Harlequin Read online

  ‘But we’ve hired Bogdanovich. You agreed that we need him. I think you should confer with him and at least co-ordinate your moves.’

  He chewed on that for a moment, then gave me that mischievous, disarming grin. ‘So the moles burrow under the walls, while Harlequin plays in the public square to distract the populace. That makes sense. Set the meeting as soon as possible.’

  On my way out, I stepped into the phone-booth in the foyer and called Bogdanovich. I don’t know why – perhaps because I was tired and disposed to be chatty – but I quoted the phrase about the moles and the comedians. Bogdanovich was mildly amused. He capped it with another.

  ‘Comedians yet! So we all die laughing! We’ll meet at ten, by the monkey-house in Central Park.’

  Oddly enough, the meeting of these – two disparate characters was a success. For a long moment, in the presence of the chattering apes, they measured each other; then they smiled, shook hands, and walked out into the spring sunshine, with myself half a pace behind and the body-guards, two unshaven young men, ten paces away on either flank. Harlequin and Bogdanovich walked slowly, as if time had no significance for them. They talked tentatively at first, then fluently, but always respectfully, as if each had need of the other’s understanding. Harlequin, the eloquent, was quiet and deprecating; Bogdanovich, the man of violence, had need to justify himself and his trade.

  ‘…You see, Mr Harlequin, violence begins when rational argument becomes impossible.’

  ‘I know. But there is the other side. I can talk myself blind over the cognac, while you are dying at my gate for want of a cup of water. And between us there stands the traitor steward who will indulge me and let you die to enrich himself. How do we resolve this?’

  ‘I have resolved it by the old formula. An eye for every eye. A life for every life. No question, no pity, no guilt.’

  ‘Whereas I want absolution for everything I do. I’ll tell you a secret. I take refuge in my name: Harlequin, a buffoon. The buffoon is always forgiven, because even his malice attracts laughter.’

  ‘While the public executioner is a man without a name, who lives behind a mask. Could you kill a man, do you think, Harlequin?’

  ‘I could be tempted, yes.’

  ‘But the act – the final irrevocable act – the finger squeezing the trigger, the thumb on the blade and the hand striking upwards – yes or no?’

  ‘How can I know before the moment?’

  ‘You can’t. Afterwards, yes. Then it is simple: stimulus, response, rationalisation, sleep. Assassins, like adulterers, always sleep well; but a crumb in the bed will send them crazy.’

  ‘Mr Bogdanovich, what do you think I should do?’

  ‘Your friend here, Mr Desmond, tells me you see yourself as a comedian. You entertain the town, while we sap the ramparts.’

  ‘That was a conceit. But, yes, there is a truth in it. I have charges, trusts, a role to play. The role attracts the trust. The trust creates it. Basil Yanko is in the same galley. He is a genius. Once recognised, he must justify himself every hour of every day.’

  ‘So how do you propose to treat with him, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘Negotiate, if I can, to buy time for your investigations. If I can’t, I’ll defy him and pledge myself to the neck to beat his offer.’

  ‘Mr Harlequin, you know that there are dangers in what we are doing.’

  ‘Paul has explained them.’

  ‘You have a wife and a child. You understand that you may put them both at risk?’

  ‘My wife accepts it – wants it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is a thing she can share wholly with me.’

  ‘Was it hard to admit that?’

  ‘You know it was. Is anything hard for you, Mr Bogdanovich?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This: to walk in the sunshine and watch the girls; to want them; to know that when I sleep with them, I shall wake up screaming, because I have slept with the dead; to see the children and wish they were mine, and know that I dare not have children, because the monsters will eat them in the end. We shouldn’t meet too often, Mr Harlequin.’

  ‘No. I understand that.’

  ‘Mr Desmond will keep us in touch.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you treat with Basil Yanko, remember one thing. He doesn’t understand clowns. He’s afraid of them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has never learned to laugh at himself. He will kill anyone who laughs at him.’

  ‘That makes me sorry for him.’

  ‘He will kill you for that, too. I’m glad we met, Mr Harlequin. I regret the price is so high.’

  ‘It’s only money.’

