Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 120, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 733 & 734, September/October 2002

The Jeopard by Neil Schofield

Neil Schofield’s darkly comic tale “Groundwork,” a case involving malice of a domestic sort, placed third in last year’s Readers Award voting. This time out, the British author turns his satirical eye on the world of business, lampooning the machinations of top executives in their race to the top. Mr. Schofield spent many years in business as a writer of material for sales conferences and product launches.

If you are a City man and of the lunching persuasion, which most City men are by definition, you could do a lot worse than to go to La Magouille, which sits on an expensive site in the heart of the Square Mile, surrounded by solid, glass-fronted office blocks which house solid, venerable financial institutions. (Along with some of the other sort, too, of course.) It specializes in post-post-nouvelle cuisine, which means that the cooking is French provincial and that the servings are substantial. Here you’ll find no artfully-placed grape quarters nestling in a comma of raspberry juice. What you will find is good food and plenty of it. The decor is classic brasserie: red and white tablecloths, lots of wood and brass, and a squad of imported waiters selected for their high insolence quotient, who wear black waistcoats and long aprons and treat you like dirt. Which is exactly as it should be. The word Magouille itself means, basically, financial fiddling or chicanery, so one must assume that the owner knows something that the rest of us merely suspect, or that he is simply cracking the French equivalent of a one-liner. Either way, he makes a small fortune.

Martin Palfreyman was a City man and liked lunching as well as the next man. The trouble today was that the next man appeared to have popped up in front of his table in La Magouille, and was bobbing and winking and grinning at him.

“Dimsdale,” said the man, looking at Martin across the table to which the waiter had led him. Martin immediately became very cross. He had been pleasantly musing on nothing very much in particular, sitting at the prized corner table in a very expensive restaurant, waiting for Norbert Verbecke to turn up and nursing a glass of Perrier because he didn’t want to be too far ahead of Verbecke when he rolled in. Verbecke liked his lunch, and he liked it as expensive and as liquid as possible, which, if you’re a Belgian, is a perfectly normal way of carrying on.

Now Martin had this type who looked like Mr. Punch nodding and grinning at him across the table.

“Well, I’m sure,” said Martin shortly. “The thing is, I’m waiting for a client of mine. So, I’m afraid the table is taken, Mr.—”

“Dimsdale,” said the man again, “Nathaniel Dimsdale, and very pleased to make your esteemed acqaintance.”

Martin was watching him very warily now. He had noticed before that, despite his twenty-nine years, he still seemed to have the sort of open, boyish face that attracted the slightly loony, the unbalanced, the ones with Bacofoil hats and plastic carrier bags of letters proving that the Pope was a Venusian who was sending killer gamma rays down their heating ducts. And this one was odd beyond any doubt and he was carrying a large bulky brown envelope. He sighed.

“Well, I’m very pleased to meet you and all that, but as I said, I happen to be waiting for someone.” He looked at the waiter for help. In vain.

“Verbecke,” said Mr. Dimsdale, “yes, I know, Mr. Palfreyman, but Mr. Verbecke will, unfortunately, be unable to attend owing to his being in Coblenz.”

Martin frowned. This was very odd.

“Well, this is very odd,” he said.

The man glanced round. A number of lunchers had stopped their fiscal mutterings and were looking their way.

“Perhaps I might be permitted to park it for a moment?”

Martin shrugged. Mr. Dimsdale took this as an invitation and took off his coat. Martin surveyed him. In his fifties, perhaps, tall and thin with reddish hair. And he really did have the most extraordinary face, Martin thought. Twinkling brown eyes set far apart, flanking a hooked nose underneath which was a wide mouth and a prominent, pointed chin. He did look a lot like Mr. Punch, except that Mr. Punch didn’t wear a bowler hat a little too large for him and a long dusty black overcoat which the waiter was now taking from him rather fastidiously with the large package. Mr. Dimsdale sat down with a sigh of relief and extended his legs.

“Oops, ever so sorry,” he said, peering under the table, “was that your briefcase?”

Martin shifted irritably in his chair. He didn’t move his briefcase. This was his table. He was damned if he was going to move his briefcase. The waiter was still hovering, giving them a look which said that, personally, he didn’t care one way or the other whether they wanted a drink, but since he was there...

Mr. Dimsdale smiled up at him.

“I think I could enjoy an aperitif, what about you, Mr. Palfrey-man? Perhaps you might allow me to shout you a little something?”

Martin thought about it. If Verbecke really wasn’t going to turn up, why not?

He nodded. “I’ll have a dry martini,” he said to the waiter. Mr. Dimsdale nodded and winked.

