The Moneychangers

by Arthur Hailey

  At the breakfast table Edwina continued to read the Monitor. There was a report of a House of Representatives bill proposing tax law changes which would reduce depreciation allowances on real property. It could affect mortgage lending at the bank and she asked Lewis his opinion about the likelihood of the bill becoming law.

  He answered crisply, “Nil. Even if it gets through the House, it will never pass the Senate. I phoned a couple of senators yesterday. They don’t take it seriously.”

  Lewis had an extraordinary range of friends and contacts—one of several reasons for his success. He kept abreast, too, of anything affecting taxes, advising his newsletter readers on situations they could exploit to their advantage.

  Lewis himself paid only a token amount of income tax each year—never more than a few hundred dollars, he boasted proudly, yet his real income was in seven figures. He achieved this by utilizing tax shelters of all kinds—oil investments, real estate, timber exploitation, farming, limited partnerships, and tax-free bonds. Such devices enabled him to spend freely, live splendidly, yet—on paper—sustain a personal loss each year.

  Yet all these tax devices were totally legal. “Only a fool conceals income, or cheats on taxes in some other way,” Edwina had heard Lewis declare often. “Why take that risk when there are more legitimate escape hatches from taxes than holes in a Swiss cheese? All that’s needed is the work to understand, and enterprise to use them.”

  So far, Lewis had not taken his own advice to live overseas and shed his U.S. citizenship. However, he detested New York where he had once lived and worked and now called it “a decaying, complacent, bankrupt bandit lair existing on solipsism and with bad breath.” It was also an illusion, he maintained, “fostered by arrogant New Yorkers, that the best brains are to be found in that city. They aren’t.” He preferred the Midwest where he had moved, and met Edwina a decade and a half ago.

  Despite her husband’s example in avoiding taxes, Edwina went her own way on that subject, filing her individual return and paying far more than Lewis, even on her more modest income. But it was Lewis who took care of their bills—for this penthouse and staff, their twin Mercedes cars, and other luxuries.

  Edwina admitted honestly to herself that the high style of living, which she enjoyed, had been a factor in her decision to marry Lewis and her adaptation to their marriage. And the arrangement, as well as their independence and dual careers, worked well.

  “I wish,” she said, “your insight extended to knowing where all that cash of ours went on Wednesday.”

  Lewis looked up from his breakfast which he had attacked fiercely, as if the eggs were enemies. “The bank’s cash is still missing? Once more the gallant, fumble-fisted FBI has discovered nothing?”

  “I suppose you could put it that way.” She told him of the impasse they had reached, and of her own decision that the teller would have to be let go today.

  “And after that, no one else will employ her, I suppose.”

  “Certainly no other bank.”

  “She has a child, I think you said.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Lewis said gloomily, “Two more recruits for the already swollen welfare rolls.”

  “Oh, really! Save all that Birchism for your Texas readers.”

  Her husband’s face cracked into one of his rare smiles. “Forgive me. But I’m not used to your needing advice. It’s not often that you do.”

  It was a compliment, Edwina realized. One of the things she appreciated about their marriage was that Lewis treated her, and always had, as an intellectual equal. And although he had never said so directly, she knew he was proud of her senior management status at FMA—unusual even nowadays for a woman in the male chauvinist world of banking.

  “Naturally I can’t tell you where the missing money is,” Lewis said; he appeared to have been thinking. “But I’ll give you a piece of advice I’ve found useful sometimes in conundrum situations.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “It’s this: Mistrust the obvious.”

  Edwina felt disappointed. Illogically, she supposed, she had expected some kind of miracle solution. Instead, Lewis had delivered a hoary old bromide.

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. “Thank you,” she said. “I must go.”

  “Oh, by the way, I’m leaving for Europe tonight,” he informed her. “I’ll be back Wednesday.”

  “Have a good trip.” Edwina kissed him as she left. The sudden announcement did not surprise her. Lewis had offices in Zurich and London, and his comings and goings were casual.

