The Villiers Touch

Hastings gave the book a quick riffling through and said, “You’ll have to interpret.”

“Sure. We all use our own shorthand. I haven’t got time to give you a complete translation, but let’s see if we can-yes, here. A block trade, ten thousand shares, bought by a broker in Montreal. I happen to know that one was bought for the portfolio of a Canadian mutual fund. Back here, let’s see-two weeks ago today, two lots of twenty thousand shares each. First one bought by the Vancouver Trust, second one bought by an Ottawa broker in a street name-could be any client, of course.”

“All Canadian? Why all the Canadian interest?”

“Who knows. Maybe somebody started to float a rumor up there. NCI’s got several industrial plants in Quebec and Ontario. Diesel engines, earth-moving equipment, chemicals, that kind of stuff. I’ve heard some talk myself, that NCI’s going to be bidding on the construction job at the new Alaska Slope oil fields. Nothing to it, far as I know, but that’s all it ever takes, you know-a little loose talk.”

“What’s this one-nine thousand shares?”

Capps looked over his shoulder. “Three weeks back. That was local, here in New York. The broker’s Hackman and Greene.”

“Who was the client?”

“I’d have to ask Hackman and Greene. That’s their floor trader right over there-want me to ask him?”

“If you don’t mind,” Hastings said, and watched Capps move away through the throng, eyes forever darting to the raised fists and fingers which communicated coded information like semaphore signals across the noisy, crowded floor. Traders swirled around Hastings. Slips of paper fluttered to the floor around his feet. The bedlam made him dizzy. Capps returned with another man in tow-a tall gaunt old man with yellowish-white hair and a face that looked as if it had been slept in. “Paul Meaghan, of Hackman and Greene,” Capps said, and introduced Hastings. The old man shook hands, unsmiling; Capps spun away to meet a customer, and Meaghan said, “You wanted some information?”

“About an NCI purchase you made three weeks ago, nine thousand shares.”

Meaghan flipped through his notebook. “I have it here. You wanted the price?”

“No. The name of the client.”

Meaghan gave him a sharp look but thought better of asking why; he said, “I have it down for a Miss Carol McCloud. You’d have to get her address from our main office.”

Hastings made a note of the name. “Have you bought any other blocks of NCI in the past few weeks?”

“Sure. I suppose everybody has. What is this, a spot check?”

“Call it that.”

The old man’s glance flicked across the crowd, not willing to miss any business; he consulted his notebook at brief intervals and spoke in gusts: “Well, the largest block we’ve bought recently was twenty-five thousand shares, in the street name. I believe it was for one of the Swiss investment trusts. Then, I’ve got a note here on fifteen thousand shares just last Friday for the McGill Niagara Fund.”

“That’s a Canadian fund?”

“Of course. Nothing to do with the university, though. Here’s one, seventy-five hundred shares we bought for the Claiborne Fund-that’s New York, of course, old Howard Claiborne of Bierce, Claiborne amp; Myers. Here’s five thousand shares in the street name again-I don’t remember who the client was, probably one of our regulars. Here’s a purchase last week, ten thousand shares sold to Salvatore Se

“Okay,” Hastings said. “I wonder if you’d do something for me after the market closes today. Have your secretary make up a list of all sales of NCI to Canadian clients in the past thirty days and send the list over to my office. Would you do that?”

“No trouble. Is this something I should know about?”

“No. As you said, it’s just a spot check. A pattern survey of the market, you know?”

Meaghan, not quite satisfied with that vague explanation, nodded and walked away, carrying one of Hastings’ business cards. Hastings intercepted Herb Capps on his way across the floor and left with him a request for a list of Canadian purchases of NCI similar to the one he’d asked of Meaghan; he went on through the throng, hearing vaguely the pretty tourist guide’s glib spiel on the balcony above; he made his way outside. The sidewalks were too narrow to hold the crowds; people walked in the streets, herded by slow-moving cars. At the Broadway corner, trucks stood jammed into the intersection. Stifled in the surging crowd, he felt momentarily as if he had lost his identity, as if he had been turned loose in a foreign country without passport and unable to speak the tongue. Hands pocketed and shoulders lifted in defense toward the crowd that pushed itself against the shell of his enforced indifference, he walked along with false nonchalance, thinking of Diane and all the things that had gone wrong in his life. In moments like this he was not able to shake the feeling of being somehow in the wrong place-as if there was, somewhere, a right place.

At this hour a taxi would be hopeless. He walked. It took the better part of half an hour, at a brisk pace, to walk north past St. Paul’s and City Hall to the new Federal Plaza at Foley Square.

The Commission’s New York staff of one hundred and fifty people took up a good part of Quint’s floor. Hastings went by Quint’s door without pausing-Trading amp; Exchange Division, Chief of Investigations-and went straight into his own small brown-carpeted cubicle. Miss Sprague gave him a bony reserved smile; she was talking into a telephone. Hastings went around behind his desk and sat. It was a pedestal desk, its side wing open with dictaphone and adding machine. He couldn’t see Miss Sprague until she hung up the phone and came around the partition with her notebook.

She said, “I put those papers for you to sign on your desk.”

“Thanks.” He glanced through them and spoke while he signed his name. “A couple of things. Call Hackman and Greene, the brokers, and get the address and phone number of one of their clients, a Miss Carol McCloud. Then see if you can reach her by phone and set up an appointment for me to see her today or tomorrow. Tell her it’s about some stock she owns. Oh, and before you do that, see if you can get Bill Burgess of Justice on the phone for me.”

Miss Sprague acknowledged the instructions with a one-inch nod and retreated, exuding all the sensuality of an ironing board. Hastings finished signing the documents. By the time he was done, the intercom had buzzed.

“I have the Justice Department for you. Mr. Burgess.”

“Thanks.” He picked up the phone. “Bill?”

“Hiya, Russ, howsa boy?” Burgess had a rumpled-seersucker voice, amiable and cheery. He was a hearty, clean-cut, pere

“Kind of dull,” Hastings said, wry.

“You miss the flying pots and pans, hey? Listen, I don’t think I’ve seen you since Jim Speed died. When we going to get together? I still have the boys around to the poker game every Wednesday night-how about it?”

“I’ll try to make it sometime soon,” Hastings said. “Listen, an item for your IBM brain. Does the name Salvatore Se

“Not offhand. Should it?”

“Beats me. It belongs to an investor in Montreal.”

“Montreal, huh?”

“Exactly. I thought it might be one of your expatriate mobsters. But nothing lights up, eh?”

“I’m sorry, Russ. Want me to run it through R and I for a check?”

“It’s probably not worth it. If the name doesn’t strike a chord in that memory of yours, it’s probably clean. Maybe I haven’t been sufficiently educated by the Italian Anti-Defamation League.”