The Villiers Touch

“Such as?”

“I’ll want every piece of confidential information Claiborne has on Heggins Aircraft and certain other stocks. Later on, I’ll want you to plant pieces of information in Claiborne’s files, and spread a few rumors.”

“To affect the market price of some stock?” Wyatt pursed his lips. “You’re after big game, aren’t you? Suppose I say I’m willing-if there’s something in it for me.”

“There will be.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Villiers murmured. “You’re outside jail right now on my sufferance.”

“I see that. Only I’d be a happier workman if I was sure I’d get adequate pay for the job.”

“We’ll see.”

Wyatt studied him with narrowing eyes and said slowly, “I can compile a dossier on you too, you know.”

It made Villiers smile. “Go ahead and try.”

“You think I can’t?”

“When you get a little older, you’ll learn how to cover your tracks.”

“You must have left a few tracks when you were young, before you had experience.”

“I had experience from the day I was born,” Villiers murmured. “The difference between you and me is, you were born broke, but I was born poor. There’s a hell of a difference, even though you’ll probably never be able to distinguish it. Hell, I was peddling the streets of Chicago when I was eight years old. I state this as advice, not threat-don’t bother trying to dig into my past. You’d be wasting your time.”

“Maybe,” Wyatt said, making his face judicious and noncommittal. “In the meantime, you want everything I can get on Heggins Aircraft, is that it? I’ll have to figure out a way to get at it-it’s not in my department. Any suggestions?”

“You’ll think of something.”

“What if I don’t? What if I can’t bring it off?”

“I don’t think I have to spell it out, do I? Let’s not get tedious.”

Steve Wyatt swallowed. “All right. I’ve never tried spying before-maybe it’ll be amusing.”

“I’m sure it will,” Villiers muttered. “Now, this next is between you and me, and if it goes any further, I’ll have your head in a basket, understand that. Heggins Aircraft isn’t your main objective. What you’re really going to look for is confidential information on Northeast Consolidated Industries. Everything there is-You’ll have to get into Claiborne’s private confidential files. I particularly need to have anything you can get on Elliot Judd.”

“Jesus. You want a lot.”

“With parsley,” Villiers agreed.

“Do you mean personal items on Judd?”

“Anything. His private holdings, his politics, the state of his health.”

“You think he’s not well?”

“Did I say that?”

“It rings a bell,” Wyatt said. “He’s been hidden away on that Arizona ranch for almost a year. He’s about as accessible as Howard Hughes. I may not come up with much.”

“Howard Claiborne’s his broker. He probably knows more about Elliot Judd than Judd’s doctor knows. It will be in Claiborne’s files.”

“Those files are locked up, damn it.”

“Do you think I’d have gone to all this trouble to nail you down if Claiborne’s files were out in the open like merchandise on a dimestore counter?”

“All right-all right. You’ve made your point.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Villiers muttered. Without stirring in his chair, he closed his eyes and said, “You can go.”

“How do I get in touch with you?”

“Through Hackman.”

“How much does he know about this?”

“Best for you to assume he knows absolutely nothing about it. You’ll make appointments with me through Hackman. Other than that, you’ll tell him nothing. You may get instructions from me through him from time to time. If so, don’t argue with him, because he’ll only be delivering messages.”

“I understand,” Wyatt said, and got up. Glancing up at him, Villiers saw he had already gained his resilient composure. Wyatt gri

Villiers picked up the file of investigators’ reports and folded it shut.

6. Steve Wyatt

Wyatt emerged from the office with a pulse pounding in his throat, walked forward through the corridor, and saw George Hackman in the front reception room. Hackman stood close behind the receptionist’s chair, leaning forward to read something on her desk, his left forearm balanced casually across her shoulder, fingers trailing one firm high breast. When Wyatt came in sight, Hackman removed his hand quickly, and the girl gave him a saucy upward look-one lifted eyebrow and a smirking upturn of one lip corner.

Wyatt strode toward the door, but Hackman came around the desk to intercept him. Hackman beamed and put a thick arm across his shoulders to walk him to the door, talking expansively. “Glad you’ve joined our team, kid.”

“Sure. Welcome aboard, Ishmael.” Wyatt smiled synthetically.

At the door Hackman turned him with hand pressure. “Hold up a minute.”

“I’ve got to get back to the office before closing time.”

“This’ll just take a sec. Stay put.” Hackman went back to the desk and rummaged through a drawer until he found a Xeroxed sheet of paper. He brought it back to the door. “Here. Long as you’re joining up, be a good idea for us to get to know each other. My wife and I are throwing a little party tonight, nine o’clock. I ran off this little map to show folks how to get to our place from Thornwood. You know Thornwood?”

“No.”

“You go up the Saw Mill Parkway to-hell, have you got a car?”

“Certainly.”

“Fine, fine. Otherwise I could send somebody to pick you up at the station. Anyway, all you do is drive up the Saw Mill to Hawthorne Circle, keep going on the Saw Mill past the Circle, and it’s the first exit. Take a right and go across the railroad tracks, and you’re on the main drag, this street here.” He planted a stubby finger on the map. “From there, follow the map. Look, it’s all sociable, bring your girl, okay? See you tonight?”

Wyatt’s shrewd eyes lifted to Hackman’s florid face. “Actually,” he began, but then he hesitated and pursed his lips. “I may be able to come. I’ll let you know later.”

Hackman clapped him on the shoulder. “Great, kid-great. You take care, now.” He gri

Wyatt left without making an answer. He came out of the building into sweltering heat and hurried the two blocks to the baroque building at 42 Wall Street, which housed a number of distinguished brokerage firms and two investment-banking partnerships, of which one was Bierce, Claiborne amp; Myers, occuping the seventh and eighth floors. Wyatt went into the feudal-hall lobby and crossed the echoing marble, hurrying.

At the eighth floor the elevator doors slid open with a soft, almost soundless scrape. The hallway was wide and carpeted, broken at intervals by wide, double, carved oak doors. He looked at his watch and was surprised that it was only ten till five. He entered the bullpen by the side door, to attract less attention; coming into the big room by way of carbon-paper-filing-and-clerical country, he tightened his lips and hurried on past rows and rows of desks toward his own, near the head of the room.

The huge bullpen was a picture full of restive motion. Squads of long-haired young men bustled in and out. Scores of men at scarred enormous old desks, arranged in neat rows like military ranks, spoke into telephones or dictated to stenographers, keeping the wheels rolling within the thousands of stock positions that Bierce, Claiborne amp; Myers maintained on its books. Claiborne’s empire was an investment bank, a brokerage, and a specialist firm all at once. It held four New York Stock Exchange seats, three American Exchange seats, and made markets in twenty-eight major stocks.

Approaching his desk, Wyatt passed the open door of the War Office, the walls of which were papered with graphs on which were plotted the movements of various stocks, watched by youthful analysts who during Exchange hours stood near telephones which were wired directly to a computer bank in Jersey City.