"Is it too much?"
"Forty thousand marks. That's more than two hundred thousand schillings." He shook his head. "No, it's not too much. But my friend may have to give you the money in two payments."
"AU right," I said. "So I'll prepare two packages." I rose and held out my hand. He grasped it and smiled, his lips harrowed. I got the feeling that he was trying to control great excitement.
"Mr. Chandler," he said softly, "do you really have that much money?"
"If I didn't have it, I wouldn't have come to you.'*
Actually, on that Monday all I had in my checking account was ten thousand marks. But on Saturday, at twelve noon, I had two hundred thousand.
The whole plan was complicated, and since I must take for granted that the German police are still working on the cas^e, I shall try to make as comprehensive a report as possible of the events that put me into possession of such a large sum.
I was given the idea for this fraudulent action by some-thini^ I had experienced with Joe Clayton during my first week in Germany. It was an insignificant event and I only thought of it much later. It happened on the day I signed
my contract, which took place in the company office in the Theatinerstrasse. The first installment was due on signing, and Joe excused himself because he didn't have the amount in the office. We'd have to go over to the bank where he'd cash a few checks. I could come right along with him if I liked.
The bank was nearby and we went there together. On the way Joe explained a peculiarity of his company. "Here in Munich, we're really just a branch. The main office is in Frankfurt. And that's where the money is, in the Rhine-Bank. Once a week the cashier comes to Munich by air and brings cash or checks. This time he brought checks."
"Aha," I said.
I wasn't really listening. I wasn't at all interested in how I got my money, only when. We walked into the big, modem building together and Joe went straight up to a jolly looking young teller whom he seemed to know. The two men greeted each other heartily.
''Tag, Herr Kleinschmid'' said Joe in his ridiculous German. "Are the trout biting?"
It turned out that KJeinschmid, like Joe, was a passionate fisherman. They had become friends over the hobby. After a brief conversation on the fine points of trout fishing, Qayton handed over his checks. In spite of his youth, Kleinschmid evidently had a fairly important position. He was a sympathetic fellow. When he smiled, he revealed two rows of perfectly white teeth.
He was smiling now. "I'm terribly sony, Mr. Clayton," he said, "but I can't cash these checks."
Joe's face reddened. "You can't cash them?" he cried in English. "What's wrong v^th them?"
Kleinschmid replied in Enghsh. "They're bank checks, Mr. Qayton, and therefore non-negotiable. Didn't you notice?"
Clayton looked at the checks. "Damn it!" he said. "So they are. No, I didn't notice."
I was interested and stepped closer. After all, my first
installment was at stake. "What does that mean—^non-negotiable?" I asked.
Kleinschmid warmed up to the question. "A non-negotiable check," he explained, "is a check with which you can transfer money only from one bank account to another."
"So?"
"When you give us a non-neeotiable check, the only thing we can do is mail it to the Rhine-Bank in Frankfurt. All you get is a receipt. The Rhine-Bank verifies that the check is in order and sends it back to us with their okay. As soon as we get it back, you get your money. It's an ar-raneement that gives us a certain amount of protection and helps with the bookkeeping."
"I see," I said.
"Mr. Chandler, Mr. Kleinschmid." Joe introduced us a little belatedly. "Mr. Chandler is our writer."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chandler," said Kleinschmid.
Joe was annoyed. "So what happens now? We need the money."
"Why don't you phon^ Frankfurt," said Kleinschmid, "and ask them to wire you the amount you need right now? It would be here in two hours."
"All right. And what do we do with the checks?"
"You leave them here."
"And how long wiU it take to cash them?"
"Two or three days," said Kleinschmid. "We send them off today; tomorrow they're in Frankfurt, and the day after tomorrow we get them back."
"Not quicker?"
"Hardly, Mr. Clayton."
"You can't make an exception, huh?"
"Personally I'd be glad to, but we have our orders. And besides, Mr. Clayton, it's a lot of money. A hundred and fifty thousand marks."
"Yes, yes," said Joe. He understood, still it annoyed him.
