The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘First,’ he said, ‘Mr George Gradley. Account number 7089030. George, can you confirm that your account details are correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ rasped George. ‘That’s correct.’ God knew why he was so nervous. He knew the answer.

  ‘The balance in your account last night was - was -’ Earle gripped the paper more tightly as the unexpected number jumped out at him from the page ‘- the balance in your account was exactly nothing. No pounds and no pence. Do you dispute that?’

  ‘No, that’s quite correct.’

  George’s face was white. Beside him, Val squeezed his hand. Zack and Matthew’s hearts leaped up. Both of them had secretly been worried that perhaps, after all, George could have pulled off a miracle at Gissings. But it seemed, he had failed. George didn’t have his million and there was no point putting less than that into the competition. Nine hundred and ninety nine thousand pounds was failure just as surely as nothing at all. Zack and Matthew breathed out through their mouths, looked sideways at each other and shifted in their seats. The competition amongst the three of them had narrowed to a competition between the two of them.

  But this was and always had been the real contest. The movement in the room subsided and Earle continued.

  ‘Therefore, George, you will not be entitled to claim your father’s estate. Do you dispute that?’

  ‘No. That’s quite correct.’

  ‘Very well. The next account on the list here is yours, Matthew. The account is in the name of Matthew Gradley. Number 4456723. Are those details correct?’

  Matthew nodded. He couldn’t speak, and yet he too surely knew the number which was about to be revealed.

  ‘The balance in your account last night - at midnight - was -’ Earle gripped the paper tightly once again. He forced his old eyes to make out the digits clearly, to make no mistake. For some reason, the silence of the grandfather clock, the emptiness of the room without its constant ticking, forced its way into his mind. He shut it out and made out the digits once again. ‘The balance in your account last night was exactly nothing. Zero pounds and zero pence. Is that correct?’

  The room spun before Matthew’s eyes. The golden sunlight on the floor, the deep pools of shade cast by the red velvet curtains whirled around his rushing brain.

  ‘No,’ he cried. ‘That’s absolutely not correct. There’s a million pounds there. More. I made more than a million.’

  ‘I’m afraid it was not in your account last night.’ The solicitor spoke with certainty. ‘Are you sure you’ve given me the correct account number? If you have two accounts, there could be a confusion.’

  ‘No. That’s the right account. I know the money’s there. I checked it yesterday at close of business. I swear to you-’

  He didn’t know what he was swearing. The money had been there. At four thirty, he’d called the bank and asked them to confirm the balance in his account.

  A clerk had sent him a faxed confirmation. He pulled the fax out and showed it to Earle. The solicitor took it and examined it, but his examination was polite and sympathetic rather than professional. The fax wasn’t authenticated or stamped. And besides, even if it carried the Royal Seal of the Queen of England, it wouldn’t have mattered. What mattered was not the funds present at four thirty in the afternoon. What mattered was the funds present at midnight. And Earle knew what those funds were: zero pounds and zero pence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, handing back the fax. ‘If you believe the bank has made a mistake, you can take the matter up with them. If there has been an error, despite the confirmations’ - Earle indicated the certificate - ‘then, of course, we will accept whatever the correct amount actually is. But, as I understand, mistakes of that sort are not common ...’

  He trailed off. He was right. Banks get your account balance wrong often enough. It’s a foolish person or a rich one who doesn’t check their bank statement each month. But this was different. The bank’s central computers had been consulted. The records had been checked by a senior clerk, signed, stamped and delivered. This wasn’t the bank’s ordinary shoddy treatment of its run-of-the-mill customers. This was serious.

  As Matthew’s stomach plummeted into the abyss, his head told him what the matter was.