  She went down in the private elevator which connected their penthouse with an indoor parking garage.

  As she drove to the bank, and despite her dismissal of Lewis’s advice, the words mistrust the obvious stayed annoyingly, persistently in her mind.

  A discussion at midmorning with the two FBI agents was brief and inconclusive.

  The meeting took place in the conference room at the rear of the bank where, over the preceding two days, the FBI men had interviewed members of the staff. Edwina was present. So was Nolan Wainwright.

  The senior of the two agents, whose name was Innes and who spoke with a New England twang, told Edwina and the bank’s security chief, “We’ve gone as far as we can with our investigation here. The case will stay open and we’ll be in touch if new facts come to light. Of course, if anything more develops here you’ll inform the Bureau at once.”

  “Of course,” Edwina said.

  “Oh, there is an item of negative news.” The FBI man consulted a notebook. “The Núñez girl’s husband—Carlos. One of your people thought they saw him in the bank the day the money was missing.”

  Wainwright said, “Miles Eastin. He reported it to me. I passed the information on.”

  “Yes, we questioned Eastin about that; he admitted he could have been mistaken. Well, we’ve traced Carlos Núñez. He’s in Phoenix, Arizona; has a job there as a motor mechanic. Our Bureau agents in Phoenix have interviewed him. They’re satisfied he was at work on Wednesday, in fact every day this week, which rules him out as an accomplice.”

  Nolan Wainwright escorted the FBI agents out. Edwina returned to her desk on the platform. She had reported the cash loss—as she was required to do—to her immediate superior in Headquarters Administration and word, it seemed, had filtered upward to Alex Vandervoort. Late yesterday, Alex had telephoned, sympathetic, and asking if there was anything he could do to help. She had thanked him, but said no, realizing that she was responsible and must do whatever had to be done herself.

  This morning, nothing had changed.

  Shortly before noon Edwina instructed Tottenhoe to advise the payroll department that Juanita Núñez’s employment would be terminated at the end of the day, and to have her severance paycheck sent down to the branch. The check, delivered by messenger, was on Edwina’s desk when she returned from lunch.

  Uneasy, hesitating, Edwina turned the check over in her hand.

  At this moment Juanita Núñez was still working. Edwina’s decision about that yesterday had brought grouchy objections from Tottenhoe who protested, “The sooner we’re rid of her, the surer we’ll be of no repetition.” Even Miles Eastin, back at his regular operations assistant’s desk, had raised his eyebrows, but Edwina overruled them both.

  She wondered why on earth she was worrying so much, when obviously the time had come to end the incident and put it out of mind.

  Obviously out of mind. The obvious solution. Again Lewis’s phrase occurred to her—mistrust the obvious.

  But how? In what way?

  Edwina told herself: Think just once more. Go back to the beginning.

  What were the obvious facets of the incident as they occurred? The first obvious thing was that money was missing. No room for dispute there. The second obvious thing was that the amount was six thousand dollars. That had been agreed by four people: Juanita Núñez herself, Tottenhoe, Miles Eastin, and, eventually, the vault teller. No argumen
t.

  The third obvious feature concerned the Núñez girl’s assertion that she knew the exact amount of money missing from her cash drawer at 1:50 P.M., after almost five hours of busy transactions at the counter, and before she had balanced out her cash. All others in the branch who knew about the loss, including Edwina, agreed that was obviously impossible; from the start, the knowledge had been a cornerstone of their joint belief that Juanita Núñez was a thief.

  Knowledge … obvious knowledge … obviously impossible.

  And yet was it impossible? … An idea occurred to Edwina.

  A wall clock showed 2:10 P.M. She noted that the operations officer was at his desk nearby. Edwina got up. “Mr. Tottenhoe, will you come with me, please?”

  With Tottenhoe glumly trailing, she crossed the floor, briefly greeting several customers en route. The branch was crowded and busy, as usual in the closing hours of business before a weekend. Juanita Núñez was accepting a deposit.

