Make Me Rich Read Free

us, but Guthrie was one of those experienced social movers who knew how to get his way without giving offence. I gave Helen Broadway my best we-haven’t-finished-yet look before Guthrie guided me into a quiet room. There was a table covered with a white cloth which had a nest of bottles on it and some baskets andplates with crispbreads and wafers of smoked salmon and turkey.
    Guthrie poured an inch of Jack Daniels into a glass and added an inch of water.
    â€œYou can have your drink now,” he said. “Party’s nearly over, and I cleared it with Roberta. I want to talk business. You want to sit down?”
    I shook my head; I was leg-weary, but when I sat down I wanted to stay down. I leaned against a wall and took a sip of the bourbon, which tasted wonderful: I made a silent, private toast to Helen Broadway.
    â€œYou handled that rugby clown pretty well,” Guthrie said. He didn’t have a glass or props of any kind; he just stood there in his well-tailored lightweight suit with a soft collar and a quiet tie, and exuded his own brand of charm.
    â€œHe’d handicapped himself.” I held up my glass. “That elbow of his gets him into trouble in more ways than one.”
    He smiled and nodded. Then the smile fell away. “How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars?”
    I took another sip to give myself reaction time and looked down at him; concentrating on him now and not on the woman somewhere in another room. For the first time, I saw the strain in his face. He must have been over sixty, but his slim figure hid the fact. Now, very late at night, he had a greyish tinge and the white stubble on his face etched worn deep lines. He was old, tired, and deadly serious. That’s a combination to make you nervous and send you in the other direction. Worst comes to worst, you can lay a joke over it. I took another sip.
    â€œWho would I have to kill?”
    â€œNot for killing, Mr Hardy. For saving someone’s life.”

2
    Paul Guthrie was exaggerating, of course; people usually do when they want something from you. But his problem was real enough. He was, he told me, sixty-two years old, a businessman with interests in sporting and leisure activities. He owned a couple of marinas in Sydney, leased game fishing boats to the rich, and had controlling shares in a ski lodge and a dude ranch. He used that expression with obvious distaste, which lifted his stocks with me. He’d rowed for Australia in the double sculls at the 1948 London Olympics.
    â€œUnplaced,” he said.
    â€œStill, a big kick.”
    â€œYeah, it was. A bigger kick was coming home through the States and seeing how they were organising things there. Business, I mean. You never saw anything like it. Marinas sprouting everywhere, airfields; lot of ex-service stuff going into recreational use. That’s where I got the idea for the leisure business. It was slow to take off here, but it has now. I built it up sure and steady.”
    â€œWell, the Yanks were always long on ideas. You certainly got in early.”
    â€œRight. Too early, I thought for a while. I worked like a dog at it. Blew a marriage to pieces in the process. I got married again ten years ago. She’s twenty years younger than me, and had two sons from her first marriage. They were about eight and nine at the time. I didn’t have anykids, and I helped to raise those two. I think of them as mine.”
    The value of sentiments like that depends on the speaker. I rated Guthrie pretty high: he wasn’t big-noting himself about his business success, just filling me in. And he’d put it down to work rather than brilliance—always a sign that the person is a realist. Physically, he was impressive too; there was no fat on him and he looked as if he could still pull an oar. But his problem was eating at him, sapping his reserves.
    â€œThe boys are the problem, that right?”
    â€œOne of them, Ray—he’s the