  Belial. Belial had stolen the money, in revenge for Matthew’s treatment of him. How he had done it, Matthew had no idea, but the truth was that he had no real concept of what Belial could and couldn’t do. But he should have been suspicious. Belial had been a willing partner in Matthew’s insider trades. His half million pound fee for the phoney account documents was blackmail, neither more nor less. He had promoted the idea of robbing one of the world’s most heavily protected bank vaults. He would have sold the stolen bonds without a qualm. What on earth had made Matthew believe that he wouldn’t be up to stealing from a perfectly ordinary British high-street bank account? Christ, Belial even knew the bloody account number from the days when Matthew had had an account with him. Matthew hadn’t just made it possible, he’d made it easy.

  This was an awful ending to a story which should have been so happy. Matthew had paid Fiona the money she wanted. He truly believed that she would leave him if he didn’t and he wasn’t sure he could ever persuade her back. So he had paid up, knowing after his bitter experience with Sophie that his happiness depended more on Fiona than on his father’s cash. He had paid up, but not given up.

  After paying Fiona, Matthew had nine hundred and thirty grand in his account. He had one month to make up the remaining seventy grand. He knew he couldn’t make it through insider trading. To risk another encounter with Belial at this point would be madness, and he didn’t dare try it with a more honest broker. So he would have to make his money honestly, the only way he could: by trading. Trading not with illegal insider knowledge, just with three years’ worth of experience and judgement.

  He couldn’t afford to be cautious. He had to make around seven and a half percent on his money in only thirty-two days. That’s equivalent to a hundred and forty percent a year. He needed to place his bet, spin the wheel, and stand back as the gods decided.

  For three days and the best part of three nights, Matthew researched the markets. He looked at bonds, exchange rates, stockmarkets, everything. He worked night and day, barely resting. Eventually, he thought he’d found what he was looking for. He didn’t find it anywhere obscure. On the contrary, he decided to settle on the dollar-euro exchange rate, the most widely traded exchange rate in the world. Everybody had been saying for months that the dollar had to fall. The trouble is, everyone had been saying it for months and the dollar had kept on inching up.

  So why did Matthew stake everything on this one chance? He could have given you an answer to do with political pressures, G7 summits, economic realities, institutional requirements - but in the end that was nonsense. Matthew’s head absorbed the information, but his gut gave the orders and his gut said: the rate had to change.

  So Matthew made his bet. He called an honest London broker and explained that he wanted to bet on the dollar-euro exchange rate. He wanted to invest nine hundred and thirty thousand pounds exactly. He wanted to make his bet using short-dated currency options.

  The broker hesitated. Was Matthew sure he knew what he was doing? Options are to normal investing as Russian roulette is to normal behaviour. Options aren’t safe. They aren’t sensible. If you’re wrong you lose everything.

  But Matthew was sure. He convinced the broker that he knew what he was doing. He insisted on making the trade. The broker obliged. Matthew had nine hundred and thirty grand riding on the fate of the world’s largest currency market. Nothing that Matthew could do now could alter the course of events.

  He prayed.

  He prayed and he watched the market like a hawk. For twenty-seven long days, the dollar held steady. A couple of times it seemed ready to dive, but then some invisible force caught it and held it steady again. Matthew watched the market intently, but without panic. If he lost, he lost. There was nothing he could do.
So he just watched the market and prayed.

  Then, on the twenty-eighth day, just three days before the deadline, just as he was beginning to give up hope, it happened.

  The dollar inched down, not far, but it did move down. This time, instead of encountering that invisible resistance, it found nothing to hold it and it inched down some more. It was a small movement, but nothing had intervened to block it. The talk in the market overnight was that the European Central Bank would step in to halt the move, but it didn’t. The next morning the dollar moved down by inches, then by whole feet. Matthew’s bet came good.

  He quit. He could have stayed in for the two days that were left. He could have gambled on making a little more, hoping to outdo Zack, but he’d had enough. If he stayed in and the dollar went back up, he could lose everything. So he quit. He phoned his broker, sold out of his position, and collected his money: his original investment of nine hundred and thirty plus his profits of seventy-three.