"Just a minute," I said. "There is a way of hastening the procedure, I think."
"How?"
"By mailing the checks to Frankfurt express, at our expense, and asking the Rhine-Bank to let you know by wire whether they're in order or not. Naturally also at our expense."
"Yes," said Kleinschmid. "That would be possible."
"How long would that take?"
"It's two o'clock," Kleinschmid said thoughtfully. "The afternoon train leaves at five and is in Frankfurt at five a.m. The letter would go out with the first mail and reach the bank at eight... we could have the answer by nine or ten, if they wired right away."
"You see," I cried triumphantly. "That way we save two days."
"Would you like to try it?" asked Kleinschmid amiably.
I was a little annoyed with Joe when he grumbled, "No thanks. Another time perhaps. Fd rather ask them to wire the money. Let the checks go through the normal channels."
As I have just said, I was a little annoyed. I thou8:ht Fd had such a neat idea, but Joe preferred the conventional procedure. He phoned. With success. Three hours later the money was there and I had my first installment.
32
During the following weeks I accompanied Joe to the bank several times and made friends with Peter Kleinschmid. He was a helpful fellow. At his suggestion I opened an account at the bank. The company nearly always paid
US by check and in due course I became familiar with tbe names of the two officers in Frankfurt who signed our checks. "Liddleton" and "Hill". Liddleton signed only his name; Hill preceded his with the initials "K.M."
I took my checks to Peter Kleinschmid every week, and chatted with him if there was time. I soon forgot the incident that had taken place at our first meeting. However, on the evening of September 28, when we left the theatre at the end of the performance, I stumbled, and as I stumbled, I recalled the whole thing. And something more. I lay awake all night mulling over this additional recollection. By daybreak, my plans were laid.
The day I went to see Mordstein and discussed all preliminaries with him was a Monday. On Tuesday I drove to the Theatinerstrasse, to Joe's office. I still had some money coming to me and therefore a le^timate reason for goinj^ to see him. He was as friendly as ever; in fact, everybody at the office was exceptionally friendly. They knew I had been fired and that I had been hospitalized and were ostentatiously sympathetic in a way I found irri-tatin,^.
"On Thursday we start shooting, Jimmy," said Joe as he ushered me into his office. "At last!"
"Congratulations."
"Thanks, Jimmy." He spoke fast, so as to give me no chance to say anything. "On location. Chiemsee and in the mountains. Everybody's going. We're planning to shut down the office for two weeks. And out there in Griinwald you can have yourselves a time—^you and Margaret."
"What do you mean?"
"The place is yours, Jimmy. I'll be going with them, naturally."
That was better than anything I could have hoped for. "Then could I have my money now?"
"But of course, Jimmy." He rang and his bookkeeper came in. Joe told him to make out a personal check for
me and bring it in to him to be signed. The bookkeeper withdrew. I rose to leave.
"You don't have to rush right off, Jimmy."
"I think I should, I know you're up to your ears. Til wait outside."
I could see he was touched by my tactfulness; as we shook hand
s, there were tears in his eyes. "Good old Jimmy! Have a great time in those two weeks. Make them count."
"But we'll be seeing each other this evening, won't we?"
"That's right," he said, looking confused. "Of course we will."
I nodded again and walked into the bookkeeper's office which was adjacent to Joe's. He was alone and was writing my check. The book out of which he had torn the check lay to one side, and a small safe with cash, papers and other checkbooks stood open.
"Just a minute, Mr. Chandler," he said, rising. He blew on the check so that it would dry faster.
"Is it all right if I wait here?"
"Please do," he said and walked into Joe's office.
In seconds I was standing in front of the open safe. One look, a motion, and I had what I wanted—an already started Rhine-Bank checkbook on the account of the Frankfurt firm. I tore out three checks, stuck them in my pocket and sat down again. The bookkeeper came back and gave me my check which Joe had signed. I had taken my first step.
Looking back now I see that it was really the riskiest one. Ever5rthing that followed, although exciting enough in itself, was reaUy much simpler and happened as a consequence of this first step.