“A very wise choice, if I may make so bold. ‘Wine is a mocker but strong drink is raging and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise,’ as my old mother never tired of reminding me. And I will take a Cinzano with ice and a slice of orange if you’d be so kind.”

The waiter flounced off.

“So, Mr. Dimsdale,” said Martin, “what’s your connection with Mr. Verbecke?”

Mr. Dimsdale shook his head. “No connection at all. To be perfectly honest and frank with you, Mr. Palfreyman, Mr. Verbecke never had any intention of coming to lunch with you, on account of not knowing that he had invited you. That was by way of being a subterfuge, so that I might meet you unbeknownst to others in your immediate entourage, and apprise you of Certain Things.”

“Certain things? What things? What the hell is this all about?” Martin was becoming increasingly angry now. The arrangement he had made with Verbecke’s secretary — his temporary secretary, actually, since Mademoiselle Villeret was ill, or so she said — was quite specific. Verbecke wanted to meet for lunch and she had even named the restaurant of which Verbecke had heard good things. Mr. Dimsdale was apparently reading his thoughts, for he smiled.

“An associate of mine made so bold as to impersonate Mr. Verbecke’s secretary. And did it middling well, so far as I can judge.”

Martin sighed. The drinks arrived. He decided that he was going to take this calmly. He sipped his martini. Mr. Dimsdale nodded with approval and took a sip himself.

“That’s the way. It’s slow and easy as does it. When in doubt, sit back, sip a little fortified wine, and wait. That’s my motto. Now, first of all, Mr. P, it would be my enormous pleasure to invite you to lunch in Mr. Verbecke’s stead. It’s the least I can do. Please do me the honour of accepting.”

Well, that was all right. The legendary free lunch. So it did exist.

“Well, all right, if it pleases you.”

“It does please me, Mr P. Accept the thanks of Nathaniel Dimsdale, at your service, be it ever so.”

He made a slight casual gesture, which Martin assumed was meant as a graceful flourish, but a waiter across the room immediately stopped in mid sneer and started towards them. Martin noticed that Mr. Dimsdale’s hands were beautifully slender, his fingers long and perfectly manicured. The waiter materialized beside them like obsequious ectoplasm. Martin was beginning to suspect that there was more to Mr. Dimsdale than you might think. Normally the only possible way to attract the attention of a waiter at La Magouille was to set fire to yourself. Or to the waiter.

Dimsdale opened his menu and said, “Perhaps, seeing as I’m the host, you’ll allow me to order for both of us, Mr. P?” Without waiting, he rattled off some swift instructions to the waiter that sounded like: “We’ll both have the Bouchées feuilletées de Langouste à la crème, and then the Perdreaux à la Normande.” He had an extremely good French accent, Martin noticed. “We’ll have a bottle of Pouilly with the langouste and you can open a bottle of that fine Pommard that I like.”

Martin was telling himself that this was certainly not Mr. Dimsdale’s first time here.

“I hope you like young partridge, Mr. P. It’s especially good here, à la Normande, on a bed of chopped apples. Very tasty. Now,” said Mr. Dimsdale, “we’ve got a few moments, so let’s indulge ourselves in a little chat.”

Martin shook his head.

“It’s extremely kind of you to invite me to lunch,” he waved a hand at the crowded restaurant, “but you know, whatever it is you’re selling, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. I’m really not sure that I have a need for your services, Mr. Dimsdale.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Dimsdale, “not sure. Of course you’re not sure. And how could you be when you don’t know what those services might or might not be?”

“All right, I’ll buy it — what exactly is it that you do?” asked Martin.

“That’s a very good and forthright question, and no more than I would have expected from you. Straight to the guts of the thing. Well, Mr. P, I,” said Mr. Dimsdale, taking the orange slice from his glass and sucking it contentedly, “I am what is known in the trade, among the cognoscenti as it were, as a Jeopard.”

Martin frowned.

“I’m not sure I’m familiar with the word. What exactly is a — Jeopard?”

“A Jeopard, Mr. Palfreyman, as might be implicit in the word — jeopardizes.”

Martin decided to humour the man.

“Just that. You jeopardize?”

“Yes, Mr. P, jeopardize — imperil, endanger, undermine, threaten, menace, call into question. Jeopardize.”

Martin was sure now that he was dealing with a lunatic.

“And what do you jeopardize?”

“Ooh, as to that, anything you like. Future, fortune, comfort, well-being, security, existence even, you name it. Individual or corporate entity, it’s all the same to us. You name it, we’ll find a way to jeopardize it. No job too big, no job too small, not for us.”

“Us?”

“Oh yes, there are a number of Jeopards around. Not as many as heretofore, due to natural wastage and a lack of new blood, which is a shame.”

“But you still haven’t told me what your services consist of. What is it you actually do?”

