Brian Garfield: Villiers Touch

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.”