The Green Flash (19 page)

Instead I said: ‘Next week we've got to make a decision about the way we put over this poly-energizing cream. You can tell people it keeps cells alive in a test tube six times as long as any other substance. The question is, will anybody in the general public have the nous to ask, so what?'

‘No,' she said slowly. ‘It is still a good selling point. People do not think that way. But let us consider it later. My head is aching, and I can't think clearly this evening.'

We chatted a bit longer. She lit a cigarette, rapidly flipping the lighter shut as soon as the tobacco caught. Then she asked me if before I went I would take a couple of cheques and post them for her.

‘Where's John?'

‘In Richmond. He is not a good nurse and flees at the sight of the least indisposition.'

‘I could be a good nurse,' I said.

‘No. But thank you.'

‘You still don't trust me.'

‘Ah, not totally as a lover. How can I? How dare I I am … almost in love with you. So I do not even trust myself. John – John means next to nothing to me any more; so I do not have to doubt him. With him there is nothing to lose and therefore nothing to hide.'

On her directions I went into the living-room and fished for her chequebook in a drawer of the antique writing table. Under it I saw her passport. Well, some day I had to know, and this meant merely the flip of a page.

There it was. Born Moscow, USSR; date of birth: 12th August, 1930. The photograph stared at me accusingly. She was just forty-two. Eleven when war – their war – broke out. She could only have been about fifteen or sixteen when she left Russia, began her famous trek. Children grew up early in the climate of war. Thirty-seven when I met her. Thirteen years older than I was. That seemed about right – what I would have guessed. Forty-two was no great age, except for the standards she set herself, which were the standards of a woman of twenty. And of course, except for the fact that she was the mistress of a man still
in
his twenties.

I went in with the chequebook. She squinted at me a shade suspiciously and then put on her glasses to write the cheque. I thought: only ten years younger than my mother. A date made a difference. Just knowing made her seem older – though I hadn't really ever thought of her as younger than that.

Was I tiring of her? It hadn't occurred to me before. Perhaps I should take the thirty grand and run.

She said: ‘Did you come to see me about anything, David? Anything special, I mean?'

‘Nothing that won't wait,' I said. ‘You'll be fine by Monday.'

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘I'll be fine by Monday.'

II

She was not fine by Monday but she was about. And still I didn't take the pin out. And neither it seemed did John. I wondered if he was bluffing. He hadn't exactly got a full house. Maybe he thought I was still considering his bribe. And why did
I
put it off? I'd never been one to care about a row.

Shona didn't go fencing on Tuesday so I went on my own, interested to see if Mr Crosnier's books had done me any good. With Shona absent Erica was more impudent with me than ever, and I could see she was all ready for the come-on. I think she just fancied a bit of fun and thought I'd do – it wasn't more sultry or lustful than that. I didn't take her up on the glances, but we enjoyed the evening and there was more laughter and joking all round than there were parries or feints. Yet she'd only just come back from a big tournament in Paris, and there was an international bout due in London in two weeks' time, when Miss Lease was fencing for England.

On Thursday we had our board meeting at Stevenage, and Shona seemed herself again, thrusting like the natural fencer she was at the weak points of an argument; giving everyone a chance to have their say, then suddenly, annoyingly, making up her own mind, and that was that. I'd done a report about Bristol which everybody had had, generally trying to be impartial but summing up by recommending that two of their men should come to Stevenage to bring samples and to get down to development and terms. There was a bit of general talk, and the meeting seemed to think that what I said was OK.

At this stage Shona turned to John and said: ‘You have not put in any report of your own, John. Can we take it you agree with David's?'

John, who had not looked at me throughout the meeting, said: ‘Not at all. I totally disagree with it.'

‘D'you mean you don't think TBM Ltd have a proposition worth offering us?'

‘Just that. I thought their product was no good at all.'

There was a longish silence. Then everybody began to talk at once.

Shona, looking from one to the other of us, finally said: ‘Clearly we need a third opinion. Certainly samples should be sent here before we take any more positive steps.'

