Heads You Win

“As it was to me,” said Miss Robbins. “So I made a few discreet inquiries, and it turns out that Mr. Fowler sent out notice of the meeting a few days ago.”

“Not to me, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did. But he sent the agenda to your apartment in New York, which is registered with the company as your home address.”

“But Fowler knows perfectly well that I’m staying at Mr. Lowell’s home for the foreseeable future. What’s he up to?”

“I have no idea, chairman, but I could try to find out.”

“Please do. And see if you can lay your hands on an agenda, without Fowler finding out.”

“Of course, chairman.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll plow on with these files until Mr. Harbottle arrives for his appointment at eleven.” As she turned to leave, Alex couldn’t resist asking, “What do you think of Mr. Harbottle, Pamela?”

“He’s a stuffy, eccentric old buzzard, right out of the pages of Dickens, but let’s at least be thankful he’s batting for our team, because the enemy are terrified of him, and perhaps even more important, he’s like Caesar’s wife.”

“Caesar’s wife?”

“When you have more time, chairman.”

“Before you go, Pamela, if I were to ask you for one piece of advice to keep this ship afloat, what would it be?”

“Not what, but who. I’d have a private meeting, very private, with Jake Coleman, who until six months ago was the bank’s chief financial officer.”

“Why do I remember that name?” said Alex. “Something I read in the minutes?”

“He resigned after a flaming row with Mr. Ackroyd, and like me, he was told to clear his desk by the end of the day.”

“What was the row about?”

“I’ve no idea. Mr. Coleman is far too professional to have discussed the matter with a member of staff.”

“Who’s he working for now?”

“He hasn’t been able to find another job, chairman, because every time he’s shortlisted for a major position they call Mr. Ackroyd, and he not only sticks the knife in, but twists it.”

“Set up a meeting with him as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll call him immediately, chairman,” said Miss Robbins before closing the door behind her.

As Alex read through the minutes of the previous years’ board meetings, it became increasingly evident that although Lawrence might well have attended, even chaired, every one of them, the unholy trinity of Ackroyd, Jardine, and Fowler had simply run rings around him. He had reached September, when there was a knock on the door. Could it possibly be eleven o’clock already?

The door opened and in walked the unmistakable figure of Mr. Harbottle. “Good morning, chairman,” said the elderly counsel.

“Good morning, sir,” said Alex, standing and waiting for Harbottle to take a seat. He paused to allow Mr. Harbottle to suggest that perhaps they might now call each other by their first names, but no such offer was forthcoming.

“May I begin by thanking you for your excellent advice yesterday,” said Alex. “It allowed me to remain a yard ahead of Ackroyd and Jardine, but only a yard, because I’ve just learned that Fowler has called an emergency board meeting for next Monday.”

“Has he indeed?” said Harbottle. He adjusted his spectacles before continuing. “Then I suspect it is their intention to try to replace you as chairman. And they wouldn’t have called the meeting unless they’re convinced they have a majority on the board.”

“If they have, is there anything I can do about it?”

“I won’t know the answer to that, chairman, until I have another chance to consult the bank’s statutes.”

“Another chance?”

“Yes, because I may already have come up with something that will assist you in your efforts.”

Alex sank back in his chair, only too aware that Harbottle would take his time.

“While you’re been familiarizing yourself with the board minutes and annual accounts, I’ve been engrossed in the company’s statutes—fascinating bedtime reading—and I think I may have come across something that will be of interest to you.” He removed a file from his Gladstone bag.

“Paragraph 33b, no doubt.”

Harbottle allowed himself a half-smile. “No, in fact,” he said, opening the file, “statute 9, subclause 2. Allow me to enlighten you, chairman,” he said, and began to read a passage he had underlined. “No employee or director of the company shall be paid more than the chairman.”

Alex’s mind began to race, but it quickly became clear that Harbottle had continued to burn the midnight oil.

“Ackroyd paid himself the outrageous sum of five hundred thousand dollars a year as CEO, which also allowed him to reward his inner team with inflated salaries, thereby guaranteeing him a majority on the board.”

“So if I were to pay myself a more realistic salary,” said Alex, “say—”

“Sixty thousand dollars a year,” prompted Harbottle, “while at the same time insisting that all future expenses had to be signed off by you, I suspect that all three of them would resign fairly quickly.”

“But that’s assuming I survive as chairman.”