During the next three days I lay in my lounge chair in the garden and rested. Margaret made several efforts to turn the conversation to myself, my illness, the future and the problems it posed for her, but I cut her short every
time and she didn't seem to have the courage to pursue the topics against my will.
"I can't tell you anything yet," I said. "You'll have to give me time. It's not easy for me."
"I know, Roy," she whispered. "Isn't there any way I can help you?"
"Just leave me alone for a while," I begged.
I used this time alone for a precise and sober review of my chances and what had to be tackled next. And I had plenty to think through. On Wednesday I started practicing the signatures of the gentlemen Liddleton and Hill (K.M.) I had found some old business correspondence with their signatures. I didn't know either of them. Just for the fun of it I tried to imagine what they looked like. I decided that Liddleton was short, fat and mean with an inclination to apoplexy. HiU I liked to see as an ascetic-— pale, monkish, haunting dark streets at night, driven by evil impulses. By afternoon I had reached a point where I was ready to write their names on the checks. The results weren't too precise but that didn't matter because the checks were never meant to reach the Rhine-Bank.
I wrote two checks—one for one hundred and four thousand, six hundred and fifty German marks, the other for eighty-four thousand, five hundred. I didn't choose round numbers on purpose. I used the typewriter for everything except the signatures. It would be a simple matter to identify the typewriter as mine; it would not be so simple to find me. J burned the third check and the paper on which I had practiced the signatures. Then I went out into the garden again, stretched out on my lounge chair and went on thinking.
On" Thursday afternoon I drove to the bank. I wasn't there long. All I did was take one of the bank envelopes that were available at every desk. The envelope bore the address of the bank. I stuck it in my pocket, went home, and on my typewriter wrote the address of the Rhine-Bank on the envelope, also the words "Registered," and "Express." Finally I stuck two empty sheets of typewrit-
ing paper into the envelope and sealed it. This envelope was to play an important part in my scheme.
On Friday morning I had a quarrel with Margaret. I told her I was going to drive to Chiemsee and stay the night because I wanted to watch the outdoor shooting. She loved the idea and started readying herself for the trip, and I saw myself forced to clear up the misunderstanding. "I would like to go alone, Margaret"
"You don't want to take me with you?"
"I'd prefer not to."
She stared at me for a moment, then she said, "I see," and turned away.
"I see what?"
"Nothing."
She was looking out into the garden. Her shoulders were shaking. She was crying again. She cried frequently these days.
"Why are you crying?"
"rm not crying," she sobbed.
"Because I want to be alone for one day?"
She wheeled around. Her cheeks were wet, but in her eyes a crazy fire was burning. It didn't look to me like compassion or understanding.
"It has nothing to do with one day! I know you're not going to Chiemsee. And I don't care. But we've got to talk this thing over, all of it. And we've got to talk about it nowr
"Why?"
"Because we can't go on like this. Don't you realize that I can't take it any longer? For God's sake tell me the truth. You've been lying out there in the garden for a week, thinking. Thinking about what? Why won't you tell me?"
"Not yet," I said. But there was a crazy desire within me, trembling to tell her. Soon, I thought, with a feeUng of exultation, soon you'll find out. Soon everything will come clear, blindingly clear!
The short quarrel got her nowhere. I drove off alone;
she stayed in Griinwald. I said I would be back sometime on Saturday. She accepted it in the resigned conviction that I was going to see Yolanda and that there was nothing she could do about it. I could see her in the rear view mirror of my car as I drove off. She stood there motionless, her face a mask of confusion and frustration.
Her idee fixe that I was going to see Yolanda gave me an idea. When I got to the city, I went to a post oflSce and put through a call to Chiemsee. I asked to speak to Joe Qayton. I was lucky. He was available. "Joe," I said with that special joviaUty men adopt when they have something like this on their minds, "You've got to do me a favor."
"Yes, Jimmy?"
"I've told Margaret Tm coming up to spend a day with you, on location, and that I'll be spending the night in Chiemsee."
"Great Jimmy! That's a wonderful idea." It sounded sincere. He was really pleased. ' "Only I'm not coming," I said.
