Free to Trade (25 page)

'We don't have much on him. He was reported missing on April twentieth. No trace of him found at all. No body, no empty wallet, no driver's licence. His credit cards remained unused. The investigation is closed.'

'But how can a man disappear without trace?' I asked.

'This is New York. We have six murders a day here. Sure, we find the bodies of most of them. But not all of them.'

'Where was he last seen?'

The policeman referred to his file. 'The last reported sighting was when he left his office at seven o'clock on the nineteenth. Neither his doorman nor any of his neighbours reported seeing him arrive at his apartment. He lived alone. No wife, no girlfriend we know of.'

'What was his address?'

The policeman glanced at me, his eyes narrowing a little. 'I thought you said you were an old friend of his,' he said.

'Yes, I'm sorry. I left his address in England. I have his work number, so when I came over here I rang him at work to fix up dinner. Then they told me about his disappearance. It was a real shock. I would very much like to find out what really happened.'

The policeman's face softened. He gave me an address just two blocks away from the police station. Then he said, 'Look, mister. You are not going to find out anything, however hard you look. I have seen dozens of cases like this in the past. Unless the victim's body or his possessions are found and reported to the police, you never get anywhere. It's true that if we had more manpower and less murders we could have spent more time on this case, but I doubt whether we would have got any further.'

I thought about it. He was probably right. I sighed and thanked him for his trouble.

'Not at all. A pleasure to help. And have a pint of bitter for me when you get back.'

I assured him I would and left, thinking how lucky I had been to come across such a helpful New York cop. His Irish colleague's scowl followed me all the way out of the police station.

I walked the two blocks to Shoffman's apartment building. It was in one of those frontier neighbourhoods, where the more adventurous young urban professionals made forays into the run-down districts of Harlem. Neat brownstone buildings, built towards the end of the nineteenth century and renovated towards the end of the twentieth, rubbed shoulders with disused warehouses and builder's merchants. A Korean fruit-and-vegetable store stood on the street corner, spick and span, ready to sell its wares to returning office workers. At this time of the morning the streets were nearly empty. An old black man shuffled along the sidewalk, muttering to himself.

It is impossible for an Englishman to understand the real workings of a neighbourhood such as this. Brought up on a diet of TV cop shows and lurid news stories, it is all too easy to see New York as a battleground between white professionals and a black underclass. Shoffman lived right in the middle of the battle lines. The reality of the situation is probably infinitely more complicated than this, but, as an Englishman dressed in a suit, walking those streets on the outskirts of the notorious Harlem, I found it easy to believe that Shoffman could have become a casualty of this war.

The lobby of his apartment building was well furnished, and there was a doorman sitting behind a desk, guarding the passage to the lifts. I asked him about Shoffman, giving him the old-friend-from-England routine.

Yes, he remembered Mr Shoffman. Yes, he had been on duty on the evening of April nineteenth. No, he had not seen Mr Shoffman come home, neither had the doorman who relieved him at midnight. Yes, he would have remembered, he had been looking out for him to give him a parcel. No, the parcel was nothing special, just some books from a book club. No, he could not show me the apartment, it had a new owner.

I left defeated, hailed a cab, and went back to the hotel.

Back in my room I flopped on to my bed, stared at the ceiling and thought.

It looked as though I had drawn a blank on the answer to my first question. I only had a day left in New York. I was sure the policeman was right. My chances of finding out what really happened to Shoffman were very small. But I was still convinced that his disappearance so soon after his phone call to Honshu Bank was not a coincidence. Someone had found out that he had discovered Tremont Capital was a fraud, and he was now dead.

That still left the second question. How had Waigel put together the Tremont Capital deal? Who had he been dealing with? Where had the money raised by the private placement been paid?

There must have been some paperwork associated with the transaction. Hamilton would soon be looking for traces of it in Curacao. But there must also have been some at Bloomfield Weiss. The librarian in London had been adamant that none of it was in any central filing system. Of course it might have all been thrown away. But on the other hand the shell company still existed, it was still paying interest. No, it was quite possible that Waigel might have some of the records concerning the deal in his own private files. How could I get to his filing system?

