Villiers Touch

16. Russell Hastings

Shortly after three o’clock Russ Hastings checked NCI’s closing price on the ticker, scribbled the figures at the bottom of a column in his notebook, and buzzed his secretary. “Miss Sprague, ask the Exchange to have Herb Capps call me right away, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He flipped back through the notebook and scowled. He had spent three days tracking investors who had recently bought blocks of NCI common. He had been able to reach only a handful; none of them had told him anything useful; by now they shifted together in his mind, as vague as the characters in a Russian novel.

Intercom buzz. “I have Mr. Capps on the line.”

“Thank you… Hello, Herb? I see by today’s close, NCI is up another two points for the week.”

“Still worrying that bone, Mr. Hastings? You won’t find much meat on it.”

“Possibly. It happens I’m calling you about something else.”

“That list of buyers I was going to send you. Look, I’m sorry about that. My secretary’s out sick, I’ve been trying to put it all together myself, evenings. I’m a one-finger, hunt-and-peck typist, it’s gone kind of slow. But I’ll have it up to date and on your desk by Monday morning.”

“All right. Thank you. I hope it’s nothing serious-your secretary?”

“What? Oh, only a summer flu bug. She’ll be back early in the week, I expect.”

When Capps broke the connection, Hastings picked up the notebook and walked out past Miss Sprague’s desk. She looked up. He discovered her neck was ropy, wondered that he’d never noticed it before, and said, “I’m going up to the boss’s office. I need you to handle a small discreet job for me.”

“Yes, sir?”

“See if you can find out if Herb Capps’s secretary has been out sick this week. Don’t let Capps find out you’re inquiring about it.”

“All right, sir.”

He grinned at her and looked at his watch. “Buzz me in the field marshal’s office if you find out about her before I come back.”

He went down the hall to Gordon Quint’s sanctum.

The fat man gave him an amiable glare. “What now?”

“My liege, I come bearing curious tidings.” Hastings sat down without waiting to be asked. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t. Not unless every other possibility has been ruled out.”

“Things are never neat and tidy,” Quint said. “You have a suspicious mind.”

“That’s what I’m paid for, isn’t it?”

“Let’s have it, then.”

Hastings flipped back the cover of his notebook. “There’s been considerable escalation in purchases of NCI common, in blocks, by a large number of investors who don’t want to be traced. Over the past seven weeks, all together one million eight hundred thousand shares of NCI have been traded. Of those shares, about two hundred thousand have been bought in small lots. That leaves a million six. Of which something like five hundred thousand shares have been bought by bona-fide institutional investors-banks, mutual funds, pension funds. Another eighty or a hundred thousand shares I can eliminate from suspicion because I’ve been able to track down the buyers and they’re reputable.”

“Leaving a million shares you haven’t yet accounted for,” Quint said.

“Your math’s good enough. Want to know who bought those one million shares?”

“That’s childish. I don’t enjoy riddles. Get on with it.”

“It’s one riddle I haven’t found the answer to. You can follow those purchases just so far, and then a door slams in your face. Canadian front men. So-called mutual funds that turn out to be nothing more than dummies for unspecified stockholders. Anonymous numbered Swiss bank accounts. Corporations in Liechtenstein that won’t divulge the names of their officers and principal stockholders. I’ve traced a quarter of a million dollars’ worth to a call girl and another quarter of a million to a gangster. The other day you wanted to know if I had anything more than a hunch. Well?”

Quint grunted. He leaned on the leather arm of the chair and dipped his finger into the abalone-shell ashtray to stir candy wrappers as if they were tea leaves in which he expected to find an oracular message. Presently he looked up. “You are not making me a very happy man. I was looking forward to a quiet, untroubled weekend in the country.”

“A thousand pardons if I’ve disturbed your royal slumbers.”

“Oh, shut up, Russ.”

Hastings grinned at him.

The fat man stirred and made a face. “You haven’t finished, have you?”

“No. There are more curious coincidences. Herb Capps, the NCI floor specialist at the Big Board. That’s number one. He promised me a list of buyers, but somehow he’s managed to delay it from day to day, and I still haven’t seen it. Is that coincidence? My secretary’s trying to find out right now. Number two, Elliot Judd. I tried to reach him in Arizona. I intended to make it a personal call, just sound him out, see if he had anything on his mind. It would help to know if he’s got suspicions of his own.”

“Has he?”

“I didn’t get a chance to find out. It seems he’s not taking phone calls.”

“That’s hardly surprising. Does J. Paul Getty answer his phone every time it rings?”

“Judd and I are pretty close. He’d be happy to talk to me-unless he had a specific reason not to.”

“Are you suggesting he knows something he’d rather not have us know?”

“It could be. Or it could be he isn’t well enough to come to the phone. You see what that could lead to, don’t you?”

Quint scowled at him. He was about to make a remark, but his interphone announced a call for Hastings; Quint handed him the phone and Miss Sprague said in Hastings’ ear, “About Mr. Capps’s secretary, she’s been out of the office since Tuesday. One of the girls in the adjoining office overheard Mr. Capps calling a florist to send flowers to her at home. She’s expected back at work Monday or Tuesday.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Not at all.”

He had to get up to cradle the phone; he stayed on his feet, restless and irritable. “The NCI floor specialist appears to be ruled out for now, but I’m not scratching anybody off the list just yet. I wouldn’t be surprised to find all kinds of people in this right up to their hairlines.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s big.”

“Granted. But we still need to know whether Elliot Judd has an active part in it. Without that piece of information, we’ve got nothing.”

“I know.” Hastings put his hand on the back of the chair he had vacated and squeezed it until the knuckles whitened. “I want to fly out there.”

“To Arizona?”

“Yes.”

“If he won’t come to the telephone, what makes you think he’ll see you?”

“It would be awkward for him if he didn’t-it would tell me something. Assume he’s doing something illegal-would he risk confirming my suspicions by turning me away?”

“And you honestly think if he’s concealing something you’ll be able to sniff it out just by seeing him?”

“That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“It’s also possible you’ll put him on the alert and make it ten times as difficult for us to catch him.”

“I think we have to take that chance,” Hastings said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t really believe he’s got anything to do with it. And if that’s true, he’s got to be warned. Right now. You see that, don’t you?”

Quint hesitated. Finally he said, “When do you plan going?”

Hastings moved his grip from the chair, “The first flight I can get tomorrow morning.”

“Very well,” Quint said.