‘I should welcome that,' I said, seeing she had really come down on my side.

She was looking grim today, and when the meeting ended and she asked me to stay behind I thought, well, this is it, and he's got his oar in first. But instead she took an
Evening Standard
off the table and said: ‘Have you seen this, David?'

I hadn't. The item was headed: ‘Fatal accident on M6. Heir to baronetcy dies in early morning crash.'

My eyes went down the page.

‘When did this happen?'

‘I heard it on the one o'clock news.'

I read:

Victim of an accident on the M6 near Sedbergh was Dr Malcolm Kilclair Abden, aged 39, son and heir of Sir Charles Abden, baronet, of Lochfiern, Ross and Cromarty. According to an eye witness, who had just been overtaken, the car, driven by Dr Abden, a white sports car, which was travelling at high speed, appeared to have a blowout in a front tyre, and the driver lost control and turned over, ploughing through to the northbound carriageway. At the time, 6.30 a.m., the motorway was quiet and no other cars were involved. Dr Abden, who was an ex-Member of Parliament for North Banff, will be well remembered for his appearances on radio and television, where his forthright views always attracted attention. He leaves a widow and four children.

‘Good grief,' I said. ‘That's tough.'

She said: ‘It must be in the family.'

‘What must?'

‘Driving crazy. Your father was never happier than when he was on a racetrack or doing sixty in a built-up area.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘You did.'

‘I'd forgotten.' I stared at the paper. ‘Well, well. Too bad … At least he died in his bed. My father, I mean. Or as near his bed as made no matter.'

‘Perhaps if you have a mania for speed it is more dignified to have a blow-out on a motorway.'

I looked at her. If you have a mania for drink it's undignified to fall down in your own kitchen. ‘It's a pity about Malcolm, but I'm not going to waste any tears.'

‘At Erica's dinner party I liked him.'

‘Well, it's a hard thing to say of a cousin, but in fact I didn't actually dislike him.'

‘You might waste thought on his fate, if not tears. John said you drove most recklessly when you took him to Bristol last week.'

‘So he's told you about our visit – before today, I mean.'

‘Oh yes. But I wanted it aired at the meeting. Anyway I would take your opinion in preference to his. It is agreed by everyone that we need a new line, to be ready in a couple of years.'

I said: ‘ I wonder what the hell he was doing.'

‘Who? Oh … It is simple. He was driving too fast.'

‘The one thing I would have reckoned on from the few conversations I had with him was that he was a good driver.'

‘You cannot take every precaution against a blow-out, as they call it.'

‘Hm. Good drivers don't neglect their tyres.'

III

So I ducked another opportunity, and it was a couple of days more before the ice cracked. I was in my office dictating a reply to a high-class Manchester store who had invited us to take a stand at a ‘Year of Beauty' exhibition they were getting up for the early months of the following year. They said they had assessed our contribution to the exhibition at £3000 and informed us that Rubinstein and Arden and Revlon had already agreed their larger contributions. I had got to know most of my opposite numbers in the other firms, so I rang Edward Tolston at Rubinstein and found, as I expected, that he hadn't agreed anything yet, and I guessed none of the other firms had either. As an ex-conman I'm always quick to recognize a con when I see it. The outcome of my reply to the store would be likely to end business between us for a year or two while they got over the affront, but there were other good outlets.

Shona came in and I nodded to my secretary and she left. Madame had certainly quite recovered her health and her austere, pallid good looks. Presumably she was off out to lunch somewhere, because the Gucci slacks and the ponytail had been put aside for a short black velvet frock with a crimson satin slash, and her hair was up and all a-glint with a recent brushing.

‘David,' she said quietly, ‘ I gather you have been cheating us.'

I put down the biro I had been gnawing. Biros are hard things to chew and unsatisfactory, you can't get splinters off them.

‘I don't think so.'

‘Well, you must explain to me.'

‘I suppose John has been telling you about this company I have floated.'

‘Yes.'

It was low-key so far. ‘Kilclair Ltd.'

