Smith was afraid the man would hang up and he quickly said, "No, no, no. I'm a one-man operation. I make all the money decisions myself. And I handle creative myself." What the hell was he talking about, Smith wondered.
"What have you done?" Barry Schweid asked.
"A lot of things," Smith answered slowly.
"Tell me about some of them," Schweid said.
"I think we ought to swap resumes when we meet. I don't know anything about you either." Smith tried to chuckle. The unaccustomed sound resounded through the dark office like a death rattle. "Why, I don't even know your name. Maybe you're the one who can't make a deal on your own."
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"No? No? You think that, huh? Well, this is mine. Totally mine. Those assholes, Bindle and Marmelstein, didn't want it. So that's their loss. I've got the property to sell."
Property? What property? Smith wonder. He wondered. He said, "I don't buy property without seeing it."
"How do I know you won't steal it from me?"
"It's hard to steal property," Smith said. How did you steal property? Did you take it with you and leave a hole in the ground where the property used to be? What was this man talking about? He wished his computers were working. He could have been running this conversation through them and by now the computer would know who this man was and where his phone was located and it would have been able to figure out, by crosschecking against lists of occupational jargon and slang, what he was talking about. But Smith's computer capabilities were down to almost zero, lost in a storm at sea. And this nuthouse lunatic had found them.
"I've had a lot of property stolen from me. Every time I pitch an idea, I see it under somebody else's name." Barry Schweid paused. "Listen, I don't want to sound tough. I want to make this deal. It's just that I've been burned."
"You won't be burned by me," Smith said. "When can we meet?"
"You say two hundred and fifty thousand is okay and ten points gross?"
"That's right," Smith said agreeably.
"I've got to think about it."
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"Why? That's what you asked for. I agreed. What do you have to think about?" Smith asked.
"That's just it. You agreed. Out here, nobody agrees. You at this phone number regularly?"
"Yes."
"I'll get back to you."
The telephone clicked dead in Smith's ear. He replaced the receiver slowly, then dialed a three-digit number that connected him with Folcroft's switchboard. During the day, he had tried to start rebuilding the sanitarium's computer capability. Now he would see if there was anything happening inside the computers.
After a few seconds, the computer terminal on his desk lit up, and slowly spelled out a message.
Unable to find Telephone number. Call originated in western United States.
Smith stared at the message, then pressed a button clearing the screen.
He took out a pad and pencil and hunched over his desk to try to recreate his entire conversation with the madman. Perhaps he would be able to figure out what it was all about. He allowed himself a sigh. It was going to be another long night.
Eleven
The long oak table occupied a long narrow room, with high vaulted ceilings and intricate hand-carved wooden moldings, but both room and table were overwhelmed by a giant crest, a full six feet across that occupied the center of one wall behind the head of the table.
In the center of the brilliantly polished ceramic crest, a lion reared on its hind legs. At one side of the lion was a sheaf of wheat and on the other side, a stiletto with a diamond-studded hilt.
A ceramic sash looped across the bottom of the crest. It contained the single word: Wissex.
There were not other paintings in the room, no photographs, no wall decorations, nothing but the crest. Around the table were placed a dozen hard-seated, straight-backed chairs. A single black telephone sat on the table.
Six men were talking softly in the room, but they became silent when the door opened and Neville walked in. He wore a herringbone tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, knickers, high socks and heavy walking shoes. He gave off the
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scent of out-of-doors and spent shotgun shells as he breezed inside the room and walked to the head of the table.
"Everyone here?" he called out, then sat down, looked around, nodded, and said, "Good. Let's get started."
Wissex waited until the other men were seated, then tapped on the table with the end of a silver pen he kept in his inside jacket pocket. He said briskly, "The monthly meeting of the House of Wissex will come to order. The minutes and the treasurer's report will wait until the next monthly meeting. I'd like to report on the Hamidian operation."
He looked around as if inviting approval and five of the six men at the table nodded. The sixth was Uncle Pimsy. He was trying to screw his monocle into his eye, so that he could see clearly the cigar he was fondling in his hand.
Wissex waited for the old man to speak, but he said nothing. Wissex began his report. "The Hamidian operation is proceeding nicely. We have already squeezed Moombasa for twenty million. Our goal was twenty-five million and I expect to meet that goal."
"But we've incurred losses," one of the directors said. He was a red-faced man in his early thirties whose voice seemed on the verge of cracking. His principal distinguishing characteristic was an adam's apple that bobbed up and down, seemingly out of synchrony with his speech.
"Yes, Bentley," Wissex agreed easily. "We've had losses."
"How many, Neville?" the young man asked.
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"Eighteen. Seven in America and ten in the Yucatan. And we just lost our bomber in Bombay."
"Why?" Bentley asked. The other directors nodded, all but Pimsy, who seemed to be trying to sculpt his cigar to fit into a one-in-a-million mouth. He was tearing at the stem of the cigar with a silver knife, grunting under his breath.
Wissex waited until the directors stopped nodding.
"I don't know," he said. "The woman is protected by just two men but somehow they have repelled our subcontractors."
"Where do they go next?" another director asked.
"Spain."
"And then where?"