Thirty Minutes on a Friday Morning
On the morning of Friday, October 24, 1986, traders at the brokerage Jefferies & Co. began buying shares of Allied Stores Corporation in enormous blocks. The buyer was a Canadian homebuilder whom almost nobody on Wall Street had heard of a year earlier. The price was $67 a share. Within about half an hour, the Campeau Corporation of Toronto had gone from owning roughly 4 percent of one of the largest department store companies in the United States to owning more than half of it. Allied, which operated Brooks Brothers, Ann Taylor, Jordan Marsh, Bonwit Teller and a string of regional chains, rushed into federal court and won a temporary restraining order that same day. It did not matter. The shares had changed hands. Within ten days Allied had agreed to merge.
The maneuver was called a street sweep, and it had been devised by Bruce Wasserstein, the thirty-eight-year-old head of mergers at First Boston. Its client was Robert Campeau, then sixty-three, a slight, restless French-Canadian who had left school at fourteen, built tens of thousands of houses around Ottawa, and decided in the middle of his life that the Canadian establishment would never let him in. He would make his name in the United States instead. For about three years, he did. He bought Allied. He bought Federated Department Stores, the owner of Bloomingdale's, in the most expensive retail takeover ever attempted. He threw a victory party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Then, on January 15, 1990, Allied and Federated filed for Chapter 11 protection in Cincinnati, in what was at the time the largest retail bankruptcy in American history. The filing listed some 50,750 creditors, from Wall Street banks to underwear makers. Campeau lost control of his retail empire that month and of the company that bore his name that summer. Barely a year later, a Canadian bank was petitioning to push him into personal bankruptcy.
Campeau's story is usually told as a morality play about the 1980s, and it is one. But it is also a precise case study in how a genuinely talented operator can take a method that worked in one domain, carry it into another where the underlying economics are different, and stack so much borrowed money on top of the difference that a modest shortfall becomes fatal. The interesting part lies in the details: what he was right about, what he was wrong about, and why so many sophisticated lenders went along.
By the Numbers
The Campeau Retail Gamble
$3.6BPrice of Allied Stores, acquired in a hostile takeover in 1986
$6.6BPrice of Federated Department Stores at $73.50 a share, agreed April 1, 1988
97%+Share of the full Federated purchase financed with debt, per economist Steven Kaplan
$350M+Fees collected by advisers and lenders on the Federated deal, per Fortune
~18 monthsTime from the Federated closing in July 1988 to the Chapter 11 filing
50,750Creditors listed in the January 1990 bankruptcy petitions
Chelmsford and the Floor at Inco
Robert Joseph Antoine Campeau was born on August 3, 1923, in Chelmsford, Ontario, a small francophone town near Sudbury in the nickel-mining country of the province's north. He was one of fourteen children. His father, Joseph, was a blacksmith and mechanic who worked intermittently, and the family was poor and devoutly Catholic. Campeau left school after the eighth grade, at fourteen, to help support his brothers and sisters. He delivered goods and swept floors at Inco, the mining giant that dominated the region, for fifty cents an hour, and later worked there as a labourer, carpenter and machinist.
Two things from those years stayed with him. The first was a fluency with physical work: how things were built, how long they took, what they cost. The second was a sense of himself as an outsider. He was a French-speaking Catholic from a mining town in a country whose commercial life was run by English-speaking Protestants in Toronto and Montreal, and he arrived in Ottawa with rudimentary English. Much of what came later, including the decision to go south, makes more sense once that grievance is taken seriously. Years afterward he told an interviewer that there were not enough French-Canadian businesses and that he intended his to stay in his family's hands and represent part of that world.
He married Clauda Leroux, a textile worker, in 1942. In Ottawa he took whatever work he could find: driving a truck for a paper mill across the river in Gatineau, working as a millwright, running a corner store.
The Campeau-Built House
The accounts of how Campeau got into construction vary. In some, he renovated run-down houses and sold them at a profit. In others, his first project was a single house he built with a cousin's help, which he sold rather than moved into because the offer was too good. Everyone agrees on the date he entered the residential building business, 1949, and on what he noticed: postwar Ottawa was full of young families and a fast-growing federal civil service, and none of them had enough places to live. Housing, he concluded, was close to a sure thing.
He incorporated Campeau Construction in 1953. His first large subdivision, Elmvale Acres in Ottawa's south end, went up along Smyth Road, and the company spread into Pleasant Park and beyond. The houses were plain, built from standard templates, and priced for ordinary buyers at around $18,000 to $20,000. Schools and churches followed the homes. The formula was industrial: repeat a design, control costs, keep crews moving, use each finished project to finance the next.
