The Strode Venturer (29 page)

She didn’t attempt to get free of me. She just stood there, staring up at me and the expression of her eyes shocked me. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t hate even. It was something more deadly—absolute contempt. And in an ice-cold voice she said, “That story was leaked—for a purpose. It’s an old game. You build up a company’s prospects, get the small investor in, then you arrange for something to go wrong, leak it as a rumour that frightens all the rabbits, and when the crash comes you step in and pick up the bits. Father told me how it was done. That was after he’d destroyed a
wretched little company that owned some godowns out East he wanted … He was a devil at that sort of thing.”

“This has got nothing to do with your father,” I said. “This is quite different.”

“An absolute devil,” she breathed, her lips drawn back and her teeth showing, so that I glimpsed for an instant the love-hate relationship that had existed between them.

I closed the door firmly, suddenly realizing there was a side of her that was attracted by her father’s ruthlessness. “George isn’t in his class,” I said.

“No? Then why was that man Reece appointed? He was brought in for a definite purpose.”

I wasn’t prepared to argue about that, but Reece was a professional seaman and I had seen his face when he realized the island wasn’t there any more. “Whatever his instructions,” I said, “it never occurred to him that they would involve loss of life. As the man responsible for not having brought them off to the ship he took it very hard.”

“Naturally. It had become something different then. Not just an accident, an error of judgment.” She was standing, dry-eyed and rigid, her hands quite cold. “It had become murder.” She said it in a flat, tired voice, and having made that appalling statement all the violence seemed drained out of her.

“We don’t know Peter is dead. Not yet.” But she didn’t seem to hear and I realized that something had happened since I had seen her last to make her change her mind; she no longer believed he was alive. I told her then about my visit to Hans Straker. “I tried to phone you last night and again this morning.” But though I went over all he had said to me, all his arguments, I don’t think she took it in. “You were right,” I said finally. “I must see Deacon, and there’s the
Strode Venturer
herself. She’ll be in Aden at the end of this week and there’ll be entries in her log covering that first voyage to the island.”

She nodded, her face blank, her eyes empty, her hand in mine entirely limp. And then in a dull voice she said, “I’ve been up most of the night. Old Mr. Turner died this
morning. That’s why you couldn’t get me. I was at the nursing home. They rang me shortly after eight yesterday evening. I was with him when he died.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t——” I was going to say “too painful an end,” but I let it go and she smiled wanly and shook her head.

“He was under drugs. It was quite easy—for him, I think. Not for me. He was conscious for a while.” Her face had softened at the recollection and I asked whether he’d said anything. She nodded and her eyes came suddenly alive, a glint of amusement though she was very near to tears. “He asked me whether I was going to marry you. And when I admitted that we had discussed it, he seemed pleased; gave us his blessing and some advice. He always liked to give me the benefit of his advice. He’s been doing it since I could crawl.”

The phone rang then and I took it off its cradle and laid it on the desk. “What was his advice?”

She shook her head. “I’m not telling you what he advised me. It was much too much to the point. But he had some advice for you.” She looked up at me, a long questioning look.

“Well?” I asked.

“It was to cultivate toughness. He said to warn you that nobody could direct the affairs of a company and survive in the City unless he had bounce as well as energy. He thought you had the vitality, but not the bounce, and that if you were going to get back what your father had lost you’d need to be tougher than he was—and you’d need luck as well.” She was still looking straight at me. “He died just as it was getting light. I had breakfast at the nursing home and when I got to the station I bought that newspaper. His advice seemed suddenly very apt.” And she added, the harshness back in her voice, “It’s not George and Henry we’re up against now. It’s these new men and somebody will have to be clever as well as tough to beat them at their own game.”

I stared at her, my eyes suddenly opened to the sort of
person I was thinking of marrying. She had spent the night by the bedside of a dying man, gradually convincing herself that her brother had died a ghastly death on the other side of the world, and now dry-eyed and cold as ice she was bolstering up my courage and telling me how tough I’d got to be if we were to hold on to Strode & Company. “You take after your father,” I said.