I called Lloyd Harbin.

'Hallo. This is Paul Murray. I was just calling to thank you for showing me around yesterday.' I tried to keep the insincerity out of my voice.

'Oh sure, think nothing of it,' Lloyd said in a get-off-the-phone-quick-I've-got-something-better-to-do voice.

'I wonder if you could give me Tommy Masterson's home number?' I asked.

'I'm afraid Tommy has been terminated. He no longer works here.'

'None the less, I would be very grateful if you could help me. You see, I lent him my pen, and he didn't get a chance to return it. I have owned it for several years and it means a lot to me.'

'I am sorry, Paul. I just can't give out information about former employees.'

I should have known the sentimental approach wouldn't work with Lloyd Harbin. I would have to speak to him in his own language. 'Lloyd, listen carefully. De Jong & Co. is soon going to start a buying programme of junk bonds. It will total two hundred million dollars' (a lie but who cared?). 'Now, we can either buy them from Bloomfield Weiss or we can buy them from Harrison Brothers. The choice is yours.'

It worked. 'Now, hold on, don't do anything rash. I'll just get it for you.' He was back in less than half a minute. '342-6607.'

'Thank you. It will be a pleasure to do business with you,' I lied, and rang off.

I caught Tommy at home and asked him if he would mind meeting me for lunch. We agreed on an Italian restaurant, Cafe Alfredo, near where he lived in Greenwich Village.

Tommy without a job seemed much the same as Tommy with a job. The same laid-back air, the same amiability.

'I was sorry to see you let go yesterday,' I said, using the standard euphemism for 'getting fired'.

'Thank you,' said Tommy. 'It was a bit of a surprise.'

'I was amazed at the way they did it. Is that how it normally works? You get hauled off to some office somewhere and don't even get a chance to go back to your desk.'

'That's the way it works,' said Tommy, 'although usually you get a little more warning of what is going to happen.'

'Why did he do it?' I asked.

'He doesn't like me,' Tommy said. '"My attitude did not fit in with the Bloomfield Weiss culture." And, "I was undermining his authority." I don't think they like too much independent thought at Bloomfield Weiss. They don't like people who call a rip-off a rip-off instead of a "unique investment opportunity". Still, without me they will sell less bonds and make less money, so that is something to be grateful for.'

'You must be angry,' I said.

'Oh, I'll be all right. This has probably been a good thing. It will force me to go and find somewhere better to work, somewhere that employs human beings. I may even go back to California and let the Bad Apple rot.'

For all the brave face he was putting on it, Tommy could not suppress the bitterness in his voice. Good, I thought.

'I wonder if I could ask you for some advice,' I said.

'Sure.'

'My firm is the proud owner of one of those "unique investment opportunities" you were talking about. In fact it's so unique, I am pretty sure it's illegal. I can't do anything about it until I have some hard evidence.'

'What was the transaction?' Tommy asked.

'It was a private placement done eighteen months ago called Tremont Capital. Dick Waigel structured the deal.'

'Never heard of it. I'm afraid I can't give you any advice on that.'

'I don't need any advice on the deal itself,' I said. 'But I do need advice on how to gain access to Waigel's files.'

I looked at Tommy closely, hoping I had not gone too far.

He looked back. 'I can't do that,' he said. 'What if they found out I helped you?'

'They can hardly fire you,' I pointed out.

'True,' Tommy smiled. 'But if they did catch me, their lawyers would have me for breakfast.'

'I'm sorry, Tommy,' I said. 'I had no right to ask you. Please just forget we ever had this conversation.'

There was silence for a moment. Then Tommy relaxed again and smiled. 'Hell, why not? I don't owe them anything and it sounds like they owe you a lot. I'll help.'

'Great!'

'Waigel runs a department of five or six people. They all work in one room, but he has had his own office built. It takes up half the space, and has curtains for greater privacy.'

Typical Waigel, I thought. His ego required as much space as all six people who worked for him.