  Edwina said quietly, “Mrs. Núñez, when you’ve dealt with this customer, please put up your ‘position closed’ sign and lock your cash box.”

  Juanita Núñez made no response, nor did she speak when she had completed the transaction, or while transferring a small metal plaque to the counter as instructed. When she turned to close the cash box, Edwina saw why. The girl was crying silently, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  The reason was not hard to guess. She had expected to be fired today and Edwina’s sudden appearance confirmed that belief.

  Edwina ignored the tears. “Mr. Tottenhoe,” she said, “I believe Mrs. Núñez has been working on cash since we opened this morning. Is that correct?”

  He acknowledged, “Yes.”

  The time period was roughly the same as on Wednesday, Edwina thought, though the branch had been busier today.

  She pointed to the cash box. “Mrs. Núñez, you’ve been insisting that you always know the amount of cash you have. Do you know how much is in there now?”

  The young woman hesitated. Then she nodded, still unable to speak through tears.

  Edwina took a slip of paper from the counter and held it out. “Write down the amount.”

  Again, visible hesitation. Then Juanita Núñez took a pencil and scribbled $23,765z.

  Edwina passed the slip to Tottenhoe. “Please go with Mrs. Núñez and stay with her while she balances out today’s cash. Check the result. Compare it with this figure.”

  Tottenhoe looked at the paper skeptically. “I’m busy, and if I stayed with every teller …”

  “Stay with this one,” Edwina said. Recrossing the bank floor, she returned to her desk.

  Three quarters of an hour later Tottenhoe reappeared.

  He looked nervous. Edwina saw his hand was shaking. He had the slip of paper and put it on her desk. The figure which Juanita Núñez had written had a single penciled tick beside it.

  “If I hadn’t seen it myself,” the operations officer said, “I might not have believed.” For once his gloom was gone, surprise replacing it.

  “The figure was right?”

  “Exactly right.”

  Edwina sat tensely, marshaling her thoughts. Abruptly and dramatically, she knew, almost everything concerning the investigation had changed. Until this moment, all assumptions had been based upon the Núñez girl’s inability to do what she had now demonstrated conclusively that she could.

  “I remembered something while I was walking over just now,” Tottenhoe said. “I did know somebody once; it was in a little country branch upstate—must be twenty years or more ago—who had that knack of keeping track of cash. And I remember, then, hearing there are other people like that. It’s as if they had a calculating machine right inside their heads.”

  Edwina snapped, “I wish your memory had been working better on Wednesday.”

  As Tottenhoe returned to his own desk, she drew a notepad toward her and scribbled summations of her thoughts.

  Núñez not yet cleared, but more believable. Possibly innocent victim?

  If not Núñez, who?

  Someone who knows procedures, could somehow watch for opportunity.

  Staff? Inside job?

  But how?

  “How” later. Find motive first, then person.

  Motive? Someone who needs money badly?

  She repeated in capitals, NEEDS MONEY. And added: Examine personal checking/savings accounts, all branch personnel—TONIGHT!

  Edwina began leafing quickly through an FMA Headquarters phone book, looking for “Chief of Audit Service.”

  13

  On Friday afternoons all branches of First Mercantile American Bank stayed open an extra three hours.

  Thus, at the main downtown branch this Friday, the outer street doors were closed and locked by a security guard at 6 P.M. A few customers, still in the bank at closing time, were let out by the same guard, one by one, through a single plate-glass door.

  At 6:05 precisely, a series of sharp, peremptory taps sounded on the outside of the glass door. When the guard turned his head in response, he observed a young male figure dressed in a dark topcoat and business suit, carrying a briefcase. To attract attention inside, the figure had tapped with a fifty-cent piece wrapped in a handkerchief.

  As the guard approached, the man with the briefcase held an identity document flat against the glass. The guard inspected it, unlocked the door, and the young man stepped inside.