“So I’ve been told,” she replied tersely. And then with a little smile—“Fortunately my mother also contributed.”

That glint of humour, the fact that she could smile—it’s often the little things that give one confidence. And when I put the phone back on its cradle Elliot rang to remind me that George Strode expected me to attend the meeting. It meant that they had no idea I was a Strode shareholder in my own right. I had an edge on them then, the chance of springing a surprise, and when Whimbrill came through just as we were leaving to say that the directors had finally decided to support the Lingrose nominations, I was no longer in the mood to accept it as inevitable. Indeed, I was suddenly glad it had come to a head. “You opposed it, of course.”

There was silence at the other end of the line and I knew that he hadn’t. He hadn’t dared. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you do yourself,” I said, “but see that you use Peter’s proxy to vote the way he would have voted had he been here.” He started to argue that the proxy was invalid now that Peter was dead, but I told him that was nonsense. It would only be true when his death was proved beyond any doubt. And in any case … “Surely it’s the intention at the time he signed the proxy that counts.” And I told him to get on to Turner’s partner and find out what the legal position was. “I’m not at all certain Peter is dead,” I said and put the phone down.

It was time to go to the meeting then and as we went down the stairs together I was thinking of the haphazard way it had all started—that pilgrimage to the City on the top of a bus in the early morning. And now the dream was ended. It was all very well to talk like that to Whimbrill,
but I wasn’t at all sure he would use that proxy the way Peter had intended. I wasn’t even sure that if he did we had enough shares to block them. I’d no confidence in myself or anybody else as we reached the main entrance under the cupola and the great chandelier.

The annual general meeting of Strode & Company was an even smaller gathering than the Strode Orient meeting I had attended three months previously. It was almost entirely a family affair with a few friends and members of the staff to help fill it out. I doubt whether the shareholders present included more than three members of the general public. The directors were already seated at the top table when we came in, all except Whimbrill. The proceedings started prompt at twelve o’clock with the same formal reading of the notice convening the meeting. Ida’s hand touched mine, a quick grip of the fingers. She was keyed up, leaning slightly forward, her face very tense. Something of her mood must have communicated itself to me for as Henry Strode rose from his seat I found myself suddenly calm, the sort of calm you feel when the battle klaxons have gone and the guns’ crews closed up.

His conduct of the proceedings was easy, almost casual. He had the air of a man who had done this so many times before that his words were quite automatic. The accounts were passed, his speech taken as read, and then there was a pause, everybody waiting. Whimbrill slid into his seat, not looking at anyone, his eyes on the table and his face very pale, the burn scars showing livid. The traffic in the street outside was loud in the stillness as Henry Strode picked up the agenda, glanced at it, tossed it down and then removed his glasses to face the hall. “This year two of our directors retire by rotation. My brother, George Strode, has served on the board for seventeen years; Colonel Hinchcliffe for fourteen. In the interests of the company’s future they are not offering themselves for re-election and I am sure you will wish me to express your thanks to them for the long years of service …”

Whimbrill was staring up at his chairman with the set
expression of a man under sentence, his hands clenched round each end of the ball-point pen he held. The snap of the plastic as it broke was loud against the quiet monotone of Henry Strode’s voice. “In their place your company has been offered the services of two very able and experienced men.” As he named Slattery and Wolfe and spoke of their connection with Liass Securities—“a powerful and very go-ahead investment group who already have a big stake in your company”—Ida leaned towards me and whispered, “Those two smug bastards.” She said it elegantly, with a little smile, but the light of battle was in her eyes as she nodded to where Slattery and Wolfe sat together just across the aisle from us.

Henry Strode was now proposing their election to the board. He was seconded by le Fleming and it was then put to the meeting. He nodded as hands were dutifully raised. “Against?” Except for Ida and myself there wasn’t a soul left in that small gathering to raise their hands in opposition and he didn’t even glance at the directors’ table where Whimbrill sat, taut-faced and still, fingering that damaged ear. “Motion carried.”

