style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Emilie,’ she said, and spelt it out. ‘Emilie Madelin.’
The name meant nothing to him. He repeated it, to memorise it, and at that instant the telephone on the library table began to ring. Ambrose frowned; he had been expecting the call tonight, another reason why he had come into this room—to wait for it.
‘I’ll have to take that—excuse me for a moment…’
He had meant her to wait, but as he picked up the phone the girl took the opportunity to slip away before he could stop her, murmuring politely, ‘Thank you again…’
The heavy mahogany door closed behind her.
Staring at it, Ambrose spoke into the phone curtly. ‘Yes?’
‘Ambrose?’
‘Hello, Gavin. How did it go?’
‘Like a dream. We’ve got him; everything’s in place for the kill. You can close in at the board-meeting on Thursday.’
Gavin Wheeler’s voice was excited, a little thick, as if he had been drinking, and no doubt he had. Gavin drank far too much, especially when he was coming to the end of a particular project.
Ambrose never drank with him, which, he knew, Gavin resented. From the occasional curious remark, Ambrose knew Gavin suspected him of being a reformed alcoholic, which was ironic. Ambrose’s childhood had been made miserable by an alcoholic father who was violent when he was drunk and morose when he was sober. That was why Ambrose himself only drank the occasional glass of wine, on social occasions, and no spirits at all, and never drank when he was alone. But he had never talked to Gavin about his fatherAmbrose wasn’t giving Gavin any power over him, if he could help it. He did not entirely trust Gavin; in fact, Ambrose did not trust anyone unreservedly.
Coolly, Ambrose said, ‘Good work, Gavin. Sure Rendell doesn’t have a clue what we’re doing?’
‘Not unless someone has told him since this morning,’ Gavin said, laughing. ‘I’ve personally talked to all the shareholders; their shares will change hands on Thursday, too late for George Rendell to guess what’s going on. Our friends on the board all agree that he’s too old for the job now. He should have retired long ago.’
‘If he’d had a son he would have done, no doubt,’ Ambrose said. ‘It must have been a terrible blow to him to have no heir.’
‘Don’t waste any pity on the old man; he has plenty of money to make his retirement comfortable,’ Gavin retorted.
‘It is still going to hit him hard; his life is invested in that company.’ Ambrose rather liked the old man, and was sorry for him, but the company was going downhill when it should be doing well in the current climate, and, with the bank’s money invested, it was his duty to make sure their money was safe.
‘He’d have to retire soon, anyway,’ said Gavin indifferently. He didn’t care two pins about George Rendell—he barely knew him. Gavin didn’t work at the bank; he was directly responsible to Ambrose, who kept him moving between the bank’s clients, doing deals, arranging take-overs, finding out information and researching possible mergers. Gavin was a clever accountant; he had a cold heart and a cool head and the temperament to enjoy following a difficult trail to track down a target.
‘He isn’t a friend of yours, is he?’
‘Not a personal friend, but he has been a client of the bank for a long time.’ Ambrose was irritated by the question. Personal feelings couldn’t come into the way he dealt with clients. The bank’s money had to be safeguarded, that was his job, and they had invested quite a sum in George Rendell’s company.
George Rendell’s family had been making paper for over a century and had several mills in Kent and Sussex. Two years ago George had asked if he could borrow money with which to update machinery, and Ambrose had agreed, but although George had kept up the monthly repayments, a large amount of the money was still outstanding and the company’s audit last year had revealed that, far from an improvement in sales, there had been a falling-off since the new machinery was introduced. Ambrose had come to the conclusion that the management was set in a rut, starting at the top, with George Rendell himself. He was nearing seventy and had no son to take over, allowing him to retire. The company was ripe for take-over. It was in the bank’s interest to arrange one with a client firm, safeguarding the bank’s investment.
‘The company should be making twice the amount of product; the whole place needs a good shake-up,’ Ambrose said. ‘OK. So when do you fly back?’
‘Ten tomorrow.’ Gavin had been up to Scotland to see a big shareholder in Rendell and Son who was prepared to sell to their prospective buyer for the firm.
‘You’ve got your secretary with you?’
‘She’s here right now,’ Gavin said, laughing in a way that told Ambrose that the two of them were in bed together.
Gavin always had affairs with his secretaries; he chose them for their looks as much as their brains, although the girls always had both. Gavin expected his secretary to work hard, to be ultra-efficient, as well as good in bed. They never lasted long; about a year was the usual time one stayed with him. Ambrose wasn’t sure whether he sacked them or they left, but they kept changing.
Well, he’s good at his job, I don’t have to like him, thought Ambrose. The way he lives is none of my business.
‘Well, work on your report with her during the flight back,’ he said coolly. ‘Get her to type it up as soon as you arrive, and have it on my desk before five tomorrow.’
‘OK. Will you be around when I arrive?’
‘No, I have meetings all afternoon, but I’ll be back by five. I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Gavin, and thank you.’
Ambrose hung up and looked at his watch. The party would soon be over, his guests would start drifting away in half an hour; he had better get out there and circulate for the last few moments.
As soon as he opened the door he was engulfed by people eager for a chance to talk to him. He was just working out how to escape again, when he was rescued by Sophie Grant, one of his senior stock-market experts. She joined the circle surrounding him, waited her moment, and then asked him to show her his latest prize orchid in the heated greenhouse behind the house.
Several others clamoured to see it, but Ambrose explained politely that there should never be more than two people in the orchid-house at a time.
‘It uses up too much oxygen,’ he assured them.
As he and Sophie walked off she laughed softly. ‘What a smooth liar you are!’
Ambrose gave her an amused look. ‘An essential tool in the banker’s weaponry. And it’s true—it isn’t a good idea to have too many people in the orchid-house at one time. Thanks for rescuing me, anyway. Do you really want to see the orchids?’
‘Of course I do! They fascinate me; there’s something luscious and terrible about them. They’re so beautiful, yet they look as if they might eat people.’
Ambrose gave her another sideways glance; there was something orchidaceous about Sophie: she was beautiful and looked as if she might eat people—men, anyway! She had thick, white, perfect skin,