Not everyone admired the results. Charlotte Whitton, Ottawa's combative mayor, fought him repeatedly over planning, and one of her lines about his houses — that looking at them made nuclear bombardment seem less terrible — became part of the city's folklore. Yet the market disagreed with the mayor. "A Campeau-built house" became Canadian shorthand for solid construction, and the phrase outlived his empire. By his own family's count, the company eventually built more than 25,000 homes, along with apartment buildings across the National Capital Region.
The same Ottawa that gave him customers gave him political friends. Campeau cultivated federal Liberals, and counted Pierre Trudeau, Jean Chrétien and André Ouellet among his acquaintances. He was frequently in conflict with city council but usually got his projects approved.
Towers Above the Peace Tower
In the 1960s Campeau moved from subdivisions to office towers, and his ambitions collided with one of Ottawa's informal rules. For decades, the city had kept downtown buildings below the height of the Peace Tower on Parliament Hill. Campeau's Place de Ville, a large mixed-use complex on Queen Street with a main building roughly 250 feet tall, went well beyond what the bylaw allowed. He fought for it and won approval, and the complex was completed in the early 1970s. When the National Capital Commission planned huge federal office complexes across the river in Hull — Place du Portage and later Les Terrasses de la Chaudière — Campeau's company was the major contractor on both. A great deal of the office space that houses government departments on the Quebec side of the river was his.
In the late 1960s he consolidated his companies into Campeau Corporation. In the early 1970s he took on the redevelopment of part of Toronto's waterfront, including the Harbour Castle hotel and the Harbour Square condominiums. He built in San Francisco, Texas and Florida; by the end of the 1970s his company was operating in the United States. In 1988 his company completed Scotia Plaza, the red granite tower in downtown Toronto that became one of the tallest buildings in the city and the headquarters of Campeau Corporation.
This was real achievement, and it deserves to be stated plainly before the collapse is described. Campeau built neighbourhoods that people still live in and towers that still define skylines. He was, by many accounts, a relentless salesman and an energetic negotiator. A former employee would tell Fortune that he was the best salesman he had ever met.
He was also, by his own associates' accounts, volatile. Fortune later reported that he had suffered two mental breakdowns, the first in 1970 and the second in 1985, and that after the first he added the head of the psychiatric clinic that had treated him to his company's board. His private life was complicated in ways that would later be written about at length: while married to Clauda, he had a long relationship with Ilse Luebbert, a German immigrant he met in Ottawa in 1961, and had two children with her. He and Clauda divorced in 1969, and he married Ilse in 1970. She became, by several accounts, his closest business adviser.
The Door That Stayed Shut
The episode that seems to have pointed him south came in 1980. Campeau already owned about 5 percent of Royal Trustco, the parent of Canada's largest trust company, and in late August he launched a bid for control. Royal Trustco was a pillar of the English-Canadian financial establishment, with assets of about C$7.4 billion. Campeau Corporation listed about C$866 million in assets. The New York Times described the fight as a corporate David against a Goliath of Canadian banking.
Goliath did not wait to be hit. Royal Trustco's directors unanimously opposed the offer, took out full-page newspaper advertisements urging shareholders not to sell, and argued that a mortgage lender of that size should not be controlled by one real estate developer. Behind the scenes, as the company history in the International Directory of Company Histories recounts, management persuaded friendly institutions — among them the Toronto-Dominion Bank, which bought about 10 percent of the shares — to acquire enough stock to keep it out of his hands. Campeau raised his offer. It still fell short of the majority he needed, and in early October 1980 the bid failed.
Campeau said he held no grudge. Those around him believed he concluded that Canada's business establishment would always be closed to someone like him. By the mid-1980s he was describing American society as free and open by contrast. He moved to Toronto around 1981, bought a mansion on the Bridle Path, tore it down, and built a 25,000-square-foot French château where he gave lavish parties. He was clearly not planning to fade quietly.
Stores as Tenants
The idea that took him to the United States was, at its core, a real estate idea. Campeau wanted to build shopping centres there, and shopping centres need anchor tenants. If he owned the department stores, he reasoned, he would have ready-made anchors for his own malls, and he would also control the valuable property that many old department store chains owned in downtowns and suburbs.
According to the New York Times, the spark came in 1985, when Campeau learned that Edward Finkelstein, the chairman of R.H. Macy & Co., was planning a leveraged buyout of Macy's. Campeau tried to arrange a meeting to take part. He was rebuffed. He decided to build a department store group of his own. After some time casting about, he settled on Allied Stores, then the sixth-largest department store company in the country.
