Free to Trade (13 page)

'Oh,' I said. 'Would he have time to see me, do you think?'

'Don't worry,' said Felicity. 'He's a very nice man, not a bit self-important. And he was fond of Debbie. He was quite upset that she left. I mentioned that you might want to talk to him and he said all you had to do was arrange an appointment with his secretary.'

I thanked her and did just that. Mr Denny's secretary was friendly and efficient. Thursday at three o'clock.

Then I rang Cash. There was a lot I wanted to talk to him about. Like what did he know about the investigation into Gypsum of America share purchases? Who had he been acting for when he had bid for our Gypsum bonds? Could he tell me some more about Irwin Piper's background?

'Bloomfield Weiss, purveyors of fine bonds to the gentry,' he answered.

'Hallo, it's Paul. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?'

'Sure, fire away.'

'No, not on the phone. I think it would be better if we met up for lunch or a drink or something.'

Cash caught the serious tone of my voice. After a pause he said, 'I'm a bit tied up this week. Can it wait until Henley on Saturday?'

'No, I'd like to see you much sooner. Like today or tomorrow,' I insisted.

Cash sighed. 'OK, OK. You are seeing Irwin Piper at his hotel this evening, aren't you? How about after that? I'll join you there and we can go on for a quiet drink afterwards. How's that?'

'Fine,' I said. 'See you then.'

Irwin Piper was staying at the Stafford, a small but elegant hotel just off St James's. We were supposed to meet at seven. I arrived a few minutes early. I made my way to the bar. The room was softly lit with wood-panelled walls and green leather upholstered chairs. It achieved the effect of warmth, comfort and exclusivity. It was almost empty except for an elderly American couple sipping martinis in a corner. I felt like asking for a pint of Young's, but that didn't really seem appropriate in a place like this so I asked the barman for a malt whisky. He showed me a menu with an impressive list of spirits, the cheapest being a Glenlivet and the most expensive being an 1809 Armagnac. Not having the eighty-nine pounds necessary for the Armagnac, I settled for a glass of Knockando, and sipped the light gold liquid carefully whilst I waited for Piper.

I didn't focus on the tall, expensively dressed man who entered the bar until he approached me and said, 'Mr Murray?' He was not the kind of man who you would have thought would own a casino. He was dressed from head to toe in English clothes, all handmade, no doubt, and probably bought within a quarter of a mile of the hotel. But no Englishman would wear them the way he did. The sports jacket, the brogues, the green tie with pheasants on it, were all worn with a gloss which belied their 'casual' status. Piper was an inch or two taller than me, with iron-grey hair carefully combed back and a film star's jaw. A waft of expensive aftershave followed him in.

'Yes, I'm Paul Murray.' I descended from the bar stool and held out my hand.

'Good evening, Paul. Irwin Piper. Pleased to meet you.' We shook hands. 'Why don't we sit down over there?' He led me to the corner of the room opposite the American couple. He beckoned a waiter and ordered a whisky and soda.

'Have you been in London long?' I asked.

'Just a week or so,' Piper answered. 'I am planning to come back next month. I will be going grouse shooting in Scotland.'

My own experiences of beating grouse moors in Yorkshire, for five pounds a day and a bottle of beer, came to mind, but I thought it best not to mention them. My immediate problem was how to question Piper to find some clues to any weaknesses in his past. If he had been intimidating, that would not have bothered me. I was quite happy to match aggression with aggression. The difficulty was that he had a mixture of charm and authority which made awkward questions seem very awkward.

'Thank you very much for taking the time to see me,' I began. 'I wonder if we could start with your own background in casinos.'

Piper's brows came together in a sign of mild disapproval. 'I wouldn't say I have a background in casinos. Sure, the hotels I build have casinos in them, but they are primarily centres for entertainment not gaming.' His voice was cultured, almost English in intonation. It sounded like the accents of wealthy men in pre-war American films. To one of his countrymen, I guessed it sounded affected.

'But you do make your money from the gaming, don't you?'

'Yes, that's true.' Piper held out his fingers in front of him and examined his manicure. They were clean hands, he was saying. 'But I don't get involved with the gaming much myself. I'm an organiser. I hire the best.'