‘Who are the directors?'

‘Myself, Van Morris, and that chap Derek Jones.'

‘With Roger Manpole in the background?'

‘No. You ought to know better than that.'

‘So it is really you and two figureheads.'

‘If you like to look at it that way.'

‘A company created to buy our surplus products cheap and re-sell them at a profit.'

‘Resell them where they can do no harm. In the north-country factory shops.'

‘They do every sort of harm. I had already had complaints from the big shops up there, but thought it was just a few isolated parcels which had slipped through somehow.'

I went to the window and looked out. ‘Shona, d'you recall when we were doing the first reorganization, when we were shifting from Isleworth to Stevenage, we had a
lot
of surplus stock. At least it was a lot for those days. I saw it being loaded into three lorries and I asked Parker what was going to happen to it. He just said that one word: ‘‘Pulped.'' I couldn't believe it. Honestly. High-grade packaged lipsticks, soaps, toilet water, perfumes, the lot, all in top nick. I asked him again, hardly able to take it in. Then, just to be sure, I jumped in my car and followed the lorries. They carried them to a dump six miles away near Harlington and tipped them; then a bulldozer came along and crushed them till they literally
were
pulp. It actually happened, just like that!'

She said: ‘We all do it. All the most exclusive firms do it. You must know that. It is part of the Limited Distribution System.'

‘To keep prices outrageously high.'

‘To keep them at their proper level! We have research and development costs to meet! We have to build up support capital against the possible failure of new lines! As you must know, it is the exclusive perfumers who do most of the expensive pioneer work, which the big firms often exploit once a breakthrough has been achieved. That is why what you have done is so unforgivable.'

I sighed patiently. ‘Look, so far I've sold three consignments to Kilclair Ltd. One for two thousand pounds, one for five thousand pounds, one for fifteen thousand. Shona and Co. are therefore twenty-two thousand better off than they would be if the stuff had been sent to be pulped.'

‘And by how much is Kilclair Ltd better off?'

‘We sold the consignments to a private firm in the north of England who specialize in supplying the factory shops. It's an ex-perfumery chap who runs it so he understands how to deal with it discreetly.'

‘For
how much
?'

‘How much for each package? Five thousand, eight thousand and twenty-five thousand.'

‘So Kilclair Ltd is better off –
you
and your lot – are better off by some … let me see … fifteen thousand pounds. Is that correct?'

‘Probably about twelve after deducting expenses.'

‘And for that you will throw away your position here and undermine the value of our perfumery products.'

I said: ‘It can't affect your general price structure simply to have a few factory workers able to buy your stuff at half-price.'

‘It does. And we all agree.' There was the old femmine whipcord look about her now. ‘Let me tell you a story. Five years ago a consignment of Rubinstein products was sold at about forty per cent of the wholesale price for resale in Indonesia, where Rubinstein have no outlet. But there was a double-cross somewhere and the consignment found its way on to the Swiss market. When Rubinstein heard this they immediately despatched agents to hire people to stand in queues to buy back all their products in the Geneva and Zurich supermarkets where they were going at a reduced price. Not until the last was bought up did the queues cease.'

‘It would cost ' em a fortune,' I said nastily, considering the mark-up.'

‘Maybe. But I will do the same for
my
products: I understand this last consignment – the large one – has only just gone through.'

‘About a month ago.'

‘Before you leave you must tell us the name of the firm you sold to and its likely outlets.'

I said: ‘Before I leave?'

‘Before you leave. Then I will have the stuff bought back.'

‘There'd be more petulance in that than common sense.'

‘That shows your total misunderstanding of the principle involved!' She paused. ‘Or does it? I wonder. To someone on the outside of the trade this might seem a trivial issue.' She thumped her hand on the desk. ‘ But you
must
have known this was unforgivable behaviour. You were not born yesterday! You have been in the business for
years
, first with Langtons, then with Yardley's, and now a long time with me. It cannot possibly be that you have behaved this way out of
ignorance
. Why did you not tell me what you were doing?'