"No?"
"No. I'm spending the night somewhere else."
An embarrassed silence followed. Joe was fond of Margaret. He preferred me, but he didn't hke what I was getting him involved in. "You understand, Joe?"
"Yes, Jimmy, I understand."
"And if she calls ..."
"Yes, Jimmy. It's all right. Then IT! say you're here but you're sleeping or have gone off fishing, something like that."
"Thanks, Joe."
"It's all right." A pause. Then, "Jhnmy?"
"Yes?"
"Must you?"
"Yes, Joe."
"Margaret's a good wife."
"That she is."
"And just the same..." i
"Yes/' I said, "just the same. I have something important I've got to attend to." And with that I was speaking the truth.
I spent the whole day in the city. I had put a small suitcase with some underwear and my shaving kit in the car. After lunch I drove to a jeweler in the Maximilian-strasse and had him show me some jewelry. It took the man a while to realize it was my intention to convert what money I had into jewelry. For that moment on I was treated with excessive courtesy. I spent about an hour in the shop. In the end I chose three pieces—an antique ruby ring with diamonds, shaped like a snake and set in platinum; a modem emerald ring and a gold snuff box with two interwoven s^phire motifs on the lid. The rings were of a type a man could wear. Together the three pieces cost thirty-iSive thousand marks. I said I had some formalities to attend to at the bank and that I would be back on Saturday before noon. I left a thousand marks as down payment and gave my real name: James Elroy Chandler. The jeweler seemed to have had plenty of experience with Americans. He didn't show the sHghtest astonishment, neither over the large sum of money involved nor over the nonchalance with which I made the pxir-chase.
At three p.m. I drove to Pan American Airways and paid for the round trip ticket to Frankfurt which I had ordered previously by phone. This, too, under the name of James Elroy Chandler. It meant a lot to me to use my own name as often as possible during these l
ast hours. My plane left at six; the bus to the airport at five; at 8 p.m. the plane would be in Frankfurt. I left my suitcase at the Pan Am office. Then I called Mordstein and asked him if I could count on the papers. "Yes," he said. "And can I count on the money?"
"Certainly," I replied and hung up. In the next moment I felt dizzy and had to hang onto the side of the booth. Suddenly I could see clearly what I had let myself in for. I felt hot and cold, but I gritted my
teeth and the dizzy spell passed. I dried my forehead with my handkerchief and left the booth. The time was 3:30 p.m.
33
I drove to the bank and parked opposite the entrance. The afternoon traflSc was heavy; quite a few people were on the street. I waited until five minutes to four. I knew that the bank closed at four. At 3:55 I left my car and walked into the bank.
The lobby was almost empty; most of the windows were already closed. I looked all around me. To my reUef I saw Kleinschmid. He came up to his window, smiling, and greeted me in a friendly fashion. It was just two minutes to four.
"Listen, Peter," I said. "YouVe got to help me. I'm in a real bind. My company's on location in Chiemsee and they've sent me here with these two bank checks." I laid them down in front of him and watched him sharply as he picked them up and looked at them.
One minute to four.
I felt as if I were in a movie and watching myself on the screen. I wasn't the least excited, all I felt was a scientific interest—^would my deception succeed or not?
"It's a lot of money, Mr. Chandler," said Klemschmid, putting the checks down again.
"It's a production instaUment," I said. "The actors and technicians are sitting out there in Chiemsee, waiting for their money. Things will come to a standstill if we haven't cashed the checks by Monday."
Four o'clock.
*The bank is closed. Will everybody please leave," said the doorman.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Chandler, but T really have no idea how I could possibly help you." Kleinschmid shrugged helplessly. Behmd him his colleagues were locking their desks, secretaries hurried back and forth, there was an atmosphere of closing time. At some distance I saw a pimply boy going from desk to desk, picking up the mail.
"Couldn't you send the checks to Frankfurt express," I begged, "and ask them to wire the reply. Don't you remember—I had the idea when we met the first time."
I Confess Page 14