“Well as to that, Mr. P, the best thing I can do is to illustrate by means of an example. Suppose that you, as the Commercial Director of a large company, wishing, very creditably, to further the interests of your enterprise, intend to bid for a large foreign contract. Sealed bids, you understand, to be delivered by a certain hour on a certain date. Lowest bid wins. So you do your homework, and you are pretty sure that you have outbid all the competition, because you have your contacts and you are confident that your bid is the lowest, and seriously lower than that of your fierce competitor.

“But lo and behold, when the bids are opened, your tender is well above that of your only serious rival for the job, your hated enemy. Who wins the contract.”

Martin was interested now.

“You mean that you switched the bids.”

“Oh, not I, Mr. P. Not I. But let’s say someone did. Or then again, suppose that you are in the banking business and for your own doubtless very good reasons you decide that a certain other bank should disappear. Vanish. Cease operations. Well, blow me down if three months later one of their dealers in a far-off place doesn’t go slightly barmy, gambling on the currency markets and plunging the bank into bankruptcy.”

“You’re talking about Barings? But that was one bloke working on his own. He was completely off the wall.”

“Ah, well you might think. But how did that particular man get where he was, in the right particular place and at the right time and completely without supervision to let him do that?”

Martin had always wondered about that chap in Singapore, and why he had been left to himself to gamble away billions of the bank’s money. He nodded. He thought he understood.

“So it’s just dirty tricks, is it, your business?”

“There are some as might call it that. I call it the continuation of business by other means, Mr. P. It’s a hard world out there and there are some hard people at large in it, and sometimes they employ hard methods. But then, there’s hard people in all walks of life, hadn’t you noticed? My old man, for instance, bless his heart, was a debt collector in the East End of London. Now, harder than him they do not come and I speak as one that knows. I’m not saying it’s always necessarily fair, but then life isn’t always fair, as I’m sure you’ve remarked.”

The waiter brought their entrees and offered the wine to Mr. Dimsdale to taste. He sipped and nodded with authority.

“Perfect. Now, Mr. P, fill your boots. Like all young men you’ve got a healthy appetite and I hope this will be to your liking, I’m sure.”

It was. The feuilletées turned out to be delicious pastry cases filled with minced crayfish and a superb sauce. The Pouilly was masterly.

Martin said, “You’re going to think me pretty dense, but I still don’t understand how you got hold of my name.”

“Friends of friends of friends, word of mouth, contacts. Mine is a very roundabout sort of business in the normal way of things. There are very few straight lines. Suffice it to say that your name has come to my ears as someone who might have a need for the services of a Jeopard.”

“And just why should I need a — Jeopard, as you call it?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, your name has come up as being someone who has a rival.”

Ah.

Yes, indeed, Martin did have a rival. Henry Godber was the thorn in his flesh, the fly in his ointment, the cloud on his horizon. Henry Godber was the only thing that marred his otherwise complete contentment with his life at Condominia. One always did have a rival, Martin had found out in his career in management. There was always someone whose career, whose personality, in a way mirrored yours, and whose prospects were more or less the same. That could add a bit of spice to life, a bit of cut-and-thrust to the daily grind. But it could equally make life miserable.

Condominia International was a holding company whose many wholly-owned subsidiaries, acquired over the years, covered a bewildering range of activities, all the way from armament technology and manufacture to double-glazing, from armoured vehicles to bathroom fittings. The managing director, George Mellish, a nice, ruddy-faced man, was due to take over as chairman in a year and a half, with an accompanying knighthood, if what certain people in high places had muttered to him, strictly in confidence, old chap, was true.

The question of his successor had been exercising him for some time. He had two candidates, each a perfect fit in his own way, Martin Palfreyman and Henry Godber. Both bright sparks, MBAs, fast-trackers, young and thrusting, unmarried (and so able to concentrate). What George decided to do, in his impish fashion, was to make them his deputies, each responsible for one of the two main divisions of the group. That’s the way to do it. Set the dogs at each other’s throats and see who comes out on top.

So there was a war on. And every time one of Martin’s companies was awarded the contract to double-glaze some vast hotels in Riyadh, Henry would riposte with a contract to supply crowd-control vehicles to Indonesia. Then Henry would proudly announce the sale of ten million quids’ worth of road-building equipment to Mozambique, and it was absolutely vital for Martin to win a contract to supply eight high-speed chase-boats to Italian Customs to help them curb the Kurdish illegal immigrant trade.

But it was worse than that. Because George not only set them against each other in the office but elsewhere. One week Martin would be cast down by the news that Henry was playing golf that weekend with George. The next he would make sure that Henry knew that he, Martin, was invited down to The Solent for a weekend’s sailing on the Mellish yacht. One day Martin would be invited to the company box at Ascot, the next, Henry would be at George’s side at the British Grand Prix at Silverstone.