He was getting into his stride, beginning to talk faster now. He counted off on his fingers, 'I have the best showman in the casino industry working for me, Art Buxxy. I have a guy with a Ph.D. in mathematics from Princeton who makes sure that the odds are always, how shall we say, correctly balanced. I hired the manager of one of the top hotels in Geneva and I have a software genius who has built up the most advanced customer-information database in the industry.'

'So what's your role in all this?' I asked.

'I put them all together. Arrange the financing. Make sure the numbers add up.' Piper smiled. 'Art takes most of the operational decisions. He's the front man.'

'So you have no interest in the Tahiti itself?' I asked.

'Oh no, you misunderstand me,' he said. 'I wanted to build the greatest hotel in the world. The Tahiti is the greatest hotel in the world. It may not suit my tastes exactly,' he glanced approvingly around the Stafford's bar, 'but people will flock there, believe me.'

'Have you invested in casinos, I mean hotels, in the past?' I asked.

'One or two.'

'Could you be more specific?'

'I'm afraid not. They were private investments.' Piper saw my concern. 'Everything was declared to the Gaming Commission if that is what you are worried about,' he said, sounding offended. He looked at me questioningly.

'Oh no, I am sure there's no problem there,' I said, and as soon as I had said it, cursed myself. Piper had challenged me to question his probity and I had backed down from that challenge.

Piper leaned back in his chair and smiled.

'You do make a number of more passive investments, don't you?' I asked. 'Aren't you what they call an arb?' I was referring to the risk arbitrageurs of Wall Street who at the first sniff of a takeover would pile into a target company's stock in the hope of making a killing.

Not surprisingly, Piper didn't like that word either. 'I have a large portfolio, which I manage aggressively,' he said. 'Where I see strategic value that the market has not seen, then I will take a sizeable position in the stock, yes.'

'Has that strategy worked?'

'I have made one or two mistakes, but mostly it has worked admirably,' said Piper.

'Have you had any recent successes?' I asked.

Piper smiled apologetically. 'I'm afraid I don't discuss individual investments. It's not a good idea, it gives people too much of an insight into how I operate. A poker player never shows his hand after he has folded.'

I wasn't getting anywhere. Piper could play the honest wealthy American gentleman all night. Who knows, maybe he was really an honest wealthy American gentleman. There was just one last thing I wanted to try.

'Well, thank you for your time, Mr Piper. You have been very helpful,' I lied. 'One final question before I go. Have you ever had anything to do with Deborah Chater?'

Piper looked genuinely puzzled. 'No, I don't think so.'

'Or Denny Clark?' I looked hard at Piper who noticed my stare and bridled. He didn't like being interrogated. 'No, nor Denny Clark, whoever they might be. Now, I think we have finished here.'

We both stood up and I made my way to the door of the bar.

Before I could get there, Cash's squat form bustled through. The aura of calm serenity was shattered as his hoarse voice cried, 'Paul! There you are! Irwin! How are ya? You guys all done?'

I didn't say anything. I just stood there. Someone had come into the bar behind Cash.

I recognised him.

This time I had a chance to take a good look at him. He was six feet tall, lean with a narrow face. Deep lines ran down from the bridge of his nose to the corners of his mouth. Despite his spare frame, his shoulders were square, and his suit seemed to hang uselessly round his athletic body. He looked fit. And strong. And his eyes, a washed-out light blue, looked at nothing. No discernible expression. No curiosity. The whites were yellow near the pupils, and were crossed by one or two thinly pencilled veins.

I had seen those eyes before.

'Irwin, you know Joe,' Cash continued. 'Joe Finlay, Paul Murray. You two guys don't know each other, do you? Joe trades our US corporate book.'

I didn't say anything, but shook Joe's reluctantly offered hand. Joe didn't say anything either. He looked at me, but with no hint of recognition. No hint of anything.

'How did you two get along?' asked Cash. 'Happier, Paul?'

I shook myself to respond. 'Yes, thank you. It was very useful. Thank you very much for your time, Mr Piper.'

Piper's earlier irritation had not survived the onslaught of Cash's good-humour. 'Not at all. I hope you will understand that the Tahiti represents a truly outstanding investment opportunity.'