  He took the money and plonked it in his bank account. One million and three thousand pounds. He had two days to spare.

  He’d done it. He’d met his father’s challenge, not just once but twice. Once illegally. The second time legally. And now Belial, the cursed, evil Belial had taken not just the million, but Bernard Gradley’s everything as well.

  ‘I - I don’t know,’ said Matthew hopelessly. ‘There was a million in there when I last looked. I’ll check with the bank, obviously. I’m sure it’ll be OK.’

  His words fooled no one. Matthew looked defeated, devastated. Suppose Belial had stolen the money, and suppose Matthew could prove it - so what? Matthew could no more put Belial in a dock than vice versa. They were roped together now, jail for one would mean jail for both. Matthew’s face was as white as ash. There was no more to say.

  That left Zack. Zack who sat darkly forward. His turn. A wolfish smile began to spread across his narrow face. Two down and one to go. And may the best man win.

  ‘Finally, Zack,’ said Earle. ‘Your brother wishes to check his account balance with the bank and, of course, he’s perfectly entitled to do that. Therefore any conclusion we reach here today will, of course, be provisional. We will need to wait for final validation of Matthew’s account. Do you understand that?’

  Zack nodded and licked his lips. He was a wolf and he could smell blood.

  ‘Very well then. Mr Zachary Gradley. Account number 7763421. Zack, can you confirm that these account details are correct?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Alone of the three brothers, Zack’s voice worked perfectly at this point.

  ‘The balance in your account at midnight last night,’ said Earle, turning back to the numbers on the sheet in front of him. This was it. This was the final answer. The round number leaped out at Earle from the page. It was unmistakable, but like a good solicitor he double­ checked his facts before speaking. ‘Zack, the balance in your account was also zero. Zero pounds, zero pence.’

  ‘No!’

  Zack’s cry split the room. He leaped from his seat and tore the paper from the older man. Zack took the page in at a glance. Zack, Matthew, George. All zero. No pounds. No pence. Three years and nothing to show for it. Zack snarled with disgust and hurled the paper from him.

  ‘This is bollocks. They’ve screwed up. Josephine, what the hell have you been doing? I thought it was your fucking job to sort out stuff like this. This bit of paper is complete cobblers. Matthew, how much did you have in your account?’

  ‘A million.’

  ‘A million exactly? How much?’

  ‘One million and three thousand. Plus some hundreds, I can’t remember how many.’

  ‘George, how much did you have?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? So this is correct?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely correct.’

  ‘Right. Well, unfortunately boys and girls, I have one million and ten thousand pounds. So I win. I’m sorry, Matthew, but it’s mine. We’ll call the bank on Monday. We’ll get them to give us the proper account balances and finalise it all then. But when we do, I’m afraid you’ll find that the money belongs to me, just as I told you it would.’

  Matthew’s emotions took another loop-the-loop ride. If the bank had screwed up Zack’s account balance as well, then it was all just a clerical error. Not Belial at all. Once the error was sorted out, the million would be sitting there, as fat and happy as ever. That was the good news. The bad news was that Zack had won. After three years and a million pounds apiece, Zack had won by just seven thousand pounds. Seven thousand quid, when Matthew had give Josie a cheque for ten. It was a joke, really.

  Matthew sat slumped in his chair. He didn’t know now whether to be relieved or disappointed. By rights, he should be upset. He’d come hoping to win and now found that he’d lost by the smallest of margins. Yet, astonishingly, he wasn’t unhappy. He had his million. He’d proved to Zack and to George that he had what it took. More to the point, he’d proved it to himself. He had Fiona. He had a job that he loved. He had as much money as he wanted for now; and if he ever wanted more, he’d earn it. He was a damn good trader and he could earn a lot in his lifetime. With Fiona’s earning power as well, they’d never be anything but exceptionally well-off. And the best part was this: no more Belial, no more secret phone calls, no more theft, no more anxiety sitting in his stomach with its whispers of capture, jail and disgrace. Matthew was happy as the summer sun.

