mysterious ways that basically are quite logical. He's really all right. You're having lunch with him, you know.'
'Fine. Where?'
'Belgravia.'
'Aren't we going the wrong way?'
'Julian and God - basically logical, chap.'
The St James Rolls crossed Waterloo, proceeded south to The Cut, turned left until Blackfriars Road, then left again, over Blackfriars Bridge and north into Holborn. It was a confusing route.
Ten minutes later the car pulled up to the entrance canopy of a white stone building with a brass plate to the right of the glass double doors that read 'SHAFTSBURY ARMS.' The doorman pulled at the handle and spoke jovially.
'Good afternoon, Mr Preston.'
'Good afternoon, Ralph.'
McAuliff followed Preston into the building, to a bank of three elevators in the well-appointed hallway. 'Is this Warfield's place?' he asked, more to pass the moment than for inquiry.
'No, actually. It's mine. Although I won't be joining you for lunch. However, I trust cook implicitly; you'll be well taken care of.'
'I won't try to follow that... "Julian and God."'
Preston smiled noncommittally as the elevator door opened.
Julian Warfield was talking on the telephone when Preston ushered McAuliff into the tastefully - elegantly - decorated living room. The old man was standing by an antique table in front of a tall window overlooking Belgravia Square. The size of the window, flanked by long white drapes, emphasized Warfield's shortness. He is really quite a small man, thought Alex as he acknowledged Warfield's wave with a nod and a smile.
'You'll send the accrual statistics on to Macintosh, then,' said Warfield deliberately into the telephone; he was not asking a question. 'I'm sure he'll disagree, and you can both hammer it out. Good-bye.' The diminutive old man replaced the receiver and looked over at Alex.
'Mr McAuliff, is it?' Then he chuckled. 'That was a prime lesson in business. Employ experts who disagree on just about everything and take the best arguments from both for a compromise.'
'Good advice generally, I'd say,' replied McAuliff. 'As long as the experts disagree on the subject matter and not just chemically.'
'You're quick. I like that... Good to see you.' Warfield crossed to Preston. His walk was like his speech: deliberate, paced slowly. Mentally confident, physically unsure. 'Thank you for the use of your flat, Clive. And Virginia, of course. From experience, I know the lunch will be splendid.'
'Not at all, Julian. I'll be off.'
McAuliff turned his head sharply, without subtlety, and looked at Preston. The man's first-name familiarity with old Warfield was the last thing he expected. Clive Preston smiled and walked rapidly out of the room as Alex watched him, bewildered.
'To answer your unspoken questions,' said Warfield, 'although you have been speaking with Preston on the telephone, he is not with Dunstone, Limited, Mr McAuliff.'
Alexander turned back to the diminutive businessman. 'Whenever I phoned the Dunstone offices for you, I had to give a number for someone to return the call - '
'Always within a few minutes,' interrupted Warfield. 'We never kept you waiting; that would have been rude. Whenever you telephoned - four times, I believe - my secretary informed Mr Preston. At his offices.'
'And the Rolls at Waterloo was Preston's,' said Alex.
'Yes.'
'So if anyone was following me, my business is with Preston. Has been since I've been in London.'
'That was the object.'
'Why?'
'Self-evident, I should think. We'd rather not have anyone know we're discussing a contract with you. Our initial call to you in New York stressed that point, I believe.'
'You said it was confidential. Everyone says that. If you meant it to this degree, why did you even use the name of Dunstone?'
'Would you have flown over otherwise?'
McAuliff thought for a moment. A week of skiing in Aspen notwithstanding, there had been several other projects. But Dunstone was Dunstone, one of the largest corporations in the international market. 'No, I probably wouldn't have.'
'We were convinced of that. We knew you were about to negotiate with ITT about a little matter in southern Germany.'
Alex stared at the old man. He couldn't help but smile. 'That, Mr Warfield, was supposed to be as confidential as anything you might be considering.'
Warfield returned the good humour. 'Then we know who deals best in confidence, don't we? ITT is patently obvious... Come, we'll have a drink, then lunch. I know your preference: Scotch with ice. Somewhat more ice than I think is good for the system.'
The old man laughed softly and led McAuliff to a mahogany bar across the room. He made drinks rapidly, his ancient hands moving deftly, in counterpoint to his walk. He offered Alex