  ‘That’s the shame of it, Mr Harlequin. In our world money is the measure of a man. Good luck!’

  ‘Thank you, friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Keep in touch, Mr Desmond.’

  Then he was gone, a lean, dark figure, loping across the grass with his minions in attendance. George Harlequin stood watching him in silence until he disappeared behind the knoll; then he turned to me and asked, simply, ‘Paul, how do we tell Julie?’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Yes. I think we must.’

  I was there when he told her. I didn’t want to be; but they both insisted, as though I were a gloss, a dictionary into which they both could dip to interpret themselves one to the other. Juliette asked few questions, made no protest. It was as if she understood, for the first time, the full import of her own aggressive attitudes. Harlequin, on the other hand, was vehement and exalted, as if he had experienced a private revelation.

  ‘ …Julie, it was like talking to a man who had come back from the other side, someone who understood the continuity of things – the terrible repetition of human malice and tragedy. So far, you and I have never had to face it. Now we must. And it’s for something useless – a bank, a repository of paper: guilders, francs, dollars. That was what I disprized – the perishable thing. You come without it. You go without it. But I’ve realised it’s a magical thing, too. Hold it in your hand, and you have a genie at your command. That’s what men like Yanko want: the genie who can conjure armies out of dragon’s teeth. And we say, no! We are the good conjurers. We will give you wheat-ears instead of swords. Will we? Do we? I cannot swear to it. And yet I cannot sell the lamp and then stand by and watch the janissaries rise out of the dust. Why not, Julie? The janissaries will guard you and me and the baby. Why should we care about the others whom we have never cared about before? Why, Paul?’

  I was tired by now. I wanted to end the argument and be gone. ‘Why should we? I don’t know. Why do we?… Yes, by God! That I know! Because one day, before the sun’s up, the bell rings and the bastards are at the door and they’re coming for me, because I’ve got the wrong nose or the wrong skin, or I’m on the wrong list and nobody will say who put me there. I want friends then. I want brothers and sisters. Put me in hell and I want ’em!… It’s all yours, children. I’ve got work to do. See you at the bank after lunch, George. The little boy from Boston wants you to hold his hand.’

  As I walked through the foyer of the Salvador, I stopped by the telex to check the market figures. Halfway through the quotations was a news item:

  Yanko bids for European Bank. Mr Basil Yanko, President of Creative Systems Incorporated, announced this morning that he had made a cash offer of one hundred dollars per share for the total shareholding of Harlequin et Cie, Swiss-based merchant bankers. The offer, which includes a substantial premium, holds good for sixty days. Mr Yanko pointed out that the structure of his corporation enabled it to comply with the provisions of Swiss law in respect of local corporations. Mr George Harlequin, President of Harlequin et Cie, who has just been discharged from hospital after a serious illness, was not available for comment. Other shareholders say they have received the offer but decline to signify reactions at this stage.

  I tore off the sheet, folded it and handed it to a bell-boy to del
iver to George Harlequin. It cost me a dollar for the service; but hell! What was a dollar against all those janissaries springing up at all points of the compass rose? It was twelve-thirty on a fine spring day. I braced myself, chin up, shoulders squared, and strode out to face our colleagues in the club.

  In the ten minutes after I arrived, I was offered enough liquor to embalm a pharaoh. For the next twenty, I was besieged by friends, acquaintances and nameless bodies who crawled out of the woodwork. All of them asked the same questions: ‘Axe you selling? You mean the premium’s genuine?… Not to Yanko?… For Chrissake, Paul, before you make a single move, why not come to us?… Is Harlequin on his feet?… It’s not the big C, is it?… We heard…’

  They had heard, guessed, dreamed and they would do it again with every new shred of gossip. So, knowing they wouldn’t believe it, I told them the simple truth: ‘Yes, the offer’s genuine. Yes, there’s a premium. No, we’re not accepting and we think it’s dirty pool to publish the offer before it’s even been discussed between the parties. No, it is not the big C. Harlequin’s on his feet and fighting mad. If you don’t believe me, invite him to speak at the next members’ dinner.’