'I know Waigel's secretary, Jean, quite well. She's a nice woman, but she can't stand his guts. She's on the point of quitting. I think she will probably help us, especially when she hears what has happened to me. She can let us know when he is out. We go up there, and she shows us into his office, as though we had an appointment with him. Simple.'

'Good,' I said. 'But how do we get in the building? Haven't they taken your pass away?'

'Yes they have, but I am sure Jean can take care of that.'

'There's no need for you to come,' I said. 'I can go by myself.'

'Oh yes there is. If Jean's going to let you into Waigel's office, I am going to have to be there too.'

'Is there anything between you and this Jean?' I asked smiling.

Tommy laughed, 'Oh no, nothing, I promise you.'

We finished our lunch, I paid, and then we set off for Tommy's apartment so that he could ring Jean. I needed to get into Waigel's office that afternoon.

Tommy's apartment was on the second floor of an old brown-stone on Barrow Street. We walked up the stairs, and as Tommy fished for his keys, he hesitated. 'Oh, I have a friend of mine staying with me. Gary. He works in the evenings, so he may well be in.'

He opened the door, and I followed him through a small hallway into a tastefully decorated living room. There was an expensive oriental rug on the floor, and another on one wall. A number of attractive abstract paintings adorned the other walls. Gary was sitting in a comfortable leather armchair. He shouted a welcome as we came in.

Gary had a full moustache, a crew cut, and was wearing tight light blue jeans, the uniform of the gay New York male. So this was why Tommy had laughed when I had mentioned the possibility of a relationship between him and Waigel's secretary. I looked again at Tommy. There was no outward sign of his sexual orientation.

Tommy caught my look. 'OK, so I'm gay. Does it surprise you?' he said.

'I suppose it does a little,' I said. 'But I'll get over it.' I couldn't suppress an involuntary chuckle.

'What are you laughing at?' asked Tommy, looking at me suspiciously.

'Oh, I was just thinking of Lloyd Harbin's face if he ever found out.'

Tommy smiled. 'Yes, I see what you mean. Mind you, I saw him in a bar on Christopher Street a few months ago with some very unsavoury company. Do you want some coffee?'

Tommy made some coffee and then called Waigel's secretary. While he was on the phone I sipped my coffee and chatted to Gary.

After three or four minutes Tommy put down the phone. 'Waigel's out now, and won't be back for an hour. If we are quick, we should be able to find what we want before he comes back. Just wait a moment while I get changed.'

A minute later Tommy emerged from his bedroom in a suit. I put down my coffee, said goodbye to Gary, and followed Tommy out of the door. We quickly found a cab, and headed downtown to Wall Street.

We pulled up outside the great, black, looming building of Bloomfield Weiss. We took a lift up to the reception area on the forty-sixth floor, which was where Corporate Finance was located.

Tommy walked up to the receptionist and said, 'Tommy Masterson and James Smith to see Mr Waigel.'

The receptionist looked at Tommy and said, 'Don't you work here, Mr Masterson? I thought you were on the trading floor.'

Tommy gave her a friendly smile. 'I used to work here until very recently,' he said.

The receptionist looked at her book. 'Well if you have an appointment, I guess it's OK.' She tapped some buttons on her phone. 'Jean? Mr Waigel's guests are in reception.' She put the phone down. 'Please wait here, gentlemen.'

Jean was out in a flash. She was a tall woman with round Lennon glasses and long brown hair plaited down her back. She had a baggy blouse and a long skirt. She looked as much like a hippy as one can look on Wall Street, which is not very much. She showed no hint of recognition of Tommy. She led us through some corridors and into an open-plan office. There were six desks cramped into a small area. Five of them were occupied with people hard at work. One guarded a glass-encased office on one side of the room. There were curtains on the inside of this office, making it impossible to see in.

'I am afraid Mr Waigel is not expected back for another half-hour,' Jean said. 'I am terribly sorry for the mix-up on appointment times. I can't think how it could have happened. Would you like to wait or come back later?'

'We would like to wait if we may,' Tommy said.

'Well, why don't you wait in Mr Waigel's office until he returns?' said Jean.

As she showed us into the office, Tommy gave her a broad wink. She smiled back at him and closed the door on us.