  Then, before the guard could close the door, a proliferation occurred, as unexpected and remarkable as a magician’s trick. Where there had been one individual with briefcase and proffered credentials, suddenly there were six, behind them six more, with still another phalanx at the rear. Swiftly, like an inundation, they streamed into the bank.

  A man, older than most of the others and emanating authority, announced curtly, “Headquarters Audit Staff.”

  “Yessir,” the security guard said; he was a veteran at the bank who had been through this before, and he continued checking the other credentials holders in. There were twenty, mostly men, four women. All went immediately to various locations in the bank.

  The older man who had made the announcement headed for the platform and Edwina’s desk. As she rose to greet him, she regarded the continuing influx into the bank with unconcealed surprise.

  “Mr. Burnside, is this a full-dress audit?”

  “It certainly is, Mrs. D’Orsey.” The audit department head removed his overcoat and hung it near the platform.

  Elsewhere in the bank other staff members wore disconcerted expressions, while some groaned and voiced aggrieved comments. “Oh, jeez! A Friday, of all times to pick!” … “Dammit, I had a dinner date!” … “Who says auditors are human?”

  Most were aware of what the visit by a headquarters audit group entailed. Tellers knew there would be an extra counting of their cash before they left tonight, and vault reserve cash would be checked out too. Accountants would be required to stay until their records were listed and balanced. Senior management staff would be lucky to be away by midnight.

  The newcomers had already, quickly and politely, taken over all ledgers. From this moment any additions or changes would be under scrutiny.

  Edwina said, “When I asked for an examination of staff accounts I didn’t expect this.” Normally a branch bank audit took place every eighteen months to two years and tonight’s was doubly unexpected since a full audit of the main downtown branch had occurred only eight months earlier.

  “We decide the how, where, and when of audit, Mrs. D’Orsey.” As always, Hal Burnside maintained a cool aloofness, the hallmark of a bank examiner. Within any major bank an audit department was an independent, watchdog unit with authority and prerogatives like the Inspectorate General of an army. Its members were never intimidated by rank, and even senior managers were candidates for reproof about irregularities which a thoroughgoing inspection of a branch revealed—and there were invariably some.

  “I know about that,” Edwina acknowledged. “I’m just surpris
ed you could arrange all this so quickly.”

  The audit chief smiled, a trifle smugly. “We have our methods and resources.”

  What he did not reveal was that a surprise audit of another FMA branch had been planned for this evening. Following Edwina’s phone call three hours ago, the earlier plan was canceled, arrangements hastily revised, and additional staff called in for the present expedition.

  Such cloak-and-dagger tactics were not unusual. An essential part of the audit function was to descend, irregularly and without warning, on any of the bank’s branches. Elaborate precautions were taken to preserve secrecy and any audit staff member who violated it was in serious trouble. Few did, even inadvertently.

  For today’s maneuver, the score of auditors involved had assembled an hour ago in a salon of a downtown hotel, though even that destination had not been revealed until the latest possible moment. There they were briefed, duties allocated, then inconspicuously, in twos and threes, they had walked toward the main downtown branch of FMA. Until the last few crucial minutes they loitered in lobbies of nearby buildings, strolled casually, or browsed store windows. Then, traditionally, the most junior member of the group had rapped on the bank door to demand admission. As soon as it was gained, the others, like an assembling regiment, fell in behind him.

  Now, within the bank, audit team members were at every key position.

  A convicted bank embezzler of the 1970s, who successfully concealed his massive defalcations for some twenty years, observed while eventually en route to prison, “The auditors used to come in and do nothing but shoot the breeze for forty minutes. Give me half of that time and I can cover up anything.”

  The audit department of First Mercantile American, and other large North American banks, took no such chance. Not even five minutes passed after the surprise of the auditors’ arrival until they were all in preassigned positions, observing everything.

  Resigned, regular staff members of the branch went on to complete their day’s work, then to assist the auditors as needed.

  Once started, the process would continue through the following week and part of the next. But the most critical portion of the examination would take place within the next few hours.