  I don’t know what made me add that last little rider, but Herbert Bachmann heard it, drew me out of the crowd and commanded me to lunch at his table. Herbert is a formidable old turkey, whose forebears walked the street with their notes of exchange tucked into their top-hats. He has driven hard bargains in his time, but I have never known him pull a dirty trick and I would rather have his handshake than a dozen notarised signatures from some of his junior colleagues. His questions were barbed, but his concerns were genuine; and I was ready to be as honest as I could with him.

  ‘This fellow, Basil Yanko, what do you think of him, Paul?’

  ‘He’s a genius; he’s dangerous and his manners are for the pigsty.’

  ‘But maybe his mother sees some good in him, eh? So he’s a pig; but Harlequin underwrites him and uses his systems. Why?’

  ‘Because, if he didn’t, you and the other boys would steal the account.’

  ‘Which makes Harlequin a whore like the rest of us.’

  ‘Except he wears it better, Herbert.’

  ‘Ach! The high Swiss polish, the passion for accuracy, tick-tock like one of their silly cuckoo-clocks! So what’s this I hear about shortfalls?’

  ‘I don’t know. What have you heard, Herbert?’

  ‘You’ve hired investigators, haven’t you?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Around… Don’t be angry, Paul. You know the way it goes in this town. Pinch your secretary’s tushie and they make it a ten second news flash. So how bad is it?’

  ‘Herbert, is this lunch business or pleasure?’

  ‘For you, Paul, pleasure. For me, business. I live here. I sit on committees to try to keep the trade clean. It’s hard enough at the best of times, but after Vesco and Cornfeld, we need Basil Yanko like we need the black death. Come clean with me, Paul. If Harlequin needs help, I’ll see that he gets it.’

  ‘We need secrecy and discretion, Herbert.’

  ‘From me, you have it. You should know that by now.’

  ‘Fine I the shortfall is fifteen million.’

  ‘It’s enough, by God!’

  ‘We can handle it. No problems. The real problem is that we believe our computers were rigged.’

  ‘That’s obvious – but by whom?’

  ‘The record says by Harlequin himself. We believe it was Yanko.’

  ‘Until you can prove it, that’s slander, Paul.’

  ‘I know. But the day Yanko put the report into my hands, he also announced that he wanted to buy Harlequin et Cie. Now the bid’s firm – a hundred dollars a share.’

  ‘What are they really worth?’

  ‘Eighty-five… ninety, if you’re an optimist.’

  ‘Not bad. Our actuaries figured them at eighty-three to eighty-seven. Is Harlequin going to accept?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The minority shareholders?’

  ‘Some will sell for the premium. Others will sell because of the rumour that someone’s got his hand in the till.’

  ‘So, why doesn’t Harlequin buy out the minorities?’

  ‘He’d have to hock everything to do it. He can’t afford to pay a hundred dollars a share and cover fifteen million shortfall at the same time.’

  ‘So you get Yanko on the board.’

  ‘Over our dead bodies.’

  ‘Even so… What’s Harlequin doing about it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Herbert, but that you’ll have to ask him yourself.’

  ‘I will. Tell him to call me at home tonight. Here’s my number.’

  ‘Thanks, Herbert.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m an interested party. When I see all that power, all that knowledge locked up in a machine, I tremble. You can’t stage a strike against the computer. You can’t put it in the dock. But a man you’ve never seen can read what you have for dinner and how you make love to your wife. Sometimes, I’m glad I’m an old man and can duck most of the consequences. Let me order a brandy. I’m getting morbid.’

  It was just after three when I got to the bank. Harlequin was already there pouring charm and unguent on Larry Oliver’s bruised spirit. It was a virtuoso performance, full of subtle flatteries and appeals to tradition and the code of gentlemen, and the need to stand fast against the encroachments of the vulgarians. At the end of it, Larry was purring like a kitty-cat with cream all over his whiskers.

