The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 118
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“You do that.”
“Here’s my card,” he said to the girl leaving behind Genevieve. “Give me a call.”
“Thank you, Mr Hollingsworth.”
“Call me Gerry.”
Genevieve, half out the door, came back and took her friend by the hand.
“Goodnight, Mr Hollingsworth,” said Genevieve pointedly.
Then they were alone, Jacob and Vida, the diamond necklace no longer quite as important.
“We’re not going to Africa, are we?”
“No, Vida.”
“She’ll always be your daughter. That can never change. Like your love for each other. Thank you for the diamonds. It’s late. Let us go to bed so I can rub your shoulders.”
“I can’t change anything.”
“None of us can, Jacob.”
“The food was perfect. She and the children are safe in Africa. You are lucky to be out of Germany. The situation there is only getting worse… Tell me, what else can a man do?” he said after a long pause.
In the taxi on the way back to the hotel where they were staying on the same floor as Genevieve they were quiet. Harry had paid for another taxi to take the young girl home, Harry not wishing to face another unfortunate moment. The girl had still been clutching the business card given to her by Gerry Hollingsworth.
“Do you think he means it, Genevieve?” the young girl had asked as her taxi arrived.
“Oh, he means it. It’s just what he means is different to what you think is going to happen.”
“Does it matter if I get a part in a film?”
“Probably not.”
The girl had been smiling as she climbed into the back of her taxi while Harry was busy giving the driver money and the girl’s address.
“Why did you bring her tonight, Genevieve? You know I don’t play around.”
“To help balance the table places a little, Uncle Harry. To give the girl a chance.”
“Will she get one?”
“Depends on Mr Hollingsworth. There are hundreds looking for fame and fortune. Do you think it matters?”
“Probably not. If it doesn't bother her afterwards. None of us are saints even though we like to think so.”
They were almost back at the Independence Hotel before Harry spoke.
“Like trying to help Bergit von Lieberman, I just think I’ve done more harm than good.”
“She didn’t ask me to invite her father to the farm,” said Tinus.
“I know, I lied. He won’t come. Some family rifts are so deep they can never be crossed. I was a fool. Should have kept my mouth shut. Well, Tinus, are we going to invest some of my money in making a film of Holy Knight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I. My bet is tomorrow, when I see Jacob, he won’t mention Rebecca… Do you think that girl is just after his money?”
No one in the car answered the question.
For some reason, Genevieve was brought to mind of William Smythe when the taxi stopped outside her hotel. Then she remembered: the Independence was the same hotel she and William had had their one-night stand. Thinking she was no better than the rest of them, she said goodnight downstairs and went up alone in the lift to go to her room. There she felt empty. As if her world had nothing in it worthwhile. That being a star of film was hollow with nothing inside. Tinus had not even tried to take their friendship where she wanted it to go.
“By the time I’m thirty I’ll be as hard as nails like that girl with her claws in old Jacob.”
It was a long time into the night before Genevieve began to fall asleep. After all, Cousin George had missed nothing however much he had wanted to go to the dinner party.
“He’s going back to Rhodesia and that damn farm,” she had said to the empty room before dropping off. “So will Uncle Harry, if he gets the chance. Life just goes on round and round, no one seeming to get anywhere.”
She had heard Sir Jacob Rosenzweig confirm the money to Gerry Hollingsworth for Holy Knight. Her last thought before falling asleep was about Gerry Hollingsworth. At least someone had got what he wanted. Racking her brain, she could not now remember the name of the girl she had brought to the party. Maybe the girl too had got what she wanted. Genevieve hoped so.
She woke once briefly before the dawn, thinking of Tinus in panic. In her nightmare his aircraft had been going down in flames into the sea. When she went back to sleep she was straight back into her nightmare, tossing and turning, soaking the sheets with her sweat.
In the morning she found the bed in a mess and her head was aching. She had missed breakfast, looking at her watch. Uncle Harry and Tinus would have gone about their business in New York. Turning over, Genevieve went back to sleep and slept until lunchtime. The phone ringing brought her awake.
“We’ve got the money.”
“I know. Heard him last night.”
“But today he signed. Come and have lunch, Genevieve.”
“Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“I’ll be right over. Don’t go away.”
Thinking that life could be a lot worse, Genevieve resigned herself to her fate.
3
The meeting at the Rosenzweig Bank with Jacob was not what Harry expected. Rebecca was not mentioned, as if the subject had never come up, as if his daughter living on Harry’s farm in Rhodesia was none of their business. Behind an office desk, Sir Jacob Rosenzweig was a lot more formal. Two other men were in the meeting. They owned a factory on the outskirts of Chicago that made and filled tin cans, the same cans that had been used to send food to the troops fighting the Germans in the trenches during the last war. The machinery in the factory required replacement to treble the output of the factory.
After the war, Harry and Tinus were quickly told, the factory had been allowed to run down as the demand for canned food dropped when the armies of Europe went home to lick their wounds and eat fresh food forever after, disdaining anything that came out of a tin. The two men wanted a large amount of money. Harry was asked if he would help.
