Moroccan Traffic by Dorothy Dunnett Page A

with the flamboyant orange-haired cooking woman of Mr. Morgan’s story and mine. He had never met her before, but his breeding and experience told. He greeted her warmly and, in a friendly yet business-like manner, launched into the business of the day. It took him all of five words before she interrupted him. It took him all of three minutes to discover what he had got himself into.
    It is usual, when one company proposes to take over another, for each firm to protect its position. Sir Robert, using the broader, simpler figures from Pettigrew, set out to present an impressive portrait of Kingsley’s. Mr. Roland Reed, undermined at every turn by his Chairperson, attempted to show that MCG was broadly based, well supported, and capable of extending both its plant and its network of up-market salons. At the end of a fraught thirty minutes, his discourse was brought to an end by his employer.
    Miss Marguerite Geddes said, ‘That’s a load of codswallop, Rolly. Lousy debts, raw material hiccoughs, strikes in the salons – someone’s working us over. We’ll find out who it is and we’ll mince them. No one can beat us for branded product or service, and we’re not dependent on white goods like you are. Interest rates? Extra competition from Europe? What’s your future?’
    Sir Robert smiled. ‘I venture to say, better than yours.’
    ‘OK,’ said Miss Rita Geddes. ‘Put down your figures.’
    By this time, Mr. Reed was looking at the carpet, I was looking at Sir Robert and Mo Morgan, like an overworked snake in the Assembly of the Dead, was gazing in rapt admiration at the explosive Miss Geddes. Sir Robert said, smiling, ‘At this stage of the negotiation? Before we reach that point, Miss Geddes, I think we each of us would have to feel rather more committed.’
    ‘Well, how do we know when we’re committed?’ said the cooking lady. ‘Toss for it?’
    There was a polite silence, during which I passed round the cakes, and Mo Morgan, getting off his piano stool, poured several more strong cups of tea. Sir Robert said, ‘You mean you are unwilling to proceed further without detailed figures? I warn you, we should require the same from you.’
    ‘You can have them,’ said Miss Geddes. ‘Rolly?’
    Mr. Roland Reed, with slight reluctance, lifted his closed briefcase and lowered it. He said, ‘Whenever you like.’
    Sir Robert paused. He said, ‘I am really not sure. Compared with yours, mine is a very large firm with certain responsibilities. Unless I see my way clear, it would not be correct for me to reveal sensitive figures.’
    ‘Sensitive?’ said Miss Rita Geddes.
    I said, ‘Miss Geddes, all figures affect the market, no matter how well a firm is doing.’
    She gave me a long, considering look, woman to woman. ‘Oh, I know,’ she said. ‘The way some of your divisions have been operating, the market would go into stitches. And there’s the loan you raised to buy Mr. Morgan. But that’s all pretty well known, surely? There’s Seb Sullivan sniffing around, and Ellwood Pymm, and Danny Oppenheim and God knows who else. Even if we decide not to bite, what’s the harm? Everyone knows that Kingsley’s are in trouble.’
    ‘In trouble ?’ said Sir Robert. He gazed at her, and his expression slowly softened. He said, ‘And that is why you are here?’
    ‘Absolutely,’ said Miss Rita Geddes. ‘Gossip says that you’re failing; we’re rocky; and if you can take us and strip off our assets, you could pay for Mo Morgan’s photographs. But I’ve an eye on the long view, not the short term. Tell me that gossip is crap, and I’ll listen. I’m here on behalf of my shareholders.’
    ‘You would make a nice sum of money,’ said Sir Robert. ‘You’ve an interest in films? You could set up your own company.’
    ‘I’ve got my own company,’ said Rita Geddes. ‘And if you’re in a terminal mess, then forget it. My backers will want to stay as they are, or find a better White Knight to depend on. So