George Northcote was a meticulous dawn starter (‘I originated the early-worm philosophy’) but when Carver made his first attempt at nine thirty he was told Northcote hadn’t arrived: there’d been no warning of a delay, either. Carver was told the same when he called fifteen minutes later and again at ten. Carver telephoned Northcote’s apartment on West 66th Street to be told by Jack Jennings, the butler, that he’d missed Northcote by minutes but that he was on his way.

Northcote came on to Carver’s inter-office phone at ten thirty. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘George! You know damned well there is a problem, a big one! Why are you signing off double-accounted figures if the companies aren’t going public?’

‘It’s totally the opposite to what you think: what you imagine you’ve worked out. Which isn’t important. I’ve said I’m resolving it.’

‘I’m looking forward to hearing how it went.’

There was a pause in the still subdued, no-longer hectoring voice. ‘I think it would be a good idea to postpone lunch.’

‘I don’t. Nothing’s being postponed, George. I’ve made the reservation and we’re going to keep it. And you’re going to tell me what the hell’s going on.’

‘You think you can talk to me like this!’

‘In these circumstances, yes.’

‘You feel good?’

The rumble-voiced belligerence, too long in coming, momentarily silenced Carver before giving him his platform. ‘No, George. I don’t feel good about any of this. You know how I feel? I feel so sick so deep in my stomach that any moment I might physically throw up.’