It was the sort of thing guaranteed to keep you awake nights.

It was the pinpricks of this rivalry, the petty little gnat bites that spoilt Martin’s days. Only this morning, he had been walking down the corridor to his office when Henry had popped his head out of his own room and asked him to step in for a moment, Martin, please. Bloody cheek. As though Martin were some office junior. He had gone into Henry’s office with its wall of golf and shooting trophies and had stood while Henry dealt with a phone call. Martin looked at the man. He really was a repulsive individual, blond hair smoothed back, blue close-set eyes, and a distinct absence of chin. He was wearing the inevitable power suspenders under his Gieves and Hawkes double-breasted suit. Martin could tell that it was Henry who had made the call just as he walked in, simply and pointedly to make him wait. Henry watched him with his pale little eyes as he talked, his fingers toying with a large red leather binder that was the most prominent thing among the papers on his desk.

Eventually, Henry came off the phone and had the grace to speak to him. Into the bargain, it was some piddling little thing of absolutely no importance, something better dealt with by the office manager. In the course of the conversation Henry had let him know that he was lunching with the boss today, something that Martin really didn’t care to know. So what if Henry was lunching with George? Martin had lunched with George the day before. Then, to add insult to injury, Henry had gabbled something about an urgent errand for his secretary, bolted from the room, and had quite simply not come back. Martin, after a few minutes, had left himself, swearing under his breath. See what you’re up against, he said furiously to himself.

Oh yes, Martin had a rival.

Mr. Dimsdale had been watching him carefully, his wide-set birdlike eyes glittering humorously.

“And would I be right in saying that you and this rival of yours are pretty much level-pegging as regards background, qualifications, suitability, and such for a certain high office?”

“Pretty much,” said Martin.

Mr. Dimsdale finished his last sip of white wine.

“And is this high office very important to you, personally, I mean to say? Is it the steppingstone to even greater things?”

Yes, it was. Martin knew exactly what he would do when — if — he was made managing director, exactly which subsidiaries he would sell off, which companies he would buy, how he would streamline the divisions, how he would create a more coherent and profitable whole. He knew precisely where George Mellish had gone wrong and where he had gone right. He had learned a lot, and he knew how to be better than George. And from Condominia, well, the whole world was open to him.

“And how would it be if he wasn’t there, this rival of yours?”

The waiter arrived with the main course, and Mr. Dimsdale went through his little ceremony with the Pommard.

How would it be if Henry Godber wasn’t there? It would be wonderful, that’s how it would be. A free run at the managing director’s post and completely Henry-free days in the office.

“I can see that the idea appeals, am I right?” Mr. Dimsdale was looking at him with his bird-bright eyes. He picked up his knife and fork. “Bon appetit.”

Martin shifted in his chair. He felt somehow that he ought to be taking charge of this conversation, that’s the way he normally worked, but here he was floundering a bit. It was true that the idea of Henry not being there did appeal a lot. And he knew that there were some strange creatures who crept and slithered around in the crevices of the world of business, and that odd, inexplicable things did happen from time to time. There were stories that you could never quite get to the bottom of, there were rumours passed on with a nudge or a wink, or a raised eyebrow over a drink in one of the City’s watering holes whenever the herd gathered to slake its collective thirst. It was just possible that Mr. Dimsdale was one of those creatures, and that he was behind some of those dark inexplicable happenings. But a Jeopard? No, come on. He wasn’t even sure that the word existed.

But Martin was a businessman. Whenever you were presented with a sales pitch, you inspected it from all sides minutely, like a watch mender. Above all, you listened and then you asked your questions.

“Supposing for the minute,” he said, “—this partridge is delicious, by the way — and I’m speaking purely hypothetically here, you understand — that I might be interested in your services, and — you’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but one is continually being caught out — always supposing that those services actually exist — what sort of form might those services take? So to speak.”

“Dear oh dear, how you do go on,” said Mr. Dimsdale, spearing a chunk of his own partridge. “Is that how you all behave in your great boardrooms? When all you might ask is: How?”

“Well, all right, to put it bluntly, yes.” Martin felt a little silly.

“Then why don’t you say so? The answer is that there is a multitudinous variety of ways of getting rid of a rival. In fact, it’s much easier with an individual than with a company, individuals having emotions, passions, weaknesses, and what have you. Goes without saying, mind, that we’d have to know a lot more about him to decide on which particular method suited this particular gentleman, but just off the top of my head, so to speak, I can give you four sure-thing, cast-iron, copper-bottomed, tried-and-true ways of eliminating a rival and leaving your own road clear towards a bright and beckoning future. Would you like to hear them?”

