Дик Фрэнсис - Break In

‘Right. Here we go.’

We sat in two of the chairs, she sprawling sideways so she could see my face, and the screen sprang immediately to life with an interesting arrangement of snow. Total silence ensued for ten seconds before the Maynard segment of How’s Trade arrived in full sharp colour with sound attached. Then we had the benefit of Maynard looking bland and polished through a voice-over introduction, with time to admire the hand-sewn lapels and silk tie.

The interviewer asked several harmless questions, Maynard’s slightly condescending answers being lavishly interrupted by views of the interviewer nodding and smiling. The interviewer himself, unknown as far as I was concerned, was perhaps in his mid-thirties, with forgettable features except for calculating eyes of a chilling detachment. A prosecutor, I thought; and disliked him.

In reply to a question about how he got rich Maynard said that ‘once or twice’ he had come to the rescue of an ailing but basically sound business, had set it back on its feet with injections of liquidity and had subsequently acquired it to save it from closure when it had been unable to repay him. To the benefit, he suavely insisted, of all concerned.

‘Except the former owners?’ the interviewer asked; but the question was put as merely fact-finding, without bite.

Maynard’s voice said that generous compensation was of course paid to the owners.

‘And then what?’ asked the interviewer, in the same way.

Naturally, Maynard said, if a good offer came along, he would in his turn sell: he could then lend the money to rescue another needy firm. The buying, selling and merging of businesses was advisable when jobs could be saved and a sensible profit made. He had done his modest best for industry and had ensured employment for many. It had been most rewarding in human terms.

Neither Maynard nor the interviewer raised his voice above a civilised monotone, and as an entertainment it was a drag. The segment ended with the interviewer thanking Maynard for a most interesting discussion, and there was a final shot of Maynard looking noble.

The screen, as if bored silly, reverted to black and white snow.

‘Allardeck the philanthropist,’ Rose said, jangling the bracelets and recrossing her long legs. ‘Have you met him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, now for Allardeck the rapacious bully.’

‘I’ve met him too,’ I said.

She gave me a quizzical look and watched me watch the snowstorm until we were suddenly alive again with Maynard’s charm and with the introduction and the first few harmless questions. It wasn’t until the interviewer started asking about takeovers that things warmed up; and in this version the interviewer’s voice was sharp and critical, designed to raise a prickly defensive response.

Maynard had kept his temper for a while, reacting self-righteously rather than with irritation, and these answers had been broadcast. In the end however his courtesy disintegrated, his voice rose and a forefinger began to wag.

‘I act within the law,’ he told the interviewer heavily. ‘Your insinuations are disgraceful. When a debtor can’t pay, one is entitled to take his property. The state does it. The courts enforce it. It’s the law. Let me tell you that in the horse racing business, if a man can’t pay his training fees, the trainer is entitled to sell the horse to recover his money. It’s the law, and what’s more, it’s natural justice.’

The interviewer mentioned villainous mortgage holders who foreclosed and evicted their tenants. Hadn’t Maynard, he asked, lent money to a hard-pressed family business that owned a block of flats which was costing more to maintain than the rental income, and couldn’t afford the repairs required by the authorities? And after the repairs were done, hadn’t Maynard demanded his money back? And when the family couldn’t pay, hadn’t he said he would take the flats instead, which were a loss to the family anyway? And after that, hadn’t mysterious cracks developed in the fabric, so that the building was condemned and all the poor tenants had to leave? And after that, hadn’t he demolished the flats and sold the freehold land to a development company for ten times his original loan for repairs?

The inquisitorial nature of the interviewer was by now totally laid bare, and the questions came spitting out as accusations, to which Maynard answered variously with growing fury:

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘The building subsided because of underground trains.’

‘The family was glad to be rid of a mill-stone liability.’

‘I will not answer these questions.’

The last statement was practically a shout. The interviewer made calming motions with his hand, leaning back in his chair, appearing to relax, all of which cooling behaviour caused Maynard to simmer rather than seethe. A mean-looking scowl, however, remained in place. Nobility was nowhere to be seen.

The interviewer with subterranean cunning said pleasantly, ‘You mentioned racehorses. Am I right in thinking your own father was a racehorse trainer and that you at one time were his assistant?’

Maynard said ungraciously, ‘Yes.’

‘Give us your opinion of investing in bloodstock.’

Maynard said profits could be made if one took expert advice.

‘But in your case,’ the interviewer said, ‘you must be your own expert.’

Maynard shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

The interviewer said very smoothly, ‘Will you tell us how you acquired your racehorse Metavane?’

Maynard said tightly, ‘I took him in settlement of a bad debt.’

‘In the same way as your other businesses?’

Maynard didn’t answer.

‘Metavane proved to be a great horse, didn’t he? And you syndicated him for at least four million pounds... which must be your biggest coup ever — bigger than the Bourne Brothers’ patents. Shall we talk about those two enterprises? First, tell me how much you allow either Metavane’s former owners or the Bourne Brothers out of the continuing fruits of your machinations.’

‘Look here,’ Maynard said furiously, ‘if you had a fraction of my business sense you’d be out doing something useful instead of sitting here green with envy picking holes.’

He stood up fiercely and abruptly and walked decisively off the set, tearing off the microphone he had been wearing on his tie and flinging it on the ground. The interviewer made no attempt to stop him. Instead he faced the camera and with carefully presented distaste said that some of the other businesses, big and small, known to have benefited from Mr Allardeck’s rescue missions were Downs and Co. (a printing works), Benjy’s Fast Food Takeout, Healthy Life (sports goods manufacturers), Applewood Garden Centre, Purfleet Electronics and Bourne Brothers (light engineers).

The Bourne Brothers’ assets, he said, had proved to include s Me long overlooked patents for a special valve which had turned out to be just what industry was beginning to need. As soon as it was his, Maynard Allardeck had offered the valve on a royalty basis to the highest bidder, and had been collecting handsomely ever since. The Bourne Brothers? The interviewer shook his head. The Bourne Brothers hadn’t realised what they’d owned until they’d irrevocably parted with it. But did Maynard Allardeck know what he was getting? Almost certainly yes. The interviewer smiled maliciously and pushed the knife right in. If Allardeck had told the Bourne Brothers what they owned, collecting dust in a file, they could have saved themselves several times over.

The interviewer’s smugly sarcastic face vanished into another section of blizzard, and Rose Quince rose languidly to switch everything off.

‘Well?’ she said.