The mismatch in size was comic. Campeau Corporation had revenues of about $153 million in 1985. Allied had sales of about $4.1 billion. Fortune calculated that Allied was thirty times as large in profits and ten times as large in stock market value. But 1986 was the hottest year the leveraged-buyout market had seen. Michael Milken's junk bond machine at Drexel Burnham Lambert had made high-yield debt available for almost any deal, and investment banks had begun lending their own capital as short-term "bridge" loans to get takeovers done. Campeau assumed he could borrow whatever he needed. He was right.
He first tried a friendly approach and got no further than a proposal to buy five of Allied's shopping centres. His first bankers, Paine Webber, were pushed aside when the deal turned hostile. He interviewed merger specialists from several firms in his suite at the Waldorf Towers. One leading banker from Morgan Stanley later told Fortune he walked out unable to understand what Campeau had been saying, and declined the assignment. Wasserstein, famous for a pep talk that urged clients to "dare to be great," took it.
Taking Allied
Allied tried to escape into the arms of Edward J. DeBartolo, the Ohio shopping mall developer, and the investor Paul Bilzerian, who agreed to buy it for $67 a share. Campeau countered with a tender offer at $66, more than $20 above where Allied had traded two months earlier. Then came the October 24 street sweep: he dropped the tender offer and bought 25.8 million shares, mostly from arbitrageurs, for about $1.7 billion. Allied sued, and the Securities and Exchange Commission sided with it on the legality of the tactic, but the court let the purchase stand. The SEC later barred such sweeps. On Halloween, the two sides signed a merger agreement at $69 a share. First Boston had agreed to provide a bridge loan of $865 million, with a Citibank-led syndicate supplying bank financing.
What happened next showed how thin the margin already was. For tax reasons, the merger had to close by December 31, 1986, and Campeau needed about $300 million in equity to put on top of more than $3 billion in debt. He did not have it. Citibank lent his company $150 million that could be contributed as "equity." The other half came, after days of haggling that exasperated nearly everyone involved, from DeBartolo — the rival bidder — as a loan. Allied's shareholder meeting at the Waldorf-Astoria was adjourned repeatedly and finally approved the deal on New Year's Eve. The advisers, lenders and lawyers took about $210 million in fees.
It's the story of my life. When I built my first 10 houses, people said I would go broke. And I've built thousands since. I like to take risks.
— Robert Campeau, The New York Times, 1988
In the first year, Campeau did much of what he promised. He announced he would sell sixteen of Allied's twenty-four divisions, and by the end of 1987 he had sold about $1 billion of assets and paid down that much debt ahead of schedule. In March 1987 Allied sold about $1.15 billion of junk bonds and preferred stock to retire First Boston's bridge loan — an offering that, as Fortune noted, sold well even though a Canadian magazine had just published a long article about his breakdowns and his double life.
The operating record was another matter. Thomas Macioce, Allied's chief executive during the takeover, lasted about three weeks after Campeau made him chairman of Campeau Corporation. His successor as president resigned after eight months. For the first nine months of 1987, Allied earned $44 million in operating profit. It paid $244 million in interest.
Project Rose
A prudent owner would have spent the next several years getting Allied right. Campeau went after a company three times its size. In the late summer of 1987 he began planning a bid for Federated Department Stores of Cincinnati, the most prestigious name in American department stores: Bloomingdale's, Abraham & Straus, Filene's, Foley's, Burdines, Lazarus, Rich's, Bullock's, I. Magnin and the Ralphs supermarket chain. In honour of Cincinnati's most famous ballplaying gambler, the project was code-named Rose. In the fiscal year ending January 1988, Federated's divisions operated 238 department stores, employed more than 135,000 people and produced sales of $11.1 billion.
Robert Morosky, the former second-in-command at The Limited whom Campeau had just hired to run Allied, was startled to learn the target so soon after joining. He later told Fortune he warned his boss about the scale of the task and then voted in favour anyway.
I told Bob that it would be like acquiring the U.S. Navy. But in the end, I voted yes just like everybody else.
— Robert Morosky, Fortune, 1990
On January 25, 1988, Campeau offered $47 a share for a company whose stock had closed 1987 at under $33. Federated's board refused, sought protection under Ohio's anti-takeover law and looked for a white knight. May Department Stores came close to making a friendly bid but pulled back at the last moment; its chief executive concluded that absorbing Federated was too great a risk. Macy's did not pull back. Finkelstein entered with a bid of his own at the end of February, and the contest the press called "store wars" ran through March.