Martin swallowed. He would very much like to hear them. When you were in business, you always had rivals. Fact of life. But now here was a man who said he disposed of them for a living. And who could supply references. He’d done it before. Yes, please, Martin wanted to hear.

Mr. Dimsdale nodded in a satisfied way.

“First of all, and it’s a method I’ve always favoured because, human beings being what they are, it’s a moderately easy thing to arrange, he could become embroiled publicly in a particularly sordid and stomach-churning vice scandal. Involving multiple partners and grotesquely deviant practices, if that were thought appropriate and desirable.”

Martin summoned up Henry’s face. He couldn’t imagine it. He had always thought of Henry as bloodless, sexless, neuter.

“I think you might find it very difficult to involve this particular person in that sort of thing.”

Mr. Dimsdale put down his knife and fork and looked earnestly across the table at Martin. He sipped his wine.

“Mr. Palfreyman, saving your presence, and never mind the young sprig in question, who is exceedingly small beer, but if you asked me to, I could involve the Archbishop of Canterbury in a sordid and stomach-churning vice scandal. I do hope you won’t ask me to, seeing as it would take some sorting out and I have great respect for the reverend gentleman and, on top of that, I live in his archdiocese. If you know how, it’s the easiest thing in the world. Sad, I suppose, and a bitter commentary on the way the world is. But there we are.”

Martin drank some wine and considered. Then he shook his head.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t see it.”

“Very well, then, for the moment, and subject to later revision, perhaps, I must accept your word for it. All right, then, how would it be if the gent in question was to be suspected of a crime, something that put him so far beyond the pale that he would henceforth be shunned by normal decent people and cast forth into another place?”

Martin was fascinated.

“What sort of crime?”

“Personally, I’d plump for drugs. Very fashionable in some City offices, I’m told.”

Henry? Taking drugs? The idea was ridiculous, and Martin said so.

“So he doesn’t take drugs. Many major dealers don’t, I understand.”

“Dealers?”

“Yes. Let’s say that the Drugs Squad, acting on information received, raid his home and find, oh, let’s make it a round figure, a pound of cocaine with his fingerprints on that nice shiny package, together with substantial amounts of cash.”

“He’s a swine, I admit, but that — I simply can’t see it. It simply wouldn’t hold water.”

“That’s only your opinion, but accepting that we have a difficult subject, I could for instance arrange for him to rob a bank or a post office. With identifying video footage, fingerprints in the getaway vehicle, eyewitness accounts, some telltale to-ing and fro-ing in his bank account, and a complete absence of alibi.”

Martin laughed out loud.

“That’s ludicrous. He’s just not the sort. No one would ever believe that.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, Mr. P. People are ready to believe anything, in my experience. And we can all, were we ever so innocent, be accused of a crime. Any crime. All it takes is for someone to want it enough. Believe me,” said Mr. Dimsdale, fixing Martin with his earnest gaze.

“But of course, if that’s not to your taste, then our young gentleman could always be found guilty of gross incompetence, committing hideous errors of judgement which plunge the enterprise into chaos costing hundreds of millions and bring it near the brink of disaster. That’s always a good one, although it’s a little longer in the gestation.”

He mentioned the name of a French bank, partly state owned, which had cavalierly involved itself in several catastrophic acquisitions, including a Hollywood studio. He told Martin of the grisly aftermath, the sackings and resignations of a multitude of executives, one of whom had been the unlucky object of Mr. Dimsdale’s attentions.

“I always like that one. Very satisfying, in an artistic way of speaking.”

Martin was fascinated. He didn’t know what to think. Either this was the biggest load of hogwash he had ever heard or he was being initiated into a world of which he had never dreamed.

“But it doesn’t have to be so drastic. If you’re the sensitive sort, if you wanted to be kind to the person we’re talking about, throw him a sop, so to speak, he might be presented with an unrefusable offer. A post with a company far away, in the Americas, say, or Asia. An offer he absolutely could not turn down, so glittery and shiny was it.”

“You could arrange that?”

“Be sure of it,” said Mr. Dimsdale, finishing his last slice of partridge and putting his knife and fork together neatly. “In this world, for every quid, there is a quo. A Jeopard does lots of quids in his time and there are consequently lots of quos to come. I think I’ll have some cheese and a glass of port, what about you?”

The question caught Martin by surprise. He had not been thinking about cheese at all.

“Now,” said Mr. Dimsdale after the cheeseboard had been presented and chosen from, and he had ordered a nice glass of port, “you’re an intelligent young man, you’ll have realized that what I’ve just been giving you is a sales pitch.”

Martin noticed that he slurred the last two words ever so slightly, and realized also that it was Mr. Dimsdale who had liquidated most of the two bottles of wine they had consumed. Well, Mr. Dimsdale was paying, so he was entitled.

