“What the fuck does that mean? A problem?”

“Pete!”

He covered the receiver. “Cut it out, honey. I’m busy.”

“I don’t believe it will be serious, but Mrs. Massot threw her party, and it was a success; she sold vast amounts of jewels, and I have reason to believe there will be good press coverage.”

Stockton saw the difficulty at once. “How good?” he barked.

“I anticipate very good.”

“Good enough to change the stockholders’ minds?”

“Well, that’s the question.”

“And what’s the fucking answer, Montfort?” Pete barked. His heart was thumping; his fat palms were sweaty, thinking of all the money he might lose. And yet there was a distinct pleasure in being able to yell at his CEO.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Pete,” said Montfort in a bored tone.

Pete swallowed his rage and dislike. “You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.” The limey would not be bullied; he’d have no hesitation in hanging up on his boss; they both knew it. “We Yanks haven’t learned to be as suave and cool as you Brits.”

“On the contrary, I believe most Americans are extremely courteous,” said Montfort, coldly. I hate the son of a bitch, Pete thought. “At any rate, the answer is, I believe, no.There isn’t much time to go before the stockholders’ meeting, and the stories will run for about a week; I expect the Massot stock price to rise, perhaps up to three points, on anticipation of other possible bids; we will organize a counteroffensive, and perhaps we might, at the last minute, raise our bid by about four percent.”

“Four percent. That means that fucking—I mean that blasted party will cost us millions.”

“We were buying Massot at a spectacular discount, anyway. It’s better to be secure of our bid.”

Pete made a great effort and heaved his bulky body from the leather couch. The body was slow, but his mind was fast.

“There aren’t that many shareholders around,” he grunted. “Thirty percent voted by the wife. Another fifteen is in the family. . . .”

“My information is that they will not vote with her. They plan an independent pitch to the shareholders.”

“Any danger there?”

“None. The son is nineteen, the grandmother’s age uncertain, but shareholders won’t like either of them as a candidate to replace Mrs. Massot.”

“And so we basically will need the support of almost all the other shareholders. All the fifty-five percent that’s floating.”

Montfort didn’t say anything; they both knew this. Pete was thinking aloud.

“What can we count on?” he asked.

“At least thirty-five percent, in the hands of trust funds, pensions, other institutional investors. They won’t be swayed by press; I’ve had their commitments for some months.”