It was, in hindsight, a textbook case of
irrational escalation. Each bid made the next one seem reasonable. The bankers' models — "iterations," in the jargon — kept validating whatever price the two bidders decided they needed to pay, and Campeau's camp would later argue that the price could not have been crazy if a master retailer like Finkelstein had been willing to match it. A public relations consultant working with Campeau at the time told
Fortune that he could see his client was going to win or die, and was past being reasonable.
Wasserstein, meanwhile, had left First Boston a week after the bid was launched to found his own firm. Campeau kept both: Wasserstein for advice, First Boston for money. First Boston, stripped of its star dealmakers, had its own reasons to prove it could still finish the biggest deal on the Street. The
incentives of everyone around the table pointed in the same direction.
On March 31, as the Federated board prepared to declare Campeau the winner, Macy's raised its bid again. Lawyers pushed for a compromise, and Campeau and Finkelstein met through the night. On April 1, 1988, they announced a settlement: Campeau would buy Federated for $73.50 a share, about $6.6 billion, and Macy's would drop out in exchange for the right to buy Bullock's and I. Magnin for $1.1 billion, plus $60 million for its expenses. Campeau never met the Federated directors face to face. When they finally agreed to meet him, he was on his way to Germany and sent Wasserstein's team instead.
Equity That Was Really Debt
The financing for Federated was baroque, and its structure explains most of what followed. Steven Kaplan, an economist at the University of Chicago who later studied the deal in detail, calculated that the tender offer required $6.71 billion for the shares and fees. Campeau raised it with $3.22 billion of bank loans from a syndicate led by Citibank and Sumitomo, a bridge loan of about $2 billion from First Boston, Dillon Read and Paine Webber — the same Paine Webber he had refused to pay after the Allied deal, until it sued — and $1.4 billion described as equity.
That equity was mostly borrowed too. It included a $500 million bank loan from the Bank of Montreal and Banque Paribas that had to be repaid within a year; a $480 million loan from DeBartolo, who also received a small stake in Federated; and $227 million passed through from convertible debentures bought by Olympia & York, the real estate company of the Reichmann brothers of Toronto. Campeau's actual cash contribution was $193 million, and he got it by selling Brooks Brothers — a division of Allied he had publicly promised to keep — to Marks & Spencer for $750 million. Allied then used the leftover proceeds to buy Federated stock, exploiting loose covenants in its own bonds. Allied's bondholders, who had lent against an income-producing clothing chain and now effectively held a stake in a debt-loaded takeover vehicle, were furious. Counting the debt Federated already carried and treating the borrowed "equity" as what it was, Kaplan found that Campeau financed at least $7.96 billion of an $8.17 billion purchase — more than 97 percent — with debt.
Fortune's arithmetic was even bleaker. After planned divestitures, Campeau expected to keep eleven department store divisions and to carry about $7.9 billion of old and new debt. At a conservative 11 percent blended interest rate, that meant annual interest of about $869 million. In their best years, those eleven chains had produced combined pre-tax, pre-interest profits of about $680 million. The plan required a large, sustained improvement in operations before anything went wrong. Not everyone missed this. Bankers Trust, a major leveraged lender, declined to finance either takeover.
If you look back at transactions gone bad, more often than not the problem was paying too much.
— Charles Sanford, Bankers Trust chief executive, quoted in Fortune, 1990
The deal closed on July 29, 1988. The advisers and lenders took home more than $350 million in fees.
Eighteen Months
Almost nothing that followed went according to plan. Within days of securing the money, Campeau told Morosky he would not become chief executive of the combined retail group after all, whatever his contract said. Morosky quit. Campeau's first choice as a replacement, the former Federated vice chairman Allen Questrom, turned the job down because he thought the companies were too leveraged. John Burden III, another former Federated executive, accepted on condition that he would serve only eighteen months.
The asset sales went quickly. Within nine months Campeau sold nine of Federated's fifteen operating divisions for about $4 billion, including Filene's and Foley's to May Department Stores for $1.5 billion and Bullock's and I. Magnin to Macy's. Ann Taylor was sold as well, again despite earlier promises. Kaplan would later calculate that those sales fetched close to 90 percent of what the market had valued all of Federated at before the bid — a sign that the assets were worth more than Wall Street had thought.
