Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,14

took the opportunity of the brief silence to say rather pompously, ‘Monsieur de Brescou has no power to sign any paper whatsoever.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Nanterre said, at last speaking English, which like many French businessmen, he proved to know fluently. ‘He has too much power. He is out of touch with the modern world, and his obstructive attitude must cease. I require him to make a decision that will bring new impetus and prosperity to a company that is ageing and suffering from out-of-date methods. The period of road-building is over. We must look to new markets. I have found such a market which is uniquely suited to the plastic materials we are accustomed to make use of, and no stupidly old-fashioned ideas shall stand in the way.’

‘Monsieur de Brescou has relinquished his power to make solo decisions,’ Greening said. ‘Four people besides yourself must now put their names to any change of company policy.’

‘That is absolutely untrue,’ Nanterre said loudly. ‘De Brescou has total command.’

‘No longer. He has signed it away.’

Nanterre looked flummoxed, and I began to think that Greening’s sandbags might actually hold against the flood when he made the stupid error of glancing smugly in the direction of the downturned clipboard. How could he be so damned silly, I thought, and had no sympathy for him when Nanterre followed the direction of his eyes and moved like lightning to the side table, reaching it first.

‘Put that down,’ Greening said furiously, but Nanterre was skimming the page and handing it briskly to his pale acolyte.

‘Is that legal?’ he demanded.

Gerald Greening was advancing to retrieve his property, the unintroduced Frenchman backing away while he read and holding the clipboard out of reach. ‘Oui,’ he said finally, ‘Yes. Legal.’

‘In that case …’ Nanterre snatched the clipboard out of his grasp, tore the handwritten pages off it and ripped them across and across. ‘The document no longer exists.’

‘Of course it exists,’ I said. ‘Even in pieces, it exists. It was signed and it was witnessed. Its intention remains a fact, and it can be written again.’

Nanterre’s gaze sharpened in my direction. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘A friend.’

‘Stop swinging that foot.’

I went on swinging it. ‘Why don’t you just face the fact that Monsieur de Brescou will never let his company sell arms?’ I said. ‘Why, if that’s what you want to do, don’t you agree to dissolve the existing company, and with your proceeds set up again on your own?’

He narrowed his eyes at me, everyone in the room waiting for an answer. When it came, it was grudging, but clearly the truth. Bad news, also for Roland de Brescou.

‘I was told,’ Nanterre said with cold anger, ‘that only if de Brescou applied personally would I be granted the facility. I was told it was essential to have the backing of his name.’

It struck me that perhaps someone in the French background didn’t want Nanterre to make guns, and was taking subtle steps to prevent it while avoiding making a flat and perhaps politically embarrassing refusal. To insist on a condition that wouldn’t be fulfilled would be to lay the failure of Nanterre’s plans solely and neatly at de Brescou’s feet.

‘Therefore,’ Nanterre went on ominously, ‘de Brescou will sign. With or without trouble.’ He looked at the torn pages he was still grasping and held them out to his assistant. ‘Go and find a bathroom,’ he said. ‘Get rid of these pieces. Then return.’

The pale young man nodded and went away. Gerald Greening made several protestations which had no effect on Nanterre. He was looking as though various thoughts were occurring to him which gave him no pleasure, and he interrupted Greening, saying loudly ‘Where are the people whose names were on the agreement?’

Greening, showing the first piece of lawyerly sense for a long time, said he had no idea.

‘Where are they?’ Nanterre demanded of Roland de Brescou. For answer, a gallic shrug.

He shouted the question at the princess, who gave a silent shake of the head, and at me, with the same result. ‘Where are they?’

They would be listening to the sweet chords of Chopin, I supposed, and wondered if they even knew of the agreement’s existence.

‘What are their names?’ Nanterre said.

No one answered. He went to the door and shouted loudly down the hallway. ‘Valery. Come here at once. Valery! Come here.’

The man Valery hurried back empty-handed. ‘The agreement is finished,’ he said reassuringly. ‘All gone down the drain.’

‘You read the names on it, didn’t you?’ Nanterre demanded. ‘You