'No kidding,' said Cash. 'And Paul here doesn't miss too many of those. Come on, let's go. The night is young.'

We left Piper in the lobby of the hotel. When we were out on the street Cash ran into the middle of the road to hail a cab. Joe paused to light a cigarette. He saw me looking at him and reluctantly offered me one. I shook my head. We both stood in silence, uncomfortable for my part, for the minute it took Cash to catch us a taxi.

'The Biarritz,' Cash shouted to the driver.

'What's that?' I asked Cash as we climbed into the cab.

'It's a champagne bar,' he said. 'You'll like it. There will be a bunch of traders from Bloomfield Weiss there. It will be a good chance for you to meet them.'

'Never meet the traders' was one of Hamilton's dicta. Let the salesmen deal with them. The less they knew you, the less they could take advantage of you. But I was glad for the opportunity of finding something out about Joe.

As we came to some traffic-lights, the taxi-driver turned round, looked at Joe, and said, 'Can't you read?'

There were no smoking signs all over the cab. Joe took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out smoke, never moving his gaze from the driver. The driver was a big fat man. He was angry.

'What's wrong with you, mister? I said, can't you read?'

Nothing.

'Joe, how about putting out the cigarette, huh?' said Cash quietly.

No reaction.

The lights turned to green, and the driver turned forward to drive off. 'If you don't put that fag out, you can get out of my cab.'

Joe very slowly took the cigarette out of his mouth. I could feel Cash relax slightly. Joe held the cigarette in front of him, smiled a thin mirthless smile, and leant forward to stub the cigarette out on the back of the beefy cabby's neck.

'Fuck!' the driver screamed as he swerved over to the side of the road.

Joe swiftly opened the cab door and dropped to the pavement. Almost in one motion he stopped another cab and jumped in. Cash and I followed in a hurry, our previous driver swearing at the top of his lungs and rocking up and down as he gripped his neck.

'What's he excited about?' asked our new cabby.

'Maniac,' said Joe, smiling gently to himself.

The journey to the Biarritz continued in silence. When we entered the bar it was full and smoky. The floor was black and white squares, the fittings chrome, the furnishings art deco. Cash propelled us through to a table surrounded by half a dozen eurobond traders. You could tell they were eurobond traders. They came in different sizes--big and small, old and young. But they were all jumpy. Eyes darting around, laughter snatched for a few seconds and then dropped. Many were going prematurely grey. Young men's faces with old men's wrinkles.

There were already three empty bottles of Bollinger on the table. The unwinding process had begun. Cash introduced me to everyone. I attracted one or two suspicious glances. Traders are just as wary of their 'customers' as their customers are of them. But everyone was having a good time and they weren't going to let me spoil it. Cash's backslapping welcome was returned. Joe was greeted with a nod.

Luckily I was not let loose in the middle of this pack alone. Cash sat me at one end of the table, and sat himself firmly next to me. I was grateful for the protection. As the traders screamed across the table at each other I leant over to Cash.

'Do you often drink with these guys?'

'Once in a while,' he said. 'It's just as important to keep the traders sweet as the customers.'

I sipped my champagne. 'What was that in the cab?' I asked.

'That was typical Joe,' said Cash, taking a large gulp from his glass. 'He is weird. Seriously weird. It's best to keep out of his way when he gets like that.'

'So I can imagine,' I said. 'He's not like that at work, is he?'

'I don't think he has ever actually injured anyone at work yet,' said Cash. 'Apart from himself, that is.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I remember once he was long twenty million ten-year euros. He was under water, but the treasury market was ticking up. He had spent an hour or so staring at the Telerate screen waiting for the market to reach his ownership level so he could get out flat. Then his screen froze. There was some problem with the terminal connection. I was watching him. He didn't shout or scream or anything. There was no reaction at all on his face. He stood up and slammed his fist into the screen. He cut his wrist quite badly. He just picked up the phone, sold his position at a loss, and walked out. Blood was pouring from his hand but he didn't seem to care.

'The story is he used to be in the army. The SAS, so they say,' Cash continued. 'Then one day he shot an unarmed sixteen-year-old boy in Northern Ireland. There wasn't enough evidence to show conclusively that he knew the boy was unarmed. But he left the army soon afterwards.'