“And the next question you’ll want to ask is: How much is all this costing?”

Martin had been wondering precisely that.

“The answer is, it costs exactly what it’s worth. You have to ask yourself what is the value to you of this certain high office. And then we’d work out a fee. Nothing you wouldn’t be able to afford, given the golden and glittering future that awaits you.”

“But it must cost a fortune to set up something as complicated as the things you’ve been telling me about.”

Mr. Dimsdale waved a dismissive hand.

“No, no, no, Mr. P. What I’ve just shown you is just examples, just examples, that’s it. You’ll understand that there are literally hundreds of other ways you can arrange for your rival to be not there. It all depends on him. Everybody’s different, you see, everybody has his own little ways and foibles. Does he play a sport, for instance?”

“Yes, he’s quite a golfer.”

“Well, then. Nothing easier than for him to be caught cheating at golf. With a Very Important Person into the bargain. Nothing like cheating at a gentleman’s pastime to give a dog a bad name. He’d be dining on cold shoulder for a long time, mark my words. And that would cost you pennies, that’s all, pennies.”

“Mr. Dimsdale, I’m sure you know your business, but the person in question is such a colourless individual, I simply don’t believe that any of this would ever work.”

“Oh, believe me, it would work. I’ve had clients you wouldn’t believe butter would melt in their mouths, honest and upright, fathers of dear little children, admired by all, pillars of the community, churchgoers and all. You wouldn’t believe what people believed of them. Dreadful things. Appalling things. Trust me, Mr. P, we’d find something, the right method, the right procedure.”

Martin shook his head.

“Well, naturally, if all else fails, if you’re sure that your rival is such a paranog — paragon — of virtue, lily-white in all respects, unassailable by more, let’s say, conventional methods, then there’s always,” he paused as the waiter brought his port, “in the last resort, there’s always Utter Jeopardy.” The word really was in italics the way he pronounced it.

“Utter Jeopardy?”

“Yes. Of course, I don’t advocate it myself, it’s far from being free of risk, and it’s expensive. Very expensive. To be undertaken only after deep thought and with very deep pockets.”

“What on earth is Utter Jeopardy?” asked Martin, although he had a very good idea. He felt a distinct chill on the back of his neck. Mr. Dimsdale had stopped twinkling and was deeply serious.

“Let’s just say that it has a strong element of finality and permanence. It’s to be used sparingly, if at all, and I don’t much like it myself. But there are those who swear by it and there are those clients for whom nothing else will do the trick. So there you are, what will you, we cut our coat according to our cloth.”

“You mean you can — well, get rid of people?”

“Oh, not I, Mr. P. I abhor that sort of thing. But we have, let’s say, sister organisations, who can, let’s say, arrange things. My own brother-in-law, for instance, but that’s another story and not a very savoury one, either.”

He was silent for a solemn moment. Then he twinkled again.

“But then it would almost certainly never come to that, it very rarely does, Mr. P, in my experience. So let’s not be too downhearted.”

Mr. Dimsdale drank his port. Then he pulled out a large pocket watch and gave a start.

“Good heavens, is that the time? I had no idea. I was having such a lovely time talking to you, Mr. Palfreyman, that the time has slipped by far too quickly.”

He beckoned the waiter with a scribbling gesture.

“Now, Mr. Palfreyman, you’re going to need time to think over what I’ve been saying to you, I’m sure.” He fished out a card case, abstracted a small piece of pasteboard, and handed it to Martin.

“There you have my private number, and it’s not everyone who has that, I can tell you. At all hours of the day or night. When you have need of me, when you’ve thought it out very carefully, call me, and Nathaniel Dimsdale will be at your service. But be in no doubt, Mr. Palfreyman, a young gentleman like you, with everything to play for, you’ll need me, I feel it in my water.”

He paid the bill with a credit card the sight of which left the waiter whey-faced and as near to grovelling as a waiter at La Magouille is allowed to come.

Martin said, “Well, it’s very kind of you and all that, but I’m really not sure that I’m in the market for this sort of thing.”

Mr. Dimsdale winked.

“You are, Mr. Palfreyman. My information is that you are. But you must be the judge, of course.”

He rose to his feet. Martin picked up his briefcase and followed him across to the cloakroom. Mr. Dimsdale was, if not unsteady on his feet, then wavering slightly. Putting on his voluminous overcoat, he even swayed and bumped into Martin under the unmoved gaze of the cloakroom girl and the waiters. He got into quite a tangle, in fact, and Martin, amused, found himself obliged to help by holding Dimsdale’s bulky envelope while he struggled.