The debt market was less forgiving. In the fall of 1988, First Boston tried to sell $1.15 billion of Federated junk bonds at an average rate of about 14 percent. Buyers balked. The offering was cut to $723 million, with coupons raised to 16 and 17.75 percent, leaving the three bridge lenders stuck with roughly $400 million of their loan. Campeau, enraged, began a long hunt for $2 billion or more of mortgage financing to refinance the junk debt entirely. Months later, he was still saying the money was nearly in hand.
The stores themselves deteriorated. Federated had projected about $740 million of earnings before interest, taxes, depreciation and amortization for 1989. It produced $372 million, against $516 million of interest and $111 million of capital spending. Sales were not the main problem; markdowns were. Federated's inventory rose 26 percent between July 1988 and July 1989, and the stores had to push goods out at prices that left little margin. A former executive told Fortune that nobody seemed to be paying attention to execution.
In the spring of 1989 Allied asked the Reichmanns for an emergency $75 million loan. They sent it, and then sent consultants from McKinsey, who reported what the family already suspected: the retailers would not generate enough free cash to service their debt. In September 1989 the Reichmanns agreed to put $250 million into the stores for working capital, and Campeau agreed to put Bloomingdale's up for sale. When the depth of the problem became public that month, Campeau's bonds collapsed and took much of the junk bond market with them. Fortune would argue that the Campeau crisis helped trigger the slide that pushed Drexel Burnham Lambert into bankruptcy in February 1990.
Vendors stopped shipping. Desperate for cash, the stores slashed prices for the 1989 holiday season and dragged competitors, including a highly leveraged Macy's, into a price war. No one wanted to pay a full price for Bloomingdale's. In early January 1990, Campeau Corporation's board, by then heavily influenced by the Reichmanns, stripped Campeau of authority over the retail operations. On January 15, Federated and Allied filed for Chapter 11 in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court in Cincinnati. Some of the last cheques sent to suppliers before the filing bounced.
Federated's own chairman, John Burden, blamed the debt, calling the companies victims of a business climate in which staggering sums could be borrowed for takeovers. The New York Times editorial page was less charitable. It observed that any executive can file for bankruptcy when a business collapses, but that it had taken Campeau's particular talents to bankrupt more than 250 profitable department stores.
What Survived and What Didn't
On August 10, 1990, Campeau Corporation's board removed its founder as chairman and chief executive. In February 1991, the Bank of Montreal asked a court to force him into personal bankruptcy over about $25 million it had lent him to buy shares in his own company. Campeau Corporation sold its Canadian properties to pay creditors and eventually ceased to exist in its old form. Olympia & York, the Reichmanns' company, filed for bankruptcy protection itself in 1992, brought down by the Canary Wharf development in London and the collapse of property values.
The stores did better than their owner. Federated and Allied emerged from Chapter 11 in February 1992 as a single public company, Federated Department Stores, with no ties to Campeau. Creditors owed about $8.2 billion recovered an average of about 72 cents on the dollar. In 1994 the new Federated acquired Macy's, which had gone bankrupt under the weight of its own leveraged buyout. The combined company later renamed itself Macy's, Inc.
Kaplan's study produced the most counterintuitive verdict. Measured from the end of 1987 to the emergence from bankruptcy, and adjusting for the stock market, the value of Federated's assets had risen by about $1.6 billion in 1987 dollars. The divisions Campeau sold fetched strong prices, and the company emerged better managed than before. In Kaplan's terms, Federated had been financially distressed rather than economically distressed. The takeover had created value and still could not pay its debts. The people who had lent Campeau the money and the vendors who shipped to him on credit absorbed the loss; Federated's original shareholders, who sold at $73.50, did very well.
Campeau himself left for Europe. His assets had largely been placed in his wife's name. He lived for a time in Austria and attempted a comeback with a residential development at Teltow, near Berlin, which failed amid conflicts with its lenders. He and Ilse separated, and a bitter divorce and a series of lawsuits followed for years. He returned to Ottawa, where his lawyer said he suffered another breakdown and spent months in treatment. In 2003 he floated a gated community west of Kanata. It did not restore him. He married a third time, to Christel Dettmann, and spent his last years in a rented townhouse — a small version of the thousands he had once built. He died at home in Ottawa on June 12, 2017, at ninety-three.
His Ottawa obituary listed Place de Ville, Les Terrasses de la Chaudière, the Harbour Castle and Scotia Plaza, and the more than 25,000 homes. American obituaries led with Bloomingdale's. Both records are accurate, and the tension between them is the lesson: the first was built one house at a time over four decades, and the second was assembled with other people's money in less than two years.