Babylon South. Jon Cleary

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ said Emma, soberly dressed, even wearing a hat and gloves: old Mosman keeping up standards. ‘Nothing has been decided yet.’

      ‘Yes, when.’ Justine looked across the table at her aunt. The older men looked slightly embarrassed; women should not fight, at least not in the company of men. The younger ones sat up, hiding their grins by lowering their heads; this was going to be even better than they had anticipated. Then Justine went on: ‘The Springfellow name will be retained. We shall do that out of respect for tradition and for the value of the name. It’s a name I’m proud to have myself.’

      She looked across at Edwin, who visibly annoyed Emma by nodding.

      ‘So—’ Justine had learned a few tricks from her mother: the value of a pause, for instance. ‘So we are offering six dollars fifty for all Springfellow and Company shares beyond those my mother and I own, subject to the usual minimum acceptance conditions. On top of that we are offering nine dollars fifty a share for all those shares in Springfellow Bank beyond those owned by Springfellow and Company, again subject to the usual conditions.’

      ‘Those should be two separate transactions,’ said one of the Intercapital directors.

      ‘They will be,’ said Justine. ‘I am merely summarizing here. But we do not want any hiatus between the two deals. We want them wrapped up together. Payment will be in cash, payable within the usual thirty days. The corporation will then become a private one, though certain of you will be invited to join our board.’ That was a carrot thrown in front of the horse drawing the tumbril and everyone recognized it as such.

      Especially Emma. ‘Very generous. Do you expect us to respond to that sort of bribery?’

      ‘Not you, Aunt. I wouldn’t expect it of you,’ said Justine coolly. Oh, I’m proud of you, thought Venetia and sat silent. ‘We are just hoping you will take the money and run.’

      ‘I’ve never run away from anything in my life,’ said Emma, peeling off her gloves, which were not kid but suggested chainmail. ‘We real Springfellows never do.’

      Beside her Edwin tried to look like a man who wasn’t already bending to the starting-blocks. Seemingly there was less fight in him than in his sister; it was as if he knew the battle was already lost and he wanted to retire, if not run, with dignity. In his secret heart, which he never opened, even to his wife, he knew that Venetia had taken over the Springfellow empire at least five years ago; indeed, almost from the day, long before that, when she had legally inherited Walter’s estate. Also in his secret heart he had hoped that Walter might some day reappear and save them all. But tomorrow that hope would be buried for ever with Walter’s bones.

      ‘I am not selling,’ said Emma, gloves now off, ‘no matter what you may offer. Nor is my brother.’ She did not even look at Edwin; he was leaving all the fight to her. They were fighting, he knew that, but he had lost all heart for it. ‘We have the capital to buy up a major block of shares in Springfellow and Company and we are doing that at the moment.’

      Justine looked up the table at her mother; Venetia looked at Michael Broad. He spread his hands in an almost Jewish gesture. ‘Unless it’s happened in the last hour …’

      ‘It has,’ said Emma, bare-knuckled. ‘You should have kept track of the stock exchange board.’

      As if on cue but a trifle late, like a wounded messenger from another part of the battlefield, there was a knock on the door and one of Venetia’s secretaries came in and put a sheet of paper in front of her. Venetia looked at it, then sat up straight. Justine sat down at once, recognizing she had just lost her status. Her mother was not the sort of general who stayed in the background when the tide of battle went against her.

      ‘Seven dollars a share is being offered for Springfellow and Company. Four million shares have been bought in the last half-hour—’ She looked at the sheet of paper. ‘I don’t know who the sellers are—’

      ‘We are,’ said one of the Intercapital directors. He was a man named Safire, in his fifties and an advertisement for creature comforts; if ever he were reduced to the breadline, he would ask for croissants. He had a voice full of rich plums, a vocal orchard of over-ripe fruit. Venetia had never liked him, nor he her. ‘We arranged the sale this morning, but didn’t let the market know till half an hour ago. When this meeting was timed to start.’

      ‘Thank you, Erwin. I hope Intercapital’s policy holders are treated better than you’ve treated me. Do you cut their throats as their policies mature?’

      ‘I think that’s uncalled for,’ said the other Intercapital director, a thin under-nourished man named Newstead, seemingly chosen to contrast with Safire’s sleek corpulence. ‘Business is business, Venetia. We are in business to do our best for our clients.’

      ‘My sister-in-law must have an awful lot of insurance with you. Is the sale of shares finalized? I’ll give you seven-fifty.’

      Safire and Newstead looked at each other like men who suddenly realized they had jumped before ascertaining the depth of the pool. Emma said, ‘You can’t renege, Mr Safire. The sale has already been through the exchange. It wouldn’t look good for Intercapital if I reported you to the Companies and Securities Commission.’ She had them by the throat and she looked up the table at another throat, Venetia’s. ‘That raises our holding in Springfellow and Company to 19.9 per cent.’

      ‘Still less than ours,’ said Justine, shooting cross-fire.

      ‘But still too big for you to buy out over our heads.’

      ‘I don’t suppose you’d tell us where you got the money?’ said Venetia.

      ‘You’re not that naive and neither am I,’ said Emma. ‘You’ll find out eventually, but for the time being that’s our business. You’d be surprised how many people are prepared to put up money to fight you.’

      Venetia bent her head for a whispered conference with Broad and Polux, both of whom looked as if they would cut Emma’s throat if there were not so many witnesses. Everyone else, except Justine, seemed at a loss for somewhere to look; one man got up and closely examined the Marie Laurencin, as if he had just been called in to appraise it. All the men in the room were, in these days of takeovers, accustomed to seeing blood spilt. But this was family blood, almost blue, and abruptly they were squeamish.

      Justine leaned across the table towards Emma; for a moment she looked a younger, darker version of her mother, all sharpened steel. ‘You won’t win, you know that. You’ve done nothing but draw dividends all your life, never contributed a thought or a suggestion to the firm—’

      For once Emma was cool and controlled. ‘I’ve contributed something now, haven’t I? The other shareholders, the public who have never had a spokesman, may canonize me.’ She looked smug enough to do the job herself, if no one else would.

      Safire and Newstead both smiled at that, throwing petrol on Justine’s smouldering fury. ‘Goddamnit, Emma, you’re doing this out of spite!’

      ‘Partly,’ said Emma, still cool; she and Justine were alone in their own arena. ‘It adds taste to it. But the main reason, as Edwin tried to explain to you when you first made your horrible offer, is to keep the firm, the name, where it started and has always belonged – in the Springfellow family, the real Springfellows.’

      ‘The real Springfellows will die with you and Uncle Edwin! There’s no one after you-except me! I’m a real Springfellow, СКАЧАТЬ