“But it’s only the really big firms that find it worth while to hire these consultants, surely. Isn’t what they do some kind of time and motion lark? I mean, they can dress it up, but that’s what it is, isn’t it.”
Baxter’s smile proclaimed a vast worldly knowledge, leavened with tolerance and a desire to help others. “Look,” he said quietly, “I don’t have to tell you that businesswise everything must either get bigger or just fold up. To get big, you’ve got to have efficiency. You and I think we know what efficiency it. But we don’t. We’re too close in.”
Hatch set his lips in a pout of shrewd understanding. At the same time, he noticed both glasses were empty. He pushed the bell button in the wall beside him.
“What is your line, if you don’t mind my asking,” said Baxter.
“I diversify a good deal,” replied Hatch, using a word that he had heard, liked and stored away a couple of weeks previously.
Baxter nodded emphatically. “You’re bloody wise, old man. Bloody wise.” Then, quite suddenly, his gaze became blank. With his little finger he stroked his thin, black, meticulously trimmed moustache.
The girl from the bar came round the partition. A round tray dangled at the end of her long, carelessly held arm. She put the tray on their table and leaned low to collect the glasses. A white liquidity of breast swung lazily in the dark tent of her dress.
“It would give two lonely travellers great pleasure, dear lady, if you would be so kind as to bring them two-fold potations of the Highland spirit.” Baxter capped his recitation with a grin of grotesque bonhomie.
“Two similar, sir?” She stood upright.
“Whatever you say, dear lady.” Baxter patted the back of the girl’s thigh. She turned, but not evasively, so that the withdrawal of Baxter’s hand was more like a caress.
When she was nearly but not quite out of hearing, Baxter made his animal growling noise again. Hatch regarded him dubiously but said nothing.
The conversion about business consultants petered out. Baxter was much preoccupied. He drank more whiskies, swallowing them as if conscientiously pursuing a course of therapy. By the fourth round, he had made the delightful discovery that the girl from the bar was quite unprejudiced in the matter of having her bottom fondled.
Hatch saw that his companion would, at any moment now, offer some specious remark about having an early night and trundle away to work his claim.
“Watch it,” said Hatch. His tone, though still friendly, was brusque.
Baxter frowned, grinned, frowned again. “How d’you mean, old man?” He was swaying very slightly backward and forward in his chair.
“You think she fancies you, don’t you?”
“Well, Christ, you could see for yourself. I mean, I’m not going to pass that up, not bloody likely.”
Baxter wiped his palms on his thighs. He gazed towards the bar partition like a lumberjack sizing up his next tree.
“You’ll keep clear of that one if you know what’s good for you,” said Hatch.
Slyness tilted Baxter’s grin. “Jealous?”
“Don’t be daft. I know who she is, that’s all. She and her boy friend work the mugs.”
“I like her and I love her little arse,” declared Baxter. Suddenly he scowled. “Boy friend? What boy friend?”
“He’s one of the porters here. Him and Sal run a little arrangement between themselves. Ever heard of Loopy Loo?”
“Sort of nursery rhyme thing, isn’t it? Christ, I don’t know.”
“ ‘Here we come loopy loo...’ Aye.” Hatch smiled reflectively. “You’d not like it.”
“What is this, a leg pull or something?” Baxter was showing the petulance of the slightly drunk.
Hatch chuckled, but checked his amusement at once. “No, no, I’m being absolutely serious. It could be a bit risky to go into details here and now, but what it amounts to is that you’d get cleaned out of money and for damn all. I think it’s what they call a heist in America.”
For several seconds, Baxter stared down in silence at the table. He fingered and tugged at a cheek. “The rotten bloody bitch,” he said quietly, more in wonderment than rancour. Then, after further reflection, “Hell, I’m not going to be imposed upon. I will not be imposed upon. Tell you what...” The birth of a splendid idea shone in his eyes. “We’ll share. Take turns. That’ll take care of this boy friend or whatever he is.” Cunningly he wagged a finger. “He won’t expect a rear-guard.”
Hatch waited for Baxter’s giggle to subside. “Look,” he said, “if you just want a young lady to tuck in with for the night, you don’t have to stay here and get robbed. I can take you somewhere where there’s proper arrangements, all nice and comfortable, and a young lady with a bit of tone. As a matter of fact”—Hatch stood and brushed the lapel of his jacket with his fingertips—“I wouldn’t say no to a nice bit of something on the side myself just this once.”
He began to make his way unhurriedly across the room.
Baxter got up, swayed in puzzlement for a moment, then followed.
He had almost reached the door when the girl Hatch had called Sal came into the room by the bar entrance. Baxter halted, drew breath and crooked his finger as if to summon a recalcitrant infant.
“Hey!” Harsh, angry. Heads turned.
Hatch stood in the doorway, looking back anxiously.
Cautiously and without a smile, the girl approached to within five or six feet. Baxter urged her closer with impatient clawing gestures. She glanced questioningly at Hatch.
Baxter, too, threw Hatch a look, but it was of triumph. To the girl he said, very loudly: “A word has been said to the wise, dear lady, and the wise has taken heed, so you can sling your little titties elsewhere and play loopy loo all by your little bloody self!” He paused, as if mustering some final crushing indignity, but this proved to be merely a repetition of “Dear lady”, very sarcastically uttered.
Hatch seized his arm and hastened him out.
“That wasn’t very sensible of you.”
Baxter did not argue the point, but he considered his nice new friend was being unnecessarily sensitive.
Chapter Five
Baxter slept deeply all the way to Flaxborough, which they reached just before ten o’clock. Before lapsing into unconsciousness, he had pronounced the Fairway Executive “absolutely top-hole”. Hatch took this expression of enthusiasm to be further evidence of Baxter’s superior—perhaps even aristocratic—upbringing. He beguiled part of the journey with contriving means of showing off the managing director of Sucro-wip Products to Councillor Henry Crispin.
Skirting the broad forecourt of the Floradora, Hatch turned behind the club building and slid the Fairway into his private car port. The forecourt, he had noticed, was closely packed with cars. It nearly always was at this time of night. The club had been a winner from the start.