Brian Garfield: Villiers Touch

“You mean Elliot Judd may get nervous when he hears somebody’s trying to move in on Melbard.”

“I don’t want NCI bidding me up, Sidney-I can’t compete with that monster.”

“Nobody could, this side of General Motors. You’ve got a good point.”

“Give me an educated guess. Will they bid against me?”

“Depends on how you handle it,” Isher said. “Do you want me to use your name?”

“No. Approach them through dummy fronts. With my reputation I’d make them too nervous.”

“All right. That makes it easier for a start. Now, suppose we use George Hackman again. He’s a reputable broker, and he’s enough of a WASP backslapper to charm the Melbard family. With Hackman and me fronting, they probably won’t get too suspicious. We’ll tell them we’re fronting for a syndicate of bigshot conglomerate executives looking to diversify.”

“Won’t Melbard get sniffy if you don’t identify the clients? There’s a lot of front men dummying for Cosa Nostra goons that want a legitimate outlet for their money. How do you convince Melbard you’re not acting for racketeers?”

Isher’s face changed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Melbard will.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Diane Hastings.”

Isher shaped the name on his lips and frowned. “Elliot Judd’s daughter?”

“She owns the Nuart Galleries chain.”

“Would you mind going back over that one more time? What’s that got to do with us?”

“Diane Hastings will be the client you’re fronting for, when Melbard asks.”

“A bunch of art galleries? Where does she get that kind of money?”

“It’s a nationwide chain, Sidney. Sixty-one outlets in forty-two states. Art for the masses at popular prices. Greeting cards, artists’ supplies, art books, paintings, posters, prints. Nuart grossed twenty-six million last year-and nobody’s going to question Diane Hastings about Cosa Nostra backing. She’ll say she’s looking to diversify her holdings. Nuart goes public, and she uses the capital from the sale of stock to buy the Melbard company.”

Isher had to chew on it. After a period of digestion he said, “I don’t know-I don’t know. Tell me something-does Mrs. Hastings know anything about this?”

“She will.”

‘That’s what I thought.” Isher started sliding papers back into his case. “I’m not going to Melbard with any offers until I have it from the lady herself that she’s acting for you. Otherwise I get hung right in the middle.”

Villiers’ only reply was a dry look. Isher snapped the case shut and stood up. “How far do I go? I mean, if we’re going all the way, it means you pounce, close the firm down, and sell out the assets. You take a quick profit, but you gut the company in the bargain. Is that how it’ll be?”

“Just set them up for the buy,” Villiers said. “Let me worry about what happens afterward.”

Isher looked sour. “And what about the Melbard family?”

“If they go for it, they’re suckers-marks. There’s no way to stop them from giving it away. All you can do is try to be first in line when they’re handing it out.”

“Maybe. But it’s got a sick smell to it.”

“That conscience of yours will make trouble sometime, Sidney.”

“What about yours?”

“Mine means about as much as my tonsils-which were removed twenty years ago.” Villiers smiled a little. When Isher turned toward the door, he said, “Aren’t you forgetting one thing?”

It turned Isher back. “Which?”

“What’s yesterday’s closing price on Melbard stock?”

“Five and an eighth. But I told you, it’s undervalued. The family knows that.” Isher nodded quickly. “Oh, I see. All right-how high do you want me to go?”

“Start at seven. Go up as high as twelve if you have to.”

“Twelve dollars?”

“You heard me.”

“You’ll lose your ass. You can’t afford to pay more than eight. At twelve, it’d cost you nine million dollars to buy a controlling interest-and you can’t sell Melbard’s assets for anything like that.”

“Don’t waste money. Get it at eight if they’ll go for it. But get it. Go to twelve if you have to. But let me know if there’s any sign of NCI bidding us up.”

Isher shook his head and said dryly, “Yassuh, boss. Anything else?”

“Find out exactly who the two directors are that Elliot Judd has on Melbard’s board. And find out which members of Melbard’s family own what percentage of the stock.”

“Don’t you think I’ve already done that? How long have you been taking me for an irresponsible fool?”

“Sidney, if you get that steamed up at this hour, you’ll boil over before noon. How’d you find out about the family personalities?”

“Took their plant manager to lunch. Amazing how often you can get somebody to reveal inside information just by wining and dining him-expensive restaurant, good food, plenty of martinis, an attentive companion. I asked a few leading questions-all it took.”

“Good work.”

Isher smiled.

Villiers said, “One thing-don’t volunteer Diane Hastings’ name too easily. Make them fight and scratch to get it. That way, when they get her name they’ll think they’ve got the real buyer. They won’t look any farther.”

“Smart.”

“I’ll get back to you some time.”

“Have Mrs. Hastings call me. Reach you here at the hotel?”

“Leave a message if I’m not here.”

“Which is probably most of the time,” Isher said, and went.

When the door closed, Villiers was smiling slightly. He had won the points he intended to win, and at the same time left Isher with the feeling-which the lawyer needed badly-that he had achieved a victory. Isher was a good corporation-law man, a spectacular tax attorney, and a timid businessman. He needed pushing; he needed flattery. Villiers provided him with his needs. He reminded himself to have some token jewelry sent to Isher’s wife.

He sat smoking by the window, withdrawn deep into thought. It was just as well to keep Isher in the dark; Isher only needed to know he was to take over Melbard. He might balk if he knew the move against Melbard was only a prelude.

Mason Villiers had raided companies bigger than Melbard. The little ones no longer held his interest. This time his aim was targeted much higher. Time to come up and play with the big boys.

He cupped a hand around the back of his neck and reared his head back lazily, smiled a bit, and glanced toward the phone. Was it too early to call Diane Hastings? Probably. It wouldn’t help his cause to offend her at the outset. Better to wait until she reached her office at nine. He looked at his watch-seven-thirty. He decided to take a nap.

The morning was hot, muggy, and without breath. The frail sun seemed watery and distant through its lemon sky. Air-conditioners thrummed in a million windows, pulling hard against the Edison generating plants, which-to meet the strain-poured tons of additional smoke into the heat-inverted cloud over the city.

Traffic backed up in lower Manhattan, raucous with horn-blowing frustration, from the Battery to Greenwich Village, choked by double-parked trucks making ear-splitting deliveries. Subway tunnels, gray with pungent mists, poured the morning rush of sweat-grimed bodies up onto the jammed sidewalks of the financial district.

Russ Hastings emerged from the IRT subway onto the Broadway sidewalk and pushed through the crowd, hands in his pockets, mouth closed and nostrils pinched, trying not to breathe. He found an empty eddy by the corner of the Irving Trust building, stopped there to stand a moment in the heat and watch a group of vivid pretty girls-well-turned legs, miniskirts, trim hips rolling in healthy action. They paused in a knot at the corner and burst into high laughter before they separated into the jam.