Now you see it . . .
I AM always suspicious of secretive billion- aires. Sometimes the secret is that the money isn't there, or isn't theirs, or, as in Robert Maxwell's case, both. So perhaps Sir James Goldsmith really did sell out of Wall Street at the top, and go for gold, and find that it stuck to him — but by then he no longer had to publish his accounts. When he did, they were knotty reading. (He memorably shredded a BBC presenter and the Times's City editor when they took him on without doing their homework.) Goldsmith companies would invest in one another, trade with one another, borrow from one another and lean on each other's pension funds. There were times when this came to resemble a high-stakes, high-speed game of Find the Lady, with the dealer, naturally, doing better than the punters. In the end, they noticed this. He made a brief reappearance on the London stage, in an improbable alliance with Kerry Packer and Lord (Jacob) Rothschild, with an implausi- ble bid for British American Tobacco. I can picture the three of them now: ford Roth- schild looking sheepish, Mr Packer looking thuggish, and Sir James in his element, mocking, grinning, giggling, bouncing and gesticulating. He was making mischief.
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