  ‘Is it possible that there’s been a mistake?’

  Earle addressed the question to Josephine. She replied quietly.

  ‘Yes, I think there has been a mistake.’

  ‘Is it possible for you to get it sorted out on Monday?’

  The solicitor was gentle. He intensely disliked Zack’s violent outburst towards his sister and he tried to make up for it by being the pattern of old-fashioned courtesy himself.

  ‘I hope that we can sort it out right now,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent. Do you need to use the phone?’

  ‘No. There’s no need.’ Josephine opened the manila envelope which had sat by her side all this time. She withdrew two sheets of paper. ‘May I present you with my own statement of account? As you can see, I held over two million pounds in my account as at midnight last night. I also attach a certificate of authentication.’

  Earle examined the documents, completely bewildered now. They seemed to be all in order.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Josephine. I really don’t understand. I’m afraid that the will doesn’t - um - extend the same offer to you as to your three brothers.’

  Earle was flummoxed. As far as he knew, Josephine had spent the last three years taking care of her mother and working as a secretary in London. How she had come by two million pounds was beyond him. Not so Zack and Matthew, who were staring open-mouthed at their sister. She spoke again, so quietly that her listeners had to bend into the silence to hear her words.

  ‘I think you’ll find it does.’

  She was completely calm. Hadn’t she - a girl not out of her teens when all this began - coped for three long years with an ailing mother and too little money? What was before her today that was harder than that? She could be calm. She could have fun.

  ‘Josephine, I’m very positive that the will was drawn up to benefit your brothers only.’ Earle was insistent.

  ‘Then can you please tell me what words are used in article seven of the will.’

  Earle found his copy of the will on his desk and turned through the dense pages. Article seven was the bit which dealt with this very moment: measuring the accounts and releasing the estate from trust. Earle mouthed the legalese as he read. ‘If the Account Balance of any Child contains the Requisite Amount at midnight on the Third Anniversary of the First Disclosure of this Will .. .’

  The words ran on, but one stood out. Child . It said Child, not Son. Josephine was Gradley’s child.

  ‘Josephine, I see your point. The article says child. But, I don’t think ... I mean, it’s clearly against the in
tention of the will . . . I’m afraid it’s just a typo, an error ... your father’s intentions were absolutely clear.’

  Josephine rose and stepped forward into the pool of light on the floor. Her head was in the light now and she was illuminated from head to foot, as though picked out by a ray from heaven.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t care about my father’s intentions. I care about what the will says.’

  ‘The letter,’ gasped Earle. ‘The letter to you all. Bernard wrote a letter to you. In it, he said that you, Josephine, should have the money for secretarial college and all that. And it was for your brothers that he set up this awful challenge. I’m afraid in any dispute over interpretation, that letter will carry a lot of weight.’

  Josephine nodded.

  ‘And do you remember the critical paragraph of that letter?’ she asked.

  Earle looked around his desk for the letter. It would be there somewhere. But Josephine beat him to it.

  ‘The letter says: If more than one of you kids has come up with the million, then the one with the most gets everything. I like winners, not runners-up. You’re welcome to check, but that’s what it says. He used the word kids, not sons, not boys, not anything like that. And I am Bernard Gradley’s kid alright.’

  Earle was dumbfounded. Josephine had an argument, of course, but surely it didn’t stand up. He couldn’t yet see the flaw, but it was there, he was certain of it.

  ‘And one other thing,’ said Josephine. ‘I have a legal opinion you may be interested in.’ She tossed a document across the table to Earle. He picked it up and flicked through it. He didn’t take much of it in, except the ending. The last sentence began, ‘I would emphatically support Miss Josephine Gradley’s entitlement to compete for the estate on equal terms ...’ And at the bottom, the unmistakable signature belonged to one of London’s most respected barristers, well known for his expertise on matters to do with wills, and equally well known for his fondness for the courts.