d better tell me what you do have in mind.”

  “My secretary must have mentioned on the phone—I’m making a sort of survey of buyers of NCI stock.”

  “You mean you’re really doing that?”

  Baffled, he was beginning to get angry. “Of course. What did you think it was? Some subtle kind of pitch? Look, if I’ve made a mistake—you are the McCloud who bought a big chunk of NCI a few weeks ago?”

  She had begun to laugh; she returned to her chair, still laughing. He noticed for the first time a faint discoloration under the makeup on her cheek—a small bruise. He had never seen her before and had no comparison, but she looked as if she had a slight swelling on that side of her jaw—it showed when she laughed.

  Finally she said, “I’m sorry—really I am. I took you for a—for someone else. Please forgive me. Now, what was it you wanted to know about those stocks?”

  “You did buy them?”

  “I suppose so. I’d have to go look it up.”

  He said, “Frankly, you don’t look that rich.”

  “What?”

  “Are you in the habit of misplacing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  She gave him a blank look. “Two hundred and fifty thousand?”

  He stood up. “I guess I’ve made a mistake, after all. I’m sorry.”

  “No. Wait.” She pulled open a drawer of the end table by the settee, sifted through a small stack of papers, and put them back. When she turned her face toward him, her forehead was creased; she said, “No, it wasn’t a mistake.” She spread her hands with helpless mocking good humor. “You see how it is—sometimes I’m a little scatterbrained.”

  Scatterbrained? He shook his head; he said, “But you do remember buying the NCI shares.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m very sorry if I confused you.” But her eyes were still mocking.

  “Uh-hunh,” he muttered. “Can you remember why you bought them?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Why pick that particular company to invest in? Why not spread the money around in several investments?”

  “I suppose someone must have recommended it to me.” She smiled.

  It was a blinding smile. He looked away; he closed his eyes and said, “Miss McCloud, we’re talking about a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “Yes, I know that,” she said, as if she couldn’t understand what was upsetting him.

  “Can’t you at least remember who might have recommended the stock?”

  “A broker, I imagine. I really can’t recall.”

  He had seen that helpless-female role played enough times on the witness stand in court to know it well enough: the pretty, wide-eyed, innocent misunderstanding of every question. It didn’t fit quite right; she was too obviously intelligent to carry it off.

  He said, “You’re not under oath, you know—there’s no reason why you should tell me anything at all.”

  “I’m quite aware of that,” she said. “But I’m curious—why are you so interested in my investments?”

  “I guess you could just call it a routine check.”

  “Sure,” she answered, matching his tone for casual evenness. But her smile was too knowing; it was no
accident that after sidestepping his questions so adroitly she had deftly trapped him in his own evasiveness. It was a neat trick—so neat it made him shift his focus once again. His thinking jumped the straight track of his mind. He had built several hypotheses about her; none of them really fit. Clearly she wasn’t just a spoiled heiress, careless about her millions—she wasn’t flighty enough, her surroundings weren’t opulent enough, she didn’t have any air of class consciousness or liberal phoniness. She met him on equal terms, matching wits and subtleties. She was far too bright, and too relaxed, to be some rich married man’s penthouse plaything; and again, the surroundings didn’t fit in with that notion. An actress, perhaps? But if she was successful enough to be that rich, wouldn’t he have heard of her, recognized her face? No—she didn’t have the mannerisms for it; she was too straightforward. A wealthy divorcée, investing her lump-sum alimony settlement? Maybe—but something about her didn’t quite fit that frame, either. Granted she had brains, even a hard cynical edge that showed now and then; he still couldn’t picture her in the role of an adventuress sinking vindictive, greedy teeth into an ex-husband to the tune of a quarter of a million dollars.

  He realized suddenly that Carol McCloud was sitting very still—looking at him, unblinking.

  She said, “You went away for a minute there.”

  “Trying to figure you out.”

  It brought her smile again—slightly crooked, slightly turned against herself in some sort of distant irony. She said, “That would be a useless pursuit.”

  He got to his feet. “You don’t want to talk about those shares of stock, I gather.”

  “It’s such a dull, dry subject, isn’t it?”

  “Unless money turns you on.”

  She had a nice laugh, low in her throat; her eyelids drooped just a bit, and she said, “Oh, don’t make that mistake—I think a lot about money, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Russ,” he said suddenly.

  “Russ.”

  He went halfway to the door, and turned to look at her. She hadn’t moved in her seat. She was watching him with that same directness. He said abruptly, “Have dinner with me?”