ENTREPRENEURS: Harry’s Sore Point

Of the hundreds of office blocks that have shot up in postwar London, few are as tall, as eye-catching or as potentially profitable as Harry Hyams’ Centre Point. Or as empty. In the seven years since the 34-story building was completed on St. Giles Circus at the end of bustling Oxford Street, it has not acquired a single tenant. Many Londoners have charged that Hyams is purposely keeping it unoccupied to cash in later on runaway rent rises.

In space-starved London, where some commercial rents have doubled over the past five years, Centre Point has gradually grown from a simple oddity to a roiling controversy. Last month the Tory government’s Environment minister, Peter Walker, threatened in Parliament to introduce legislation forcing Hyams to find tenants or face a government takeover of his building. Hyams, who operates in a shell of almost total privacy, answered in a rare public letter accusing Walker of repeating “baseless assertions.” His reply merely recharged the controversy, since it offered a glimpse into the secretive empire of Harry Hyams, 44, one of Britain’s most mysterious millionaires.

Hyams is chairman of Oldham Estate Co., a $355 million property firm, most of which he owns. The son of a small-time London merchant and bookmaker, he started working as an office boy in a real estate agency at age 17 and became a sterling millionaire while still in his twenties. In 1959 he bought Oldham Estates, an obscure Lancashire property concern, and has used the company as a base for rapidly proliferating real estate ventures in London. A $100 investment in Oldham stock in 1959 would be worth $75,000 today.

Hyams, who has been called Britain’s Howard Hughes, sometimes goes to bizarre lengths to avoid publicity. At his company’s annual general meeting last year, he turned up wearing a face-mask; there are few photographs of him. Hyams lives on a Hughesian scale as well. He spent $1,700,000 to acquire a Wiltshire manor. He paid nearly $700,000 for an 878-ton yacht that carries a crew of 30, and has put more than $1,000,000 worth of improvements into it, including $48,000 worth of teleprinter equipment to keep him in communication with the world’s financial centers. A dapper figure with a neatly trimmed beard, Hyams owns a fleet of fast sports cars, raises pheasant and regularly throws hunting parties for a small circle of close friends.

The formula behind Hyams’ real estate success is simple. He has concentrated on developing office space in central London, which now rents for up to $25 per sq. ft.—more than in most U.S. and European cities. And whenever possible he tries to find a single blue-chip tenant to fill each of his buildings who will be responsible for all repairs and insurance and can sublet part of the space. “All we have to do is collect the rent,” explains an Oldham agent. As a result, Hyams manages his entire real estate empire with a staff of about six.

That streamlined approach is the main reason for the mystery of Centre Point. Hyams claims that he has been actively seeking a tenant for Centre Point all along, but can find no firm willing to sign up for all 202,000 sq. ft. of space—the only terms he will give.

Hyams is losing remarkably little money in his stubborn campaign. Empty buildings in London are taxed at half their actual value, and Harry—like Howard—can write off many of his losses. In addition, because of soaring land values and rents, the potential profit on Centre Point keeps getting larger. Real estate men calculate that Hyams could easily recoup twice the estimated $15 million in original costs and later expenses that he incurred on the project—if Hyams were in a mood to sell. Meanwhile, Londoners who have watched their city being scarred by developers rushing to cash in on the office squeeze are understandably unhappy to see Centre Point’s 34 floors remain vacant.