“What security?” asked Tinus, taking hold of the discussion.
“When that war of yours starts all over again, buddy, Tender Meat will be awash with money. You can charge an army what you like, the same way we did last time.”
“Can you now?” said Harry, the sarcasm lost on the two men from Chicago.
“You can bet your bottom dollar.”
“So how does my uncle fit in?”
“You give us the money and get a big fat interest for doing nothing. Two per cent over the bank rate. How does that sound, junior?”
“And if war doesn’t break out?”
“Buddy, that just isn’t going to happen the way you lot in Europe are sparring with each other.”
“So we take the risk and you take the profit?”
“Buddy, we do the work. That’s just how it works. This is America. You English want to make money, you got to listen to Uncle Sam.”
“What has the American government got to do with this ‘deal’, as you put it in America? And I am not English. A colonial, like yourself.”
“We kicked out the British back when. No offence, Jacob. We’re Americans.”
“I would require five years’ accounts. Full balance sheets. Full profit and loss accounts. Audited, of course.”
“What the hell for? You’re just lending us money. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”
“If you require my uncle’s money to restart your moribund factory we would require forty per cent of your equity and two seats on your board.”
“What the hell for?”
“To make sure we get back our money. To share with you the reward, sixty per cent of something is better for you than one hundred per cent of nothing if these figures presented by the bank are correct. If you wish my uncle to join your gamble on the outbreak of war in Europe, we wish to share the profit. Interest at two per cent over the bank rate and our purchase of forty per cent of the net worth of Tender Meat which on these figures is worth nothing. Your machinery is out of date. You don’t own the building of the factory or the land. You barely at present make a profit. Our gamble is whether you know how to restart what was once a successful factory using your past experience. Without our money, gentlemen, it is my opinion you will go bankrupt within the next two years.”
“You’ve got to be joking, junior.”
“I never joke with other people’s money.”
“We don’t have five years’ audited figures.”
“Then you don’t have a deal. My uncle has another appointment down town in twenty minutes. We have to hurry, Uncle Harry. I’m sure Sir Jacob will fill our friends in with the rest of the requirements if they wish to borrow our money. Good day, sir. Good day, gentlemen. I did so enjoy the dinner party, Sir Jacob.”
“Very much so,” said Harry lamely as Tinus got up to leave the office, the only man standing.
“We’ll be in touch,” Tinus added.
Outside down in the street looking for a taxi Tinus was grinning.
“We don’t have another appointment, Tinus,” said Harry. “That was the only one scheduled today.”
“War profiteers. Making money out of dead soldiers. We can throw the whole bloody thing out on the balance sheets. Those two I wouldn’t trust further than I could throw them. Tender Meat indeed. By the time you get anything into a tin can it has to be tender.”
“Did they teach you all that at Oxford?”
“Word for word. Never underestimate the English. Mr Bowden’s words, not mine. Especially the ones with the pukka accents. William Smythe was right. The Americans want us out of the colonies. They even want us to go to war. I’m surprised that factory survived the depression, which still isn’t over, by the way, looking at those figures. America needs a war in Europe to get its economy going. We spend the money, they supply the goods. Perfect for America.”
“You were rude to them, Tinus.”
“I’m a colonial. They expect colonials to be rude. Everyone does.”
“They’ll never come back.”
“Oh yes they will. When they talk all sweet and nice I want fifty-one per cent or no deal. You have to control the cheque book, Uncle Harry. Control the company or you have nothing. To quote Mr Bowden, ‘owning a minority of a private company isn’t owning anything at all’.”
“I’m glad I gave you the Morgan.”
“So am I. Driving that sports car during three years at Oxford was a perfect pleasure.” Tinus was grinning, his adrenaline pumping.
“And they taught you more than good manners and how to play cricket by the look of that meeting.”
“I learnt to play cricket at Bishops. Our Alma Mater. What time are we meeting Cousin George for dinner?”
“He’s coming round to the hotel at six o’clock.”
“Then let’s go and look at the river. Who knows when we’ll be back in New York.”
“Making money out of the plight of soldiers doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Doesn’t appeal to me either.”
“I like the idea of a walk.”
“Let’s go see New York.”
4
The owner of the Italian restaurant lived over the shop, something Harry found out later. The receptionist at the Independence had given Tinus the tip. By the time Cousin George arrived there was still no sign of Genevieve. Her note had said she was celebrating with Mr Hollingsworth and Gregory L’Amour, who was back in town, along with the rest of the crew who had been on call to help the producer get the money they all needed to make Holy Knight. Tinus, a little miffed it seemed to Harry, had made no comment. The cab driver said he knew the way and dropped them off outside the restaurant. None of them had any idea which part of town they were in.
“Just go straight in,” the cab driver said ominously.
“Don’t look at me,” said Cousin George. “I’m of Canadian descent who farms tobacco in Virginia.”
“That much we have in common, George. A couple of hicks,” said Harry.
Opening the restaurant door for his cousin George, Harry smelt food that instantly made his mouth water.
