"What about Q-Investments?" Heyward had tried to find out earlier the status of Ouartermain's private group which owed two million dollars to FMA in addition to the fifty million owing by Supranational. "You mean you didn't hear?" Heyward flared, "If I did, would I be asking?" "I found out last night from Inchbeck. That son of a bitch Quartermain sold out all Q-Investments holdings mostly stock in SuNatCo subsidiaries when the group share prices were at their peak.
There must have been a swimming pool full of cash."
Including FMA's two million, Heyward thought. He asked,
"What happened to it?" "The bastard transferred everything into offshore shell companies of his own, then moved the money out of them, so all Q-Investments is left with is shares in the shells just worthless paper."
To Heyward's disgust, Austin began to blubber. "The real money… my money… could be in Costa Rica, the Bahamas, Switzerland… Roscoe, you've got to help me get it back… Otherwise I'm floished… broke." Heyward said tersely, "There's no way I can help you,
Harold." He was worried enough about his own part in Q-Investments without concerning himself with Austin's. "But if you hear anything new… if there's any hope…" "If there is, I'll let you know." As quickly as he could, Heyward eased Austin out of the office. He had no sooner gone than Mrs. Callaghan said on the intercom, "There's a reporter calling from Newsday.
His name is Endicott. It's about Supranational and he says it's important that he speak to you personally." "Tell him I have nothing to say, and to call the PR department."
Heyward remembered Dick French's admonition to the senior officers:
The press win try to contact you individually… refer every caller to me. At least that was one burden he need not bear. Moments later he heard Dora Callaghan's voice again.
''I'm sorry, Mr. Heyward." "What is it?" "Mr. Endicott is still on the line.
He asked me to say to you: Do you wish him to discuss Miss Avril Deveraux with the PR department, or would you prefer to talk about her yourself?" Heyward snatched up a phone.
"What is all this?" "Good morning, sir," a quiet voice said. "I apologize for disturbing you. This is Bruce Endicott of Newsday."
"You told my secretary…" "I told her, sir, that I thought there were some things you'd prefer me to check with you personally, rather than lay them out for Dick French." Was there a subtle emphasis on the word "lay"? Heyward wasn't sure.
He said, "I'm extremely busy. I can spare a few minutes, that's all." "Thank you, Mr. Heyward. I'll be as brief as I can. Our paper has been doing some investigating of Supranational Corporation. As you know, there's a good deal of public interest and we're running a major story on the subject tomorrow. Among other things, we're aware of the big loan to SuNatCo by your bank. I've talked to Dick French about that." "Then you have all the information you need."
"Not quite, sir. We understand from other sources that you personally negotiated the Supranational loan, and there's a question of when the subject first came up.
By that I mean when did SuNatCo first ask for the money? Do you happen to remember?" "I'm afraid I don't. I deal with many large loans."
"Surely not too many for fifty million dollars." "I think I already answered your question." "I wonder if I could help, sir. Could it have been on a trip to the Bahamas in March?
A trip you were on with Mr. Quartermain, Vice-President-Stonebridge, and some others?" Heyward hesitated. "Yes, it might have been."
"Could you say definitely that it was?" The reporter's tone was deferential, but it was clear he would not be put off with evasive answers.
"Yes, I remember now. It was." "Thank you, sir. On that particular trip, I believe, you traveled in Mr. Quartermain's private jet a 707?" "Yes."
"With a number of young lady escorts." "I'd hardly say they were escorts. I vaguely recall several stewardesses being aboard." "Was one of them Miss Avril Deveraux? Did you meet her then, and also in the several days which followed in the Bahamas?"
"I may have done. The name you mentioned seems familiar." "Mr. Heyward, forgive me for putting it this way, but was Miss Deveraux offered to you sexually in return for your sponsorship of the Supranational loan?"
"Certainly not!" Heyward was sweating now, the hand holding the telephone shaking. He wondered how much this smooth-voiced inquisitor really knew. Of course, he could end the conversation here and now; perhaps he should, though if he did he would go on wondering, not knowing. "But did you, sir, as a result of that trip to the Bahamas, form a friendship with Miss Deveraux?"
"I suppose you could can it that. She is a pleasant, charming person."
"Then you do remember her?" He had walked into a trap. He conceded, "Yes." "Thank you, sir. By the way, have you met Miss Deveraux subsequently?"
The question was asked casually. But this man Endicott knew. Trying to keep a tremor out of his voice, Heyward insisted, "I've answered all the questions I intend to. As I told you, I'm extremely busy."
"As you wish, sir. But I think I should tell you that we've talked with Miss Deveraux and she's been extremely co-operative." Extremely co-operative? Avril would be,
Heyward thought. Especially if the newspaper paid her, and he supposed they had. But he felt no bitterness toward her; Avril was what she was, and nothing could ever change the sweetness she had given him. The reporter was continuing.
"She's supplied details of her meetings with you and we have some of the Columbia Hilton hotel bills your bills, which Supranational paid. Do you wish to reconsider your statement, sir, that none of that had anything to do with the loan from First Mercantile American Bank to Supranational?"
Heyward was silent. What could he say? Confound an newspapers and writers, their obsession with invading privacy, their eternal digging, digging!
Obviously someone inside SuNatCo had been induced to talk, had filched or copied papers. He remembered something Avril had said about "the list" a confidential roster of those who could be entertained at Supranational's expense.
For a while, his own name had been on it. Probably they had that information, too.
The irony, of course, was that Avril had not in any way influenced his decision about the SuNatCo loan. He had made up his mind to recommend it long before involvement with her.
But who would believe him? "There's just one other thing, sir." Endicott obviously assumed there would be no answer to the last question. "May I ask about a private investment company called Q-Investments? To save time, I’ll tell you we've managed to get copies of some of the records and you are shown as holding two thousand shares. Is that correct?"
"I have no comment to make." "Mr. Heyward, were those shares given to you as a payoff for arranging the Supranational loan, and further loans totaling two million dollars to Q-Investments?" Without speaking, Roscoe Heyward slowly hung up the phone.
Tomorrow's newspaper. That was what the caller had said. They would print it all, since obviously they had the evidence, and what one newspaper initiated, the rest of the media would repeat.
He had no illusions, no doubts about what would follow. One newspaper story, one reporter, meant disgrace total, absolute. Not only at the bank, but among friends, family.
At his church, elsewhere.
His prestige, influence, pride would be dissolved; for the first time he realized what a fragile mask they were.
Even worse was the certainty of criminal prosecution for accepting bribes, the likelihood of other charges, the probability of prison.
He had sometimes wondered how the once-proud Nixon henchmen felt, brought low from their high places to be criminally charged, fingerprinted, stripped of dignity, judged by jurors whom not long before they would have treated with contempt. Now he knew. Or shortly would.
A quotation from Genesis came to him: My punishment is greater than I can bear.
A telephone rang on his desk. He ignored it. There was nothing more to be done here. Ever. Almost without knowing it, he rose and walked out of the office, past Mrs. Callaghan who regarded him strangely and asked a question which he neither absorbed nor would have answered if he had.
He walked down the 36th floor corridor, past the boardroom, so short a time ago an arena for his own ambitions. Several people spoke to him. He took no notice of them. Not far beyond the boardroom was a small door, seldom used. He opened it. There were stairs going upward and he ascended them, through several flights and sums, climbing steadily, neither hurrying nor pausing on the way.