It is the sort of story that makes fully-grown CEOs wake up screaming for nanny. A couple of years ago, the chairman of one of Britain's largest companies found himself sitting next to the chairman of another at lunch: the late, and by no means universally lamented, Captain Maxwell. "My name is X," said the first Leader of Men, in faint trepidation. "I don't need you to tell me who you are." "Actually," rumbled Maxwell, with a lupine Transylvanian glint, "I already knew who you were, too. I believe your group has a large pension fund surplus?" Happily for the bemused first chairman, the conversation was interrupted without the reason for Maxwell's particular interest being made clear. Thus it remained until post-mortem revelations about the late mariner's imaginative way with pension funds. As the Bard might have said: phew. But the story does not end there. For all Toady's assurances about the undoubted reality of the captain's demise, Maxwell's interlocutor would not allow himself to be named.
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