Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

I can honestly say that no thought of Roger Felstead had passed through my mind for several years. He was a man of such diligence, stolidity and utter tedium that it was possible to forget him even when you were talking to him. He believed in order. He believed in rules. He believed in procedures. He believed in loyalty, and was sure it would be rewarded. Alas, every time he felt a reward was his due, his rightful prize had been given to me. He had wanted to go to Germany, I was sent. He had greatly desired to spend some time in New York, but it was I who got on the boat, not him. He had stayed in London, methodically learning his business, doing his duty and showing total loyalty, while I rushed around accumulating unjustified rewards.

I did not like Felstead. Felstead loathed me. On such trivial things can the fate of empires depend.

'A journalist now, aren't you?' he said, not even trying to hide the tone of superior commiseration in his voice.

'That's right,' I said brightly. 'Book reviews, interviews with actresses and society gossip. Great stuff.'

'I was sorry to hear about you leaving,' he went on, meaning the exact opposite. 'There was quite a lot of talk about it.'

'I'm glad to hear it. It would have been a great pity if no one had noticed.'

'Were you really fired? That's what I heard. That you messed up with a contract.'

'Certainly not,' I said. 'No. It was because I used the bank's money to set up as a pimp.'

He blinked, not knowing how to take that. Then the idiot decided I was joking. 'Well, come to see what you're missing? Everything seems to be running smoothly without you.'

'Good. I gather you are floating a big bond issue for the Argentinians. Water company?'

He nodded. 'The most ambitious ever. And I am in charge of syndicating the French participants. It's a big responsibility, I can tell you.'

'How's it going?'

'Oh, pretty well. Pretty well. It'll take time to line everybody up, of course. You know the French. No discipline. No ability to take decisions. They like their pound of flesh. Make us suffer, before they do what they're told. Pour l'honneur du pavillon , you know.' He had an odd, irritating, honking laugh, a bit like that of a goose in flight.

'So if I said that I had heard through my contacts that Credit International has decided not to have anything to do with the loan, that in fact no bank in France is going to touch any more Barings paper, that Russian and Belgian banks are also beginning to wobble, then you will tell me that this is silly market speculation and that everything is really running smoothly.'

He blanched, and I could see from his reaction that he knew none of this. None of the banks had officially refused to participate as yet; they were saving it up as a big surprise. I wondered when that surprise was going to come.

'I certainly would,' he said, although the certainty in his voice was noticeable by its absence. 'Who told you this?'

'Contacts,' I said. 'It's what comes of spending time in society. You should try it. You think it's nonsense?'

'Absolutely. It is completely absurd. When has a Barings issue ever been snubbed? Occasionally you might get one bank scaling back on its participation. That's normal. You know that. But large numbers? They know our reputation. When has Lord Revelstoke ever put a foot wrong? Why, the man is a genius! You know all of this, and yet you give credence to a bunch of jealous gossip-mongers? It's clear you were not cut out for banking, my boy, if you're given to this sort of panic.'

I felt like replying that it was clear that neither was he, if he was given to that sort of imbecility. He reminded me of what I disliked about Barings, in fact: the smugness, and conviction of invincibility. Barings were the rulers of the fin de siècle. But then the Rothschilds had ruled at the beginning of the century, and were now a conservative shadow of their former selves. Did Barings think they would dominate the world forever?

'I'm glad to hear it,' I replied. 'So you think that I should ignore all these stories. I was thinking of writing something for The Times . . .'

'Oh, you mustn't do that!' he said swiftly. 'That would be the grossest disloyalty. If people hear there are problems, then they will . . .'

'So there are problems?'

'I said, it's going slowly. But it's a complicated issue. A lot of money. There are bound to be difficulties.'

'Has Credit International refused?'

'Certainly not.'

'Has it accepted?'

'Not yet. They say they are having administrative difficulties. But they assured me I was not to worry. They will give a definite answer next Thursday morning.'

Next Thursday. In six days' time. That would give two uninterrupted trading days for panic to sweep across the markets, if things worked out as I thought they might.

'Listen,' I said. 'I am not joking. I think a storm is brewing. You must send a telegram to London, so they can prepare.'

He stared, with a particularly unappealing smile of incredulity on his face. 'Warn them? Of what? Of a story heard by a journalist? You expect Lord Revelstoke to give up his weekend because of something you heard at some dowager's party?'

'It's somewhat more than that.'

'It doesn't matter. No one can touch Barings. You should know that. And as for sending a telegram, I've never heard anything so absurd in my life. You stick to your actresses, Cort. Leave the serious stuff to people who know what they're about.'

I shrugged. 'Very well. I will do as you say. I heard this and I reported it to you. You can do as you wish with it. You are no doubt correct in your assessment. As you say, you are more experienced than I am.'

'Precisely,' he said with satisfaction. 'And don't think that I am ungrateful for your concern. It was good of you to come in. And if you hear any other titbits in future, don't feel afraid to come and tell me, however ridiculous they are. And you must let me buy you a drink sometime, in payment for your efforts.'

At that moment, the delightful image of Barings sinking with all hands and Felstead being the first to drown, swam before my eyes. I wished the French well.

'Excellent idea,' I said. 'But not today. At the moment you would do me a greater service by letting me have a look at the Stock Exchange notices. I am trying to get something together on France's attitude to dual convertibility. So I need some basic information. The Times publishes it, but it would help to have it all in one place . . .'

Now he had established his superiority, Felstead was all grace. Fortunately, he did not clap me on the back as he led me to a desk before getting out the bank bulletins. Had he done so I might have spoiled it all by hitting him.

The Stock Exchange daily bulletins are the dreariest of all newspapers; the prices for dozens of government stocks, the prices of innumerable foreign stocks and utilities. The discount rates and interest rates applicable to hundreds of different instruments, in dozens of countries. News of new issues and dividend payments. By carefully considering all of these, a man of sense can make his fortune. So it is said; it was my great weakness as a banker that I never had the slightest interest in any of it. I had forced myself to understand it, but it never brought me the pleasure or satisfaction that it gave to many of my colleagues.

I tortured myself reading columns of numbers and prices and rates, hoping to find some hint of how the second stage of this adventure was going to play out. For there must be a second stage. M. Hubert was right: why do something which could scarcely hurt Barings, and could cost you a lot of money? But if banks across the Continent were indeed co-ordinating a response, something serious was taking place and it could be assumed that it was being organised by people of intelligence.