  Outside in the boardroom, Saul Wells was directing the labours of two junior geniuses, who were checking computer print-outs against the security report. He drew me over to the window and told me with mournful admiration:

  ‘It’s so simple, it’s a shame to take the money. Three coded instructions: first, to make the deductions; second, to pay proceeds into a suspense account; third, to remit every Monday by telex to Zurich. The original instructions were punched into the computer on the first of November last year. We’ve checked the manager’s diary entries. Mr Oliver was on holiday. He was being relieved by Mr Standish, who makes no mention of the instructions. However, Mr Harlequin was in New York on and around that date. That’s point one. Point two is that the computer operator resigned in January for reasons of health. We have her name, Ella Deane, her social security number and her last known address in Queens. She’ll be checked out immediately. Now, if we could chat with Mr Harlequin…?’

  The chat turned quickly into a rapid fire interrogation, which startled even me. Harlequin, however, submitted with smiling equanimity. He had, indeed, been in New York at the relevant time. He had, indeed, written memoranda and dictated letters on various subjects. These were all on file in a locked cabinet in the strong-room. Would he produce them? With pleasure. The file was produced. Together they checked through the documents, Harlequin verifying each one and handing it to Wells, who marked it with his own cipher. All of them dealt with policy matters. None could be identified or even construed as an instruction to computerise a standing order.

  Saul Wells then asked Harlequin to write his signature and his initials half a dozen times in quick succession. Even when it was hurriedly done, the script was bold and open, with a defiant little flourish at the tail of the terminal letter.

  Wells grunted, unhappily. ‘Like shooting at the side of a barn. I could forge it myself with five minutes’ practice. Watch!’

  For five minutes by the clock he scribbled away and then produced a very respectable facsimile. Still he was not content. He asked for Harlequin’s cheque book and signed a cheque for a thousand dollars. I took it to Larry Oliver and asked him to initial it for encashment. Punctilious as ever, he checked date, figure, the amount in words, the signature. Then he initialled the cheque and buzzed for the head cashier.

  I took the cheque out of his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Larry; it was a test. That cheque’s a forgery.’

  We tried the same ploy on the cashier, with the same result.
I couldn’t resist a reminder that the reputation of the nicest people got smirched without their knowledge. At least Oliver had the grace to look sheepish. Saul Wells was amused. Harlequin was very unhappy.

  ‘But this sort of thing could happen at any time. How many thousands of my signatures are floating round on letters, cheques, credit card vouchers? It’s a nightmare!’

  ‘Instructive, though.’ Saul Wells had become suddenly broody. ‘The signature is so easy to forge; why didn’t they put a memo on file, just to complete the picture?’

  ‘I can answer that.’ Harlequin was emphatic and assured. ‘It would be out of character for me to sign such a memorandum. It would override the manager – a thing I never do. Also the fraud was repeated in other branches. There could be no guarantee of my presence, in say, Buenos Aires. Better to have confusion at the source and total certainty where the money was received: at the Union Bank in Zurich.’

  Saul Wells stuck a new cigar into the comer of his mouth and surrounded himself with a cloud of smoke. ‘Yeah! I buy that. Makes a better case for the prosecution, too. Which is something we should think about, Mr Harlequin. So far we’ve traced about six million going out of New York alone. Every one of your clients has been hit with illegal commissions. Any one of them could file charges here in New York. The charges mightn’t stick, but they could sure as hell be embarrassing.’

  3

  It was five-thirty when I got back to my apartment. There were messages on my desk: Miss Hallstrom would like me to meet her at eight instead of seven-thirty; Mr Francis Xavier Mendoza had telephoned from the Coast; and Mr Basil Yanko would like me to call him at his office before seven. I decided to get the good news first – if there were any to be had – so I called Mendoza. He was cryptic but encouraging.

  ‘About our mutual acquaintance… I told you three friends of mine got burnt. One of them is a very stubborn man. He has spent two years compiling a dossier. I have seen it: fascinating material, although not all of it would be admissible under the rules of evidence. I’ve persuaded him to make two photostats, lodge one in safe deposit and give me the other. I’ll send it to you by safe hand. Another thing: there are people in politics and at the Pentagon who love Yanko; there are others who hate him like poison. I’ve made a list. That will come in the package. Remember I gave you a warning. When you’ve read the stuff, you’ll understand why. How are things in New York?’