Free The Cooperman Variations by Howard Engel Page A

And you’d better not take it up with Ted Thornhill when he gets here. He’s a former smoker, Raymond, so you’ll be dealing with a convert. You know what they’re like.”
    “The world is conspiring against smokers, Vanessa. The only way I can fly these days is Air India, and you’d be surprised at the places where Air India doesn’t fly. Why, in my own office I had to install a vent through the window. The owner is still furious at me, but we do rent the whole floor.”
    Vanessa told me that she’d need Sally and me to sign as witnesses. When I asked her what this was all about, she told me to play along; she’d explain later. Just as we were about to make the papers immortal, someone introduced as Ted Thornhill, the CEO of NTC, came through the door with a photographer whose camera was already loaded and poised. Introductions were not attempted. I was the only odd man out. I could see that Harry Parlow was feeling good about it; he didn’t get to meet the top dogs every day. Vanessa was on her toes, playing hostess. Raymond didn’t sweat, but his brow showed a certain tension. His donation of Keogh’s hard cash gave him points and he knew it. Roger came into his own, pointing out small changes, places to initial and so forth. When we had had a go at examining the four copies, passing them around like it was a game, criss-crossing and twice getting mixed up, Raymond plainly relaxed. Ted Thornhill supervised all of this, glancing down over a cascade of double chins. His eyes were small but alert, his mouth the thinnest part of the whole anatomy. His suit showed the wear and tear that a large body can give to the best imported serge. Sparse blond hair betrayed a recent attempt to comb it with water. I found that likeable.
    For a quiet, informal gathering, the signing itself was accomplished with sober deliberation. The principal pen was picked up and handed to all the signers by Ted Thornhill. All eyes watched as the ink moved along the paper. The pen was a Montblanc. It fairly blushed from black to grey with the weight of the honour entrusted to it. “There!” said Thornhill with a flourish after all the signatures had been applied. “We make a little history every day. The public event will be next …”
    “One week from today. Wednesday at 4:30 in the library, on the mezzanine floor, southwest end of the Royal York Hotel.” Vanessa stepped in to help the forgetful Thornhill.
    “Of course, I remember now. There’s a press conference to begin with. Right? I’ll call on you, Ray. You knew Keogh better than anyone, except maybe Philip Rankin. Not many speeches, just what’s necessary to hit the right celebratory note.”
    “And then the drinks,” said Devlin. “I hope you’ve not ordered those bits of coloured cheese, Ted?”
    “Cheese?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t ordinarily see to the catering, Ray. We might have better receptions if I did. Vanessa, will you look into that? We want the announcement of Dermot Keogh Hall to be a major cultural event. The usual cheese and crackers will not do. Not in any way. Please see to it.” Vanessa smiled one of those pasted-on smiles, the sort you get in opera when the clown’s heart is breaking.
    “It has a good ring to it, that name: Dermot Keogh Hall,” mused Devlin. “The hall will seat five hundred, with ample backstage and lobby space.”
    “We’ve got a logo that uses his signature, Ray. It will be on all stationery and, of course, above the doors. I’ve got a firm of architects working on it now. I want you to be pleased with this every step of the way.”
    “Good. I knew you wouldn’t sell me out. This is a redletter day for the Plevna Foundation.”
    The name Plevna stabbed me in the ear. I’d heard the name earlier in connection with Bob Foley, the independent-minded technician.
    This sideshow didn’t last long. Nobody really drank more than a sip of his drink—Sally and I were excluded from the libations, by the way. Roger grabbed a