“It seems Jean knows her restaurants,” said Tinus complacently, quickly closing the door to follow the cab driver’s instructions, while trying not to look over his shoulder for the New York mafia.
“So you know her name,” said Harry.
“In America they wear their names on their sleeves, or in Jean’s case on her lapel. I think displaying her name is obligatory in American hotels. Genevieve would have liked this place. Cosy. Informal. Not a dozen tables and all tucked into nooks and crannies.”
“Just the place to do business in private,” said Harry, looking around.
“Jean sent us,” said Tinus to the man who had greeted them at the door.
“Come this way.”
“What wine would you suggest, Mr Russo?”
“How do you know my name?”
“Over the door into your restaurant. We are from Africa, my nephew and I. Please bring us food and wine that you would eat and drink with your wife.”
The man went off giving them a suspicious look after pointing to a table next to a pillar.
“They’re going to murder us,” said Cousin George. “I don’t think he’s ever heard of Jean. How did your meeting go with the bank?”
As they sat down a large, round bottle of wine covered with raffia was plonked on the table. The table was already set with cutlery and glasses.
“Enjoy. I come help you drink it later. Very expensive. My wife make you her ravioli. Everything from Italy. All the ingredients from Italy.”
“You don’t know Jean?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Independence Hotel.”
“Expensive hotel. I bring second bottle shortly. Enjoy.”
“He’s drunk,” said Tinus happily.
“So long as his wife’s sober… They want us to invest in cans of meat, George. War profiteers before the war starts. Can you use some capital on the farm, George? Your father sent grandfather the tobacco seed for us to get started on Elephant Walk. Keep it in the family, so to speak. I’m never good doing business with strangers.”
“Why don’t you come to Virginia and see? Every farmer can use more money to increase his gross turnover. The overheads on a farm stay the same. Got to grow more.”
“I’d like that. Tinus didn’t like the firm Jacob brought along today. Didn’t like the directors. They called him junior. What do you need money for in Virginia?”
“To buy the farm next door. The equipment I already have can farm his land.”
“Now you’re talking my language. Putting money into an idea I can’t see for something that hasn’t happened is not my idea for a good investment. I want to see what I have bought. Want to be sure my money can’t be stolen. Farmland, now that’s an investment. Something you can safely leave to your children. Not something that is here today and gone tomorrow. My ideas have been building ships, designing new aircraft. Not some get-rich-quick scheme that when it works gives nothing but money. No satisfaction. Not something you can look at and be proud of when you get old. I never understood the point of making money for the sake of making money and using it to show off. I want to be able to enjoy what I have. I enjoyed expanding Colonial Shipping. I’m doing the same on the farm. Look at it. Be part of it… Can we fly, George? Time is short. How far are we from your place in Virginia?”
“This is America. The home of the Wright Brothers. I think Russo is coming to join us. Tinus, start pouring the wine. That Genevieve is sure some girl. Where’d she go tonight? Oh well, farmers with titles they can’t use are no good to a girl like Genevieve.”
“They got the money from Jacob Rosenzweig to make the Holy Knight,” said Tinus. “There’s more to making films than appearing on screen. Even her Uncle Robert got roped in. It’s business for her tonight. I’m sure she’d prefer to be here.”
“Do you two have something going?”
“I wish we had, Cousin George. I’m just a kid without a job. How can I compete? Better to stay good friends than make a mess of it.”
The restaurant began to fill up. Groups of big men with fat stomachs. One table, the only big one, was entertaining women as far as Tinus could see round the pillar. Thinking of Genevieve finding somewhere more important to be, made him flat after the high from showing Jacob Rosenzweig what he could do, the job in London still on the table if he wished to pick it up. They were just friends from before Genevieve became famous, taking her out of his range. There were always so many people around. People wanting something for nothing. Better to be alone on the farm in Rhodesia than get his hopes up. Better to know his limitations. Her world would always be more exciting than his.
What he hated most was the way Gerry Hollingsworth looked at her, the thought of them together now giving Tinus a feeling of revulsion. Gregory L’Amour was a young man who envied Tinus being a pilot. If anything had happened between them it was their affair. That was natural. An affair with an old lecher who thought his stars his property made Tinus recoil in disgust. Just the thought of his hands on Genevieve. Maybe his Uncle Harry was wrong, he thought. That making so much money could buy a temporary possession knowing more money was coming in to pay for the next passing fad. That everything in life was temporary, to be bought and used and thrown away, while the search went on for something else on which to spend the money. That possessing a girl like Genevieve was no different to possessing a new car, something to be had and shown off like all the other possessions. Which brought Tinus back to why people like that needed all that money: because without their money they were nothing, which made Tinus feel better about Gerry Hollingsworth and how he thought of him.
In between the ravioli and the homemade ice cream, Tinus watched Russo join them and help drink the wine. The man was a happy drunk, amusing everyone. With a smile on his face from the wine and Genevieve in better perspective, Tinus sat back and listened to the ebullient owner of the small restaurant.