I glanced at Whimbrill, waiting. But he sat quite still, his eyes on the table, making no move. I knew then that it was up to me and I got slowly to my feet. “This is a very vital decision, Mr. Chairman. It affects the whole future of the company. In the circumstances I think it right to request that votes be counted.”

George Strode tugged at his brother’s sleeve and I had scarcely resumed my seat when Henry Strode said on a note of cold severity: “I understand you are here solely as an employee of Strode Orient to answer certain questions that may be raised later. You are, therefore, out of order——”

“I am here as a shareholder,” I said.

He hesitated and then glanced at Whimbrill who, almost reluctantly it seemed, nodded his head. “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” Henry Strode went on suavely. “Since the number voting in favour of the motion is so overwhelming I see no real necessity——”

“Well, I do.” Ida had risen to her feet. “I hold forty thousand shares and I’m not going to stand by and see the company my father built——”

“Kindly sit down, Ida. And remember please that he was my father also.” And in a quieter tone, facing the body of the hall again, Henry Strode said, “I think you should know that the votes supporting the motion total over two hundred and thirty thousand—nearly half the capital of the company.”

“Nevertheless, sir, since it has been challenged”—Whimbrill had at last decided to intervene. His tone was diffident but firm. “It would be advisable to count votes—for the record.”

Henry Strode hesitated. Then he nodded. “As you please.” He sounded indifferent. But his eyes followed closely as each raised hand gave his name whilst the auditor, acting as teller, checked his shareholding. Even in such a small meeting it took time. When it came to those against the motion there was only Ida and myself. The figures were totted up, secretary and auditor conferring as the directors’ proxies were added. At last it was done and Whimbrill rose slowly to his feet, still pale, still diffident, his voice betraying his nervousness. “The motion is lost.”

“Lost!” George Strode was on his feet. Several others, too. “Read out the figures,” somebody demanded.

“For the motion—232,816; against—241,265.”

George Strode sat down again, a look of bewilderment on his face. His brother said something to him and their eyes fastened on Ida and then on me, puzzled, uneasy, anxious to know where the attack had come from. Finally George Strode turned to the auditor. “Only two hands were raised against the motion.” He stared at the man, his head thrust angrily forward like a bull searching for his adversary.

It was Whimbrill who answered him. “Mrs. Roche, as you know, owns forty thousand shares, and Commander Bailey—” he glanced at a slip of paper in front of him—“holds sixty-seven thousand, two hundred and——”

“Bailey, you say—but this morning, when you produced that list for us …”

“This isn’t a recent purchase.”

“How long has he had them then?”

“These shares were purchased over a long period by Mr. Lawrence Turner. He gave them to Commander Bailey a few weeks ago.”

“Gave them to him?”

They were all staring at me and if he could have been there I am certain old Turner would have enjoyed that moment. I got to my feet. “You will know better than I,” I said, speaking directly to Henry Strode, “how closely Mr. Turner was associated with your father. He gave me these shares, in trust as it were for the future of this company, to be used in just such an eventuality as this. He died this morning,” I added, a feeling of contempt rising in me, “and it can have been cold comfort to him knowing as he did what you were planning to do. The gift of these shares to me is the measure of his determination to do what he could to prevent the company falling into the hands of a group of unscrupulous men bent on wrecking what he had helped to build.”

The room was very still as I sat down. Henry Strode gave a little cough. “I think you should withdraw that last remark.” And when I didn’t answer, he said with emphasis, “In reaching our decision this morning about the future we all of us had the best interests of the two companies in mind.” He turned to Whimbrill again. “I take it that the balance of the shares against the motion was in the form of proxies?”

“I hold one proxy only. It’s for a hundred and seventeen thousand shares—signed by Peter Strode.”

I saw Henry Strode make a quick mental calculation. “And you have no other proxy. My sister, Jennifer de Witt didn’t——”

“No. She decided that as a Dutch resident she would prefer not to vote. The balance——” Whimbrill hesitated, looking up at his chairman, a small, tired, disfigured man
who, now that he had decided to fight, suddenly had stature. “The balance is made up of my own shares. I own seventeen thousand and fifty and I voted against the motion.”