Finally clothed, Mr. Dimsdale said, “Oops, nearly forgot. Call of nature. Wait for me outside, Mr. Palfreyman, won’t be a tick,” and he headed for the toilets.

Martin strolled out into the sunshine. He was seriously intrigued and at the same time, seriously sceptical. Setting aside the ethics of the thing, was it really possible to get rid of a rival like that? And was Mr. Dimsdale the man to do it? He was severely tempted, he had to admit. If it could be done, then why not? He saw the future without Henry and it worked. It worked beautifully. He would have to think about this very carefully. Perhaps he could make some discreet enquiries about Mr. Dimsdale. Someone was bound to know something.

Mr. Dimsdale appeared at his elbow.

“Well, Mr. Palfreyman, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you, and I do hope you will think about what I’ve told you.”

Martin handed him the envelope. Mr Dimsdale took it and pushed it swiftly under his overcoat. After pressing Martin’s hand he squeezed Martin’s shoulder and gave him a friendly shake.

“I like you, Mr. P. I don’t always like my clients, but I like you. And if there’s any way I can help you, I will.”

Then he turned and was gone, threading his way through the early afternoon crowd with surprising agility and steadiness.

Martin looked at his watch. It was far earlier than if he had lunched with Verbecke, who rarely rose from the table in under three hours. So he had a good hour before he was due back. He passed that hour pleasantly browsing in the shops without buying anything but enjoying himself enormously thinking about what life might be like without Henry.

When he got to his office on the eighth floor of the Condominia building, his secretary was waiting for him.

“Mr. Mellish wants to see you straightaway, Mr. Palfreyman,” she said. She flapped a hand helplessly at the man standing by her side. It was O’Hehir, the head of Security, a blocky ex-Army (CIB) sergeant-major whose haircut was not so much a statement as an overt threat.

“Well, I’ll just get rid of my things,” said Henry.

The blocky man stepped forward. Too far forward, Martin thought.

“Mr. Mellish’s instructions were to bring you right away, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Palfreyman.”

Martin ignored him and strode to his office door. It didn’t budge. He turned and found O’Hehir standing, again, too close to him. His secretary stood in the background, fluttering her fingers.

“Right away, Mr. Palfreyman, that’s what Mr. Mellish said. Take your briefcase for you, shall I.”

This was not a question. Martin found himself walking ahead of O’Hehir along the corridor that led to George Mellish’s office.

He went through the secretary’s office and into George’s sanctum. O’Hehir followed and closed the door. George was standing at the window, with, Martin saw, Henry Godber at his side.

George Mellish was brisk and serious. His ruddy face was redder than usual.

“Don’t sit down, Martin. Just a few simple questions and I hope the answers will be equally simple.”

Martin ignored George’s words. “What in God’s name is going on? And why the hell is my office locked?”

“Martin, it will be easier for all of us if you’ll just answer my questions. I’m sure you have a perfectly good explanation.”

“Explanation for what?” Martin was thoroughly confused.

“First of all, were you in Henry’s office this morning?”

“Why — yes. Henry wanted to ask me something.”

“That’s not the way I heard it. The way I heard it was that you simply wandered in.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Were you alone?”

“What?”

“Were you at any point alone in Henry’s office?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I was. Henry had some errand or other for his secretary, and he left me alone.”

George glanced at Henry. Henry’s face was serious and sorrowful, but there was the ghost of a nasty little smile on his face.

“And you didn’t happen to notice that on his desk there was a copy of the Falcon proposal?”

So that’s what all this was about. Falcon — one of Henry’s fanciful code names — was a tender for a giant contract to supply radar equipment in the Middle East. Martin had grown weary of hearing Henry tell him how much it was worth — something over fifty million, apparently.

“There was a binder on his desk, yes, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

George turned to Henry and nodded, as if confirming something. Then: “Martin, where did you have lunch?”

“What the hell has that got to do with anything? If it’s anyone’s business, I was going to have lunch with Verbecke, but, well, he didn’t turn up.” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t believe he sounded so feeble.

“Yes. I can well believe it. We took the liberty of examining your diary half an hour ago, and sure enough, there was Verbecke’s name. Good camouflage, that. But we also took the trouble to ring Verbecke’s office, only to be told that Verbecke was in Coblenz.”

“Yes, I know,” said Martin. What was all this? “But, you see—”

George held up a hand. His face was grave.

“Let me tell you one or two things, Martin. As it happens, I know where you had lunch, because quite by chance I happened to be lunching, at Henry’s invitation, with the Pollux people in their boardroom. From where, as it turns out, one has a very good view of the front of a restaurant called — La Magouille, or something, is it?” He looked at Henry.

Henry nodded. His eyes were very bright.

