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Authors: Eric Ambler
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liquidation.
I talked it over with Val. That’s Valerie, my daughter.
She’s as beautiful as her mother was when I first met her; but there’s none of that bitchiness in Val. She works, as your assiduous legmen discovered, Mr L, as a librarian at the university. I won’t say more about her now. If you have any sense you’ll be letting her speak for herself. She won’t let me down. One word of warning, though. Val has some funny ideas. Don’t let that psychiatrist boyfriend of hers get into the act. He’s not a bad young man – just a nonswimmer working as a lifeguard.
No, better scrub that. He did at least try to help
.
As I say, I talked things over with Val.
To be truthful, I must say that I wasn’t looking for much more from her than daughterly sympathy and concern. All that about my wallowing in self-pity is for the birds, Mr L. I also felt that I had to let her know what the score was. If I had to get another job, I thought, it would almost certainly mean that I would have to leave Geneva. That would have affected her future. I felt that she ought to have time to think and make plans.
Somewhat to my surprise, she came up with a plan for me.
Geneva, of course, is the headquarters of all sorts of international organisations and there are always conferences going on. I don’t mean just the political junkets, but conferences concerned with international cooperation in technical fields. Since Val had been working for the university she had become aware of the shortage that existed of technical translators able to service such conferences. I don’t mean interpreters; there are plenty of those, though not many good verbatim technical interpreters; I mean people who can produce accurate and reliable translations of technical documents fast enough to keep a conference supplied with multilingual copies of minutes, papers read and so on whileit is still in session. Her idea was that, if Intercom Publishing Enterprises A.G. went into liquidation, I should buy up the pieces, selling the
Intercom
mailing list and the Addressograph machine to help finance the deal, but keeping the office lease and furniture, the typewriters and the mimeograph machines in order to set up a technical translation bureau.
It wasn’t a bad idea, I thought. I didn’t think it would work, but it was good to have something to hope for and speculate about. I only had two drinks that evening.
Ten days later I had a telephone call from Dr Bruchner.
‘I have received an offer for the General’s shareholding,’ he said. He sounded as if he could still hardly believe it.
‘A good offer, I hope.’ I tried not to echo his incredulity.
‘Good enough, I think, to submit to the executors.’
‘May I ask who has made the offer?’
‘Ah. That is why I am calling you. You may be able to help me. The prospective purchaser is Herr Arnold Bloch of Munich. His business paper states that he is an industrial public-relations consultant. In his initial letter inquiring about the availability of the shares he stated that he is acting in concert with French and West German associates with interests in arms and explosives. I gathered that his expectation is that he will be able to use
Intercom
to promote his associates’ commercial interests.’
‘That sounds good. It makes sense. If they are prepared to subsidise it out of their advertising appropriations, they’re obviously not counting on us to show a profit. They’re buying it with their eyes open and a policy in mind.’
‘That was my thought also.’
‘How can I help, Dr Bruchner?’
‘In cabling this offer to the executors, I would like to give some assurances that Herr Bloch is a responsible person.’
‘Can he back his offer with cash?’
‘Monsieur Carter, please!’ The question had hurt him; I should have known better than to ask it. ‘Naturally that was the first thing I established. I have a cashier’s draft on his Munich bankalready in my possession. He is certainly
I talked it over with Val. That’s Valerie, my daughter.
She’s as beautiful as her mother was when I first met her; but there’s none of that bitchiness in Val. She works, as your assiduous legmen discovered, Mr L, as a librarian at the university. I won’t say more about her now. If you have any sense you’ll be letting her speak for herself. She won’t let me down. One word of warning, though. Val has some funny ideas. Don’t let that psychiatrist boyfriend of hers get into the act. He’s not a bad young man – just a nonswimmer working as a lifeguard.
No, better scrub that. He did at least try to help
.
As I say, I talked things over with Val.
To be truthful, I must say that I wasn’t looking for much more from her than daughterly sympathy and concern. All that about my wallowing in self-pity is for the birds, Mr L. I also felt that I had to let her know what the score was. If I had to get another job, I thought, it would almost certainly mean that I would have to leave Geneva. That would have affected her future. I felt that she ought to have time to think and make plans.
Somewhat to my surprise, she came up with a plan for me.
Geneva, of course, is the headquarters of all sorts of international organisations and there are always conferences going on. I don’t mean just the political junkets, but conferences concerned with international cooperation in technical fields. Since Val had been working for the university she had become aware of the shortage that existed of technical translators able to service such conferences. I don’t mean interpreters; there are plenty of those, though not many good verbatim technical interpreters; I mean people who can produce accurate and reliable translations of technical documents fast enough to keep a conference supplied with multilingual copies of minutes, papers read and so on whileit is still in session. Her idea was that, if Intercom Publishing Enterprises A.G. went into liquidation, I should buy up the pieces, selling the
Intercom
mailing list and the Addressograph machine to help finance the deal, but keeping the office lease and furniture, the typewriters and the mimeograph machines in order to set up a technical translation bureau.
It wasn’t a bad idea, I thought. I didn’t think it would work, but it was good to have something to hope for and speculate about. I only had two drinks that evening.
Ten days later I had a telephone call from Dr Bruchner.
‘I have received an offer for the General’s shareholding,’ he said. He sounded as if he could still hardly believe it.
‘A good offer, I hope.’ I tried not to echo his incredulity.
‘Good enough, I think, to submit to the executors.’
‘May I ask who has made the offer?’
‘Ah. That is why I am calling you. You may be able to help me. The prospective purchaser is Herr Arnold Bloch of Munich. His business paper states that he is an industrial public-relations consultant. In his initial letter inquiring about the availability of the shares he stated that he is acting in concert with French and West German associates with interests in arms and explosives. I gathered that his expectation is that he will be able to use
Intercom
to promote his associates’ commercial interests.’
‘That sounds good. It makes sense. If they are prepared to subsidise it out of their advertising appropriations, they’re obviously not counting on us to show a profit. They’re buying it with their eyes open and a policy in mind.’
‘That was my thought also.’
‘How can I help, Dr Bruchner?’
‘In cabling this offer to the executors, I would like to give some assurances that Herr Bloch is a responsible person.’
‘Can he back his offer with cash?’
‘Monsieur Carter, please!’ The question had hurt him; I should have known better than to ask it. ‘Naturally that was the first thing I established. I have a cashier’s draft on his Munich bankalready in my possession. He is certainly
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