Moroccan Traffic by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

tell me. What accounts can you show me?’
    There was a small silence. Outside, soft music played, and birds sang, and there was the muted and civilised sound of rich swimmers swimming. Sir Robert said, ‘You brushed aside the matter of commitment, but I would remind you that I have shareholders to consider as well. I cannot make figures known unless I am assured of your interest.’
    Roland Reed said, ‘You are assured of our limited interest. Suppose we ask you to supply limited figures.’
    ‘And you will do so as well?’ said Sir Robert.
    ‘Why not?’ said Miss Geddes. ‘What happens? Poor wee Wendy does a round trip to London?’
    ‘I think,’ said Sir Robert, ‘that we may be able to collect what you want without exhausting Miss Helmann unduly. Would the day after tomorrow be too early?’
    It was agreed. I had the figures at my feet, and Mr. Reed’s were presumably also at his fingertips. What we had decided on was a space to consider tactics. And for once, Miss Rita Geddes let it pass.
    Everyone rose. Miss Geddes shook hands vigorously with us all, and pausing by the small piano, bent and dashed off a phrase close by Mo Morgan’s shorts. He swung round, his prehensile fingers lifted. For a moment, I thought they were going to play a duet, then Mr. Reed called from the doorway. ‘Spoilsport,’ said Miss Marguerite Geddes, and got up and left.
    Sir Robert said, ‘I think, Mo, we need a stiff drink.’ There was a bar, discreetly camouflaged, in one corner. Mo Morgan cast me a brief, opaque look, and then wandered over and opened it. Sir Robert said, ‘Well. That’s a tricky one. I could have made a deal with Reed in a moment. The problem is that silly woman.’
    ‘Dead true it is,’ said Mo Morgan, slinging glasses before us and sitting. ‘He’s only the front. She’s the tough one.’
    ‘You think so?’ said Sir Robert. He sipped his drink. ‘My God, Mo. Do you always drink them this strong? She’s a little make-up girl, that’s all, by profession. Then ten years ago, she came into a fortune, raised some collateral and established the company. And a little make-up girl in mentality she still is. Did you hear she lost her way?’
    ‘There’s no secret,’ said Morgan. ‘She does. They ribbed her about it this morning.’
    ‘Did they also tell you,’ said Sir Robert, ‘that she can’t read or write? She’s retarded.’
    Mo Morgan said, ‘It sounds more like dyslexia.’
    ‘That’s what they call it,’ said the Chairman. ‘Nice name. It still means she’s illiterate. The poor sod with the ink in the square could manage a business better than she could. Which brings me to what happened this morning.’
    My ears were buzzing. I heard him through the fumes of the alcohol Mo Morgan had poured for us all. It came to me that he hadn’t liked being asked to pour it, and that he was not behaving as a loyal employee truly ought. For Executive Directors were employees, just as I was, and could be sacked. Then I remembered that Mo Morgan really couldn’t be sacked, because the prosperity of Kingsley’s depended on him. Mo Morgan said, ‘Yes. About this morning. Reed knew who we were, but concealed it. So it wasn’t an accident. We were directed to the square from the café. Johnson and Sullivan saw us lurking, and amused themselves sending us into Reed’s arms. Probably Reed and his pals haunt the Jemaa every morning.’
    ‘But why?’ I said. ‘Mr. Reed didn’t ask us any questions. Why take all that trouble and gain nothing from it?’
    Mo Morgan said, ‘It gave them a chance to weigh us up before the meeting, and us, if you like, a chance to underrate them. And since they were meeting us soon, it suited them to seem to be civilians. They’re clever, Sir Robert. The smartest thing that woman did was to admit that they knew us all along.’
    I couldn’t see how. I said, ‘It did nothing to help her own side. Now we know to link MCG with Johnson and Sullivan.’
    Sir Robert was