Moroccan Traffic Read Free Page B

at his side. I watched its fingers curl and then stretch. He had just realised he was face to face with a monopoly. He had opened his mouth when Val Dresden jerked the door open. Val said, ‘Bomb threat, Sir Robert, I’m sorry. We have to get out of the building.’
    He sounded sorry all right. He’d heard the row through the door, and was dying to know who was winning. Sir Robert’s hand subtly relaxed. He said, ‘What a bore. My dear fellow, I have to apologise. Perhaps we can continue when this is all over?’ He made for the door, and we followed. The alarm was warbling by now, and I could hear a confusion of voices and whistles, and footsteps thudding down stairs and through passages. I scooped up my handbag and hurried.
    A voice, socioeconomic group A, said, ‘You’re well-drilled, Miss Helmann. Does this happen often?’
    Mr. Johnson jogged at my side like a billboard. Between his two outstretched arms he was grasping the cause of the dispute, wet side outermost. I said, ‘This is the first time really since Christmas. We wait at the end of the street unless it’s raining. Twice, Sir Robert sent everyone home.’
    ‘Nice,’ said Mr. Johnson.
    ‘Except the personal staff, of course,’ I said. ‘He has the Rolls driven up to the cordon and we stay until the security sweep has been finished.’
    We’d got to the foyer when Sir Robert pushed his way back to Johnson’s side and noticed he’d rescued the painting. He said, ‘My God, I’m impressed, but in fact there’s no danger, old boy. Happens regularly. Hang about for a clean bill of health, and then we’ll have that chat over a noggin. Why not wait for me over there? It’s a good hotel. And it’s cold, standing about in the roadway.’
    ‘I don’t mind,’ said Mr. Johnson. ‘Was it a phone threat you had?’
    ‘The police are tracing it,’ said Sir Robert. ‘The usual rubbish. A bomb will go off in an hour unless we arrange to hand over a million. I feel rather insulted. You’d think they’d value us a little bit higher.’
    ‘So you hand over the million?’ said Mr. Johnson. We had reached Sir Robert’s car.
    My Chairman laughed. ‘Christ, you know better than that. A lot better. Don’t worry. Name your price, and we’ll meet it.’
    Mr. Johnson stopped walking. He said, ‘I have named my price. I may cancel the contract, but I have no need to alter it.’
    ‘What did you think I was saying?’ the Chairman said quickly. ‘All we both want to do is finish the bloody picture. It’s the best you’ve ever done. You know it. I know it. I’m trying to help you finish it, so quit trying to slam me down, will you?’
    Inside the car, Val Dresden was taking a phone call. He opened the door. ‘Sir Robert! The threat’s been repeated. They think there is a bomb in the building.’
    I stood outside, and watched the Chairman dive in and grab the car phone. Mr. Johnson watched him as well, the painting resting gently reversed on the road. The ambulances and fire engines arrived. Behind the cordon, I could see the rest of the staff, and sightseers, and residents. Occasionally one of the executives would come over to speak to Sir Robert, and be introduced to Johnson Johnson who was holding court by the boot of the Rolls.
    Flattery was doing him good. Presently, he was so far softened up that he would step forward and shake hands with anybody. Then I saw Sir Robert stiffen and, looking round, realised who was coming.
    It was too late to prevent an encounter. Sir Robert assumed a welcoming smile. ‘Ah, Morgan. Dreadful bore, isn’t it? Johnson, may I introduce our newest Director? Mr. Morgan and his team have just joined Kingsley Conglomerates.’
    He didn’t say more. He didn’t actually say, ‘This is the Bummer of the Year; give me a week and I’ll fix him.’ But you could tell he hoped Johnson got the message.
    He probably did, from the way he shook hands. In his own design room, according to rumour, Mr. Morgan favoured T-shirts