“And, we also had a very good view of you handing a package of some kind to someone whose appearance I can only describe as seedy in the extreme and with whom you were obviously on terms of great intimacy. What was in that packet, Martin?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“And I suppose you have no idea what could have happened to a copy of the Falcon proposal that Henry found to be missing when he returned from lunch?”

Martin began to have a cold feeling in his stomach.

O’Hehir spoke. He had been standing quietly behind Martin, still holding the briefcase.

“Shall I, Mr. Mellish?”

George nodded.

O’Hehir stepped forward, placed the briefcase on George’s desk, and flipped the catches. Martin didn’t even have the presence of mind to object, and besides, he was suddenly afraid. He never left those combinations open. O’Hehir flipped open the case. There was very little in it, a contract file or two that Martin had intended to discuss with Verbecke. O’Hehir went through the pockets in the lid.

“Ah,” he said. He pulled out a slip of paper, nodded, and handed it to George, who scanned it, his face becoming thunderous.

“Can you explain this, Martin?” He handed the paper across.

On the slip of paper were a few words and numbers. The words were: Falcon material. The numbers were: 100,000. There was also the word Bernstaatskredit, followed by a string of numbers and letters.

O’Hehir stepped forward and took the slip from Martin.

“I’ve got ways, if you’ll allow me, Mr. Mellish.” George nodded and O’Hehir left the room, leaving Martin staring at George without the faintest idea of what to say. George knew exactly what to say, beginning with the disgust and disappointment he felt to find that a trusted lieutenant with a bright future had sunk so low as to betray the company and the colleagues who had placed their faith in him. He would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen the evidence with his own eyes. He, George, had very little time for industrial spies, and especially fifth-columnists who wormed their way into the confidence...

He went on in this vein for some time, brushing aside Martin’s attempts, first, to laugh the thing off, then to defend himself, and finally, simply and feebly, to deny.

O’Hehir returned. He glanced with contempt at Martin, then nodded at George.

“A numbered account. One hundred thousand deposited this morning, and then shortly after lunch our time, it was spirited away. I can’t find out where to. But I’m sure Mr. Palfreyman could tell us if he wanted to. Very silly of you to keep this, Mr. Palfreyman. Destroyed it straight off, I would have.”

George nodded.

“My instinct is to sack you, Martin, but it isn’t up to me. It’s a matter for the Board, and I’ll be calling a special meeting tomorrow. You’ll have the chance to defend yourself, of course, if you can, but only after we’ve had a full inquiry, and then the Board will come to a decision, though I’m pretty sure I know what that will be. Up to that point your salary will continue to be paid, of course, damned if I know why I’m doing that, given the hundred thousand you’ve just squirrelled away in the Caymans, or Andorra, or wherever it is characters like you hide your pieces of silver. But I’ll tell you here and now, you can wave goodbye to your stock options. And, if you please,” he held out his hand, “I’ll relieve you of the keys to the company car.”

Martin’s last sight as he left the office was of Henry’s face, still smiling, and his eyes glittering with a fierce triumph.

In the taxi, Martin stared furiously out of the window. Well, that was it. He was well and truly jeopardized. He was finished with Condominia. Even though the idea was ludicrous that he, a deputy managing director of a giant company, would be so stupid as to sell commercial secrets for a lousy hundred thousand. Even though he might clear his name (he wasn’t at all sure how he was going to do that, but surely there was a way, wasn’t there?) there would always be a cloud over his head.

How could he have been so stupid? And how could that little bastard Henry have been so clever? Martin realized with a rush just how formidable Mr. Dimsdale was. His timing, for a start, was exquisite. Martin realized that Dimsdale and Henry must have rehearsed that carefully choreographed exit from the restaurant at least a dozen times, to make sure that the handover happened under the very eyes of George Mellish, who was lunching (quite by chance, to be sure) in the ideal spot. Dimsdale had managed the business with the envelope with beautiful furtiveness. But the greatest marvel of all was how he had managed to unlock Martin’s briefcase under the table without, for a single moment, taking his eyes off Martin. At the same time he had had the incredible cheek to do a sales presentation to the very man he was in the process of Jeopardizing. And not just a presentation, a practical demonstration. Evidently not a man to waste the perfect selling opportunity.

He felt in his breast pocket and pulled out the little white card. He had Mr. Dimsdale’s number. He would call him tonight. And he had a strong feeling that Mr. Dimsdale would be expecting the call.

“Nice one, Henry,” he said aloud. “But what goes around, comes around. And brace yourself, because it’s coming around with knobs on.”

The cab driver turned to him enquiringly, but he was back in his thoughts. And as the taxi carried him out of the City towards a disturbingly uncertain future, he was already wondering just how much Utter Jeopardy was going to cost.