Chapter 18
It always amused the colonel to watch Charlie spending so much of his time running from shop to shop, trying to keep a close eye on all his staff, while also attempting to concentrate his energy on any establishment that wasn't showing a worthwhile return. But whatever the various problems he faced, the colonel was only too aware that Charlie couldn't resist a spell of serving at the fruit and vegetable shop, which remained his pride and joy. Coat off, sleeves rolled up and cockney accent at its broadest, Charlie was allowed an hour a day by Bob Makins to pretend he was back on the corner of Whitechapel Road peddling his wares from his granpa's barrow.
"'Alf a pound of tomatoes, some runner beans, and your usual pound of carrots, Mrs. Symonds, if I remember correctly."
"Thank you so much, Mr. Trumper. And how's Mrs. Trumper?"
"Never better."
"And when's the baby expected?"
"In about three months, the doctor thinks."
"Don't see you serving in the shop so much nowadays."
"Only when I know the important customers are around, my luv," said Charlie. "After all, you were one of my first."
"I was indeed. So have you signed the deal on the flats yet, Mr. Trumper?"
Charlie stared at Mrs. Symonds as he handed back her change, unable to hide his surprise. "The flats?"
"Yes, you know, Mr. Trumper. Numbers 25 to 99."
"Why do you ask, Mrs. Symonds?"
"Because you're not the only person who's showing an interest in them."
"How do you know that?"
"I know because I saw a young man holding a bunch of keys, waiting outside the building for a client last Sunday morning."
Charlie recalled that the Symondses lived in a house on the far side of the Terrace immediately opposite the main entrance to the flats.
"And did you recognize them?"
"No. I watched a car draw up but then my husband seemed to think his breakfast was more important than me being nosy, so I didn't see who it was who got out.
Charlie continued to stare at Mrs. Symonds as she picked up her bag, waved a cheery goodbye and walked out of the shop.
Despite Mrs. Symonds' bombshell and Syd Wrexall's efforts to contain him, Charlie went about plotting his next acquisition. Through the combination of Major Arnold's diligence, Mr. Crowther's inside knowledge and Mr. Hadlow's loans, by late July Charlie had secured the freehold on two more shops in the Terrace—Number 133, women's clothes, and Number 101, wine and spirits. At the August board meeting Becky recommended that Major Arnold be promoted to deputy managing director of the company, with the task of keeping a watching brief on everything that was taking place in Chelsea Terrace.
Charlie had desperately needed an extra pair of eyes and ears for some time, and with Becky still working at Sotheby's during the day Arnold had begun to fill that role to perfection. The colonel was delighted to ask Becky to minute the confirmation of the major's appointment. The monthly meeting continued very smoothly until the colonel asked, "Any other business?"
"Yes," said Charlie. "What's happening about the flats?"
"I put in a bid of two thousand pounds as instructed," said Crowther. "The agent said he would recommend his clients should accept the offer, but to date I've been unable to close the deal."
"Why?" asked Charlie.
"Because Savill's rang back this morning to let me know that they have received another offer—far in excess of what they had anticipated for this particular piece of property. They thought I might want to alert the board of the present situation."
"They were right about that," said Charlie. "But how much is this other offer? That's what I want to know."
"Two thousand five hundred pounds," said Crowther.
It was several moments before anyone round the boardroom table offered an opinion.
"How on earth can they hope to show a return on that kind of investment?" Hadlow eventually asked.
"They can't," said Crowther.
"Offer them three thousand pounds."
"What did you say?" said the chairman, as they all turned to face Charlie.
"Offer them three thousand," Charlie repeated.
"But Charlie, we agreed that two thousand was a high enough price only a few weeks ago," Becky pointed out. "How can the flats suddenly be worth so much more?"
"They're worth whatever someone is willing to pay for them," Charlie replied. "So we've been left with no choice."
"But Mr. Trumper—" began Hadlow.
"If we end up with the rest of the block but then fail to get our hands on those flats, everything I have worked for will go up the spout. I'm not willing to risk that for three thousand pounds or, as I see it, five hundred."
"Yes, but can we afford such a large outlay just at this moment?" asked the colonel.
"Five of the shops are now showing a profit," said Becky, checking her inventory. "Two are breaking even and only one is actually losing money consistently."
"We must have the courage to go ahead," said Charlie. "Buy the flats, knock 'em down and then we can build half a dozen shops in their place. We'll be making a return on them before anyone can say 'Bob's your uncle.'"
Crowther gave them all a moment to allow Charlie's strategy to sink in, then asked, "So what are the board's instructions?"
"I propose that we offer three thousand pounds," said the colonel. "As the managing director has pointed out, we must take the long view, but only if the bank feels able to back us on this one. Mr. Hadlow?"
"You can just about afford three thousand pounds at the moment," said the bank manager, checking over the figures. "But that would stretch your overdraft facility to the limit. It would also mean that you couldn't consider buying any more shops for the foreseeable future."
"We don't have a choice," said Charlie, looking straight at Crowther. "Someone else is after those flats and we can't at this stage allow a rival to get their hands on them."
"Well, if those are the board's instructions I shall attempt to close the deal later today, at three thousand pounds."
"I think that's precisely what the board would wish you to do," confirmed the chairman, as he checked around the table. "Well, if there's no other business, I declare the meeting closed."
Once the meeting had broken up, the colonel took Crowther and Hadlow on one side. "I don't like the sound of this flats business at all. An offer coming out of the blue like that requires a little more explanation."
"I agree," said Crowther. "My instinct tells me that it's Syd Wrexall and his Shops Committee trying to stop Charlie taking over the whole block before it's too late."
"No," said Charlie as he joined them. "It can't be Syd because he doesn't have a car," he added mysteriously. "In any case, Wrexall and his cronies would have reached their limit long before two thousand five hundred pounds."
"So do you think it's an outside contractor?" asked Hadlow, "who has his own plans for developing Chelsea Terrace?"
"More likely to be an investor who's worked out your long-term plan and is willing to hang on until we have no choice but to pay the earth for them," said Crowther.
"I don't know who or what it is," said Charlie. "All I'm certain of is that we've made the right decision to outbid them."
"Agreed," said the colonel. "And Crowther, let me know the moment you've closed the deal. Afraid I can't hang about now. I'm taking a rather special lady to lunch at my club."
"Anyone we know?" asked Charlie.
"Daphne Wiltshire."
"Do give her my love," said Becky. "Tell her we're both looking forward to having dinner with them next Wednesday."
The colonel raised his hat to Becky, and left his four colleagues to continue discussing their different theories as to who else could possibly be interested in the flats.