On this occasion, Lu did not summon a conference. Instead he issued a brief statement. Without wishing to prejudice any court hearing, it said, the police announcement was regarded as proof of every claim made by Mr L. W. Lu, who looked forward with interest to a full judicial examination of the arrested men.
Both men were hesitant, each unsure of the other.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come,’ said Rupert Willoughby.
Charlie Muffin walked farther into the underwriter’s office, taking the outstretched hand.
‘Never thought I’d get past the secretary,’ said Charlie, indicating the outer office.
‘She’s a little over-protective at times,’ apologised Willoughby. It was easy to understand his secretary’s reluctance. Charlie wore the sort of concertina’ed suit he remembered from their every encounter, like a helper behind the second-hand clothes stall at a Salvation Army hostel. The thatch of strawish hair was still disordered about his face and the Hush Puppies were as scuffed and down-at-heel as ever.
‘Your call surprised me,’ said Charlie. Willoughby was the only person who possessed his telephone number. Or the knowledge of what he had once been. And done.
‘I had decided you’d never call,’ he added.
‘I almost didn’t,’ admitted Willoughby.
‘So you’re in trouble.’
‘Big trouble,’ agreed Willoughby. ‘I don’t see any way of getting out.’
‘Which makes me the last resort?’
‘Yes,’ said the underwriter, ‘I suppose it does.’
4
Rupert Willoughby was a tall, ungainly man, constantly self-conscious about his height. He took great care with his tailoring, trying to minimise his stature, but then defeated any effort of his tailor in an attempt to reduce it even further by hunching awkwardly. He crouched now, untidy, his blond hair flopping over his forehead as he bent over his desk, occasionally referring to a file as he outlined the details of the Pride of America cover, every so often jerking up to the other man, as if in expectation of some reaction.
Beyond the desk Charlie sat with his legs splayed before him, head sunk upon his chest. By twisting his left foot very slightly, Charlie could see that the repair hadn’t worked and that the sole of his left shoe was parting from the uppers. Which was a bloody nuisance. It meant a new pair and those he was wearing were at last properly moulded to his feet. It always seemed to happen like that, just when they got comfortable. Looked like rain, too.
‘And so,’ concluded Willoughby, ‘my proportion of the syndicate makes me liable for?6,000,000.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘It appears you are.’
How much the man resembled his father, thought Charlie nostalgically. Practically an identical style of setting out a problem, an orderly collection of facts from which any opinion or assessment was kept rigidly apart, so that no preconceptions could be formed. Sir Archibald Willoughby, who had headed the department during almost all of Charlie’s operational career and whom Charlie realised without embarrassment he had come to regard as a father-figure, had obviously groomed his real son very carefully.
‘It’s a lot of money to lose,’ said the underwriter.
The figure was too large to consider seriously, decided Charlie. He looked sideways. How much space in the room would?6,000,000 occupy? he wondered idly. The whole bookcase and the sidetable, certainly. Probably overflow on to the couch as well.
‘And you want to avoid paying out?’
Willoughby stared across the desk. His hand was twitching, Charlie saw.
‘It might be difficult,’ said the underwriter hurriedly. The admission embarrassed him and he actually blushed.
‘You haven’t got your share?’ demanded Charlie.
‘No.’
‘Christ.’
‘It’s only temporary,’ said Willoughby defensively. ‘We’ve had a very bad two years… whole series of setbacks.’
‘But why take the risk in the first place?’
‘I had to,’ insisted Willoughby. ‘A firm can be wiped out in a creditors’ rush by no more than a City rumour that it’s in financial difficulties. Besides which, there seemed no risk.’
‘You’re a bloody fool,’ said Charlie.
‘That knowledge doesn’t help either,’ said Willoughby.
‘Your father left a fortune,’ remembered Charlie.
‘Already gone.’
‘Loans then.’
‘There’s hardly a bank where I don’t have an overdraft. And where I haven’t gone over the limit.’
‘So?’
‘So unless there’s a near-miracle, there’s nothing that can stop me being drummed out of the Exchange.’
‘Nobody knows?’
‘Nobody. Yet. But it won’t take long. This sort of news never does.’
‘What’s the legal opinion of Lu’s claim?’
‘We are completely liable,’ said Willoughby.
‘No room for manoeuvre?’
Willoughby shook his head. ‘We might have had a chance had we included a political sabotage clause, the sort of thing that’s been introduced into aircraft cover since hijacking started.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because it’s not normal, in case of ship cover… and I was in too much of a hurry to sign the policy.’
‘Why?’
‘Nelson managed to negotiate a 12 per cent premium. For Lloyd’s, that’s very high. I needed the liquidity.’
‘Who’s Nelson?’
‘Our Hong Kong agent.’
‘Good?’
‘He got more of the cover than anyone else when it was put on the Hong Kong market.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why more than anybody else, and at such a good premium?’
‘Because he’s better, I suppose. Or because he tried harder.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Unusual chap,’ remembered the underwriter. ‘I’ve only met him three times. Colonial through and through. Born in India, father a governor of a minor state there before independence. Only time spent in England was at school, Eton and then Cambridge. He’s so out of place here that two years ago he cut short the paid home leave that we allow our overseas men. Made some excuse about the climate’
‘Reliable?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What does he say?’
Willoughby paused at the staccato questioning.
‘It’s so straightforward that he doesn’t even see the need for an investigation,’ he said.
‘But you do?’
Willoughby leaned towards him.
‘I’ve got to try,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to try anything.’
The soul-baring would be difficult for the man, Charlie knew. He’d hate admitting to being anything less than his father had been.
‘How long before you’ve got to pay?’ asked Charlie.
Willoughby made a movement of uncertainty.
‘Lu’s lawyers have already filed an intention to claim. We could probably delay until the two men who have been arrested are found guilty, but even to attempt that might create a dispute. I gather they’ve made a full admission.’
‘So you haven’t much time.’
‘I haven’t much of anything,’ said Willoughby. ‘Time least of all.’
‘The last resort,’ repeated Charlie. There was no point in buggering about. And Willoughby appeared to appreciate honesty anyway.
‘Yes,’ agreed the underwriter.
‘Would you have avoided contacting me, if you could?’
Willoughby paused. Then he admitted, ‘Yes. If I had had a choice, I wouldn’t have made the call.’
Most people would have lied, recognised Charlie, unoffended. The man was trying to retain his integrity, anxious though he was.
‘Well?’ said Willoughby. He couldn’t keep the plea out of his voice.
So much of his life had been spent getting hold of the shitty end of the stick that nobody else wanted to touch, reflected Charlie. How he wished the approach had come through friendship, reminiscent of the man’s father, rather than desperation.