Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  As ever,

  Lawrence

  Alex looked across the table at the lawyer and said, “Has anyone else seen this letter, Mr. Harbottle?”

  “I haven’t even read it myself, sir.”

  * * *

  Once Alex had left Mr. Harbottle’s office, he went straight back to his hotel, and told the receptionist that he would be checking out in the morning. But first he needed to make some phone calls before he even thought about visiting the bank. The first was to Anna, to tell her he wouldn’t be returning to New York for some time. He then briefed her on the details of Lawrence’s will, before asking, “Do you think you and Mr. Rosenthal could come up to Boston as soon as possible and value the Lowell Collection?”

  “I’ll see if he’s free, and then call you back. Are you camping in the Mayflower for the next few days?”

  “No, Mr. Harbottle has advised me to move into Beacon Hill as quickly as possible to make sure Evelyn doesn’t take up residence and claim the property as next of kin.”

  “How generous of Lawrence to leave you his fifty percent of Elena’s, especially as he didn’t know if you’d agree to become chairman.”

  “And he’s made my task of attempting to keep the bank afloat a little easier by also leaving me his fifty percent shareholding if I agreed to be chairman. That means no one can overrule me other than Evelyn, who owns the other fifty percent.”

  “Evelyn? Won’t that make your job even more difficult?”

  “Certainly if I’d been advising Lawrence’s father, I would have told him that the law courts are full of warring siblings who each own fifty percent of their father’s estate. But Harbottle’s convinced that as long as the shares are worthless, she’s unlikely to cause any trouble. I’m missing you,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “When do you think you’ll be able to join me?”

  “It’s you who was meant to be coming back to New York, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ll fly up on Friday morning so we can spend the weekend together. I’ll need to catalog the collection before Mr. Rosenthal joins us.”

  “You have a way of making a man feel wanted,” said Alex laughing.

  His second call was to a local real estate agent with instructions to value Lawrence’s properties in Boston, Southampton, and the south of France.

  The third call was to Paolo to warn him he’d be running the company for a little longer than he’d originally anticipated.

  * * *

  “Two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, and hash browns,” said Alex as the waitress poured him a steaming coffee. He was glad that his mother was a couple of hundred miles away in Brooklyn, and couldn’t see him.

  He took a sip of coffee before turning to the financial supplement of the Globe. On the front page was a photograph of Douglas Ackroyd, above a self-serving statement he’d released the previous day.

  I feel the time has come for me to retire as chief executive of the Lowell Bank and Trust Company, which I have served for the past twenty years. Following the tragic death of our distinguished chairman, Lawrence Lowell, I believe the bank should look to new leadership as we move toward the twenty-first century. I will happily remain on the board and serve the new chairman in any capacity he sees fit.

  I bet you will, thought Alex. But why did Ackroyd even want to remain on the board? Perhaps because he needed to make sure that it was Lawrence who would shoulder the blame when the bank went under, allowing him to come out of the debacle with his reputation untarnished. Alex was beginning to feel he knew the man, even though he’d never met him.

  As soon as he’d had time to study the books, Alex intended to issue his own press statement, so that no one would be in any doubt where the blame really lay. He folded his newspaper, and stared admiringly at the magnificent Georgian building that dominated the far side of State Street, wondering if the bank could still be sold as a going concern. After all, it had been trading for over a hundred years, with an impeccable reputation. But questions like that couldn’t be answered until he’d studied the books, and that might take days.

  Alex checked his watch as the waitress returned with his order: 8:24 a.m. He planned to enter the building for the first time at 8:55. He looked around the diner and wondered how many of the other customers worked at the bank, and were aware that their new chairman was sitting in one of the booths.

  Among the options he’d already considered was to invite one of the larger Boston banks to participate in a merger, with the explanation that as Lawrence didn’t have an heir, there was no natural successor. But if the bank’s financial plight made that impossible, he would be left with no choice other than to resort to plan B, a fire sale. In which case he’d be back in New York serving pizzas by the end of the month.

  At 8:30 he looked across the street to see a smartly dressed man in a long green topcoat and peaked cap emerge from the bank and take his place by the front door. Staff were beginning to trickle into the building: young women in sensible white blouses and dark skirts that fell below the knee, young men in gray suits, white shirts, and somber ties, followed a little later by older men in well-tailored, double-breasted suits and club ties, with an air of confidence and belonging. How long would that confidence last when they discovered the truth? Would he know the answer to that question by the time the bank closed this evening? And would those same doors even open for business tomorrow morning?

  At 8:50, Alex paid his bill, left the warmth of the diner, and walked slowly across the square. As he approached the front entrance, the doorman touched the peak of his cap and said, “Good morning, sir. I’m afraid the bank won’t be open for a few more minutes.”

  “I’m the new chairman,” said Alex, thrusting out his hand. The doorman hesitated before returning the compliment, and saying, “I’m Errol, sir.”

  “And how long have you been working for the bank, Errol?”

  “Six years, sir. Mr. Lawrence got me the job.”

  “Did he?” said Alex. He left the doorman with an anxious look on his face, stepped inside, and crossed the lobby to the front desk.

  “How can I help you, sir?” asked a smartly dressed young woman.

  “I’m the new chairman of the bank,” said Alex. “Could you tell me where my office is?”

  “Yes, Mr. Karpenko, you’re on the top floor. Would you like me to accompany you?”

  “No, please don’t bother. I’ll find my own way.”

  He walked across to the elevators and joined some staff who were chatting among themselves about everything from the Boston Red Sox’ third defeat in a row, to the appointment of their new chairman. Both losers in their opinion.

  “I’m told Karpenko’s never run anything except a pizza joint,” said one of them, “and has absolutely no experience of banking.”

  “Mark my words, Ackroyd will be back as chairman by the end of the week,” said another.

  “I’m going to open a book on how long he’ll last,” said a third.

  “You might be wise to wait and see how he actually performs before you set the odds,” suggested a lone voice. Alex smiled to himself, but didn’t comment.

  The elevator stopped several times to disgorge its passengers on different floors. By the time its doors finally opened on the twenty-fourth floor, Alex was alone. He stepped out into a deserted corridor and opened the first door he came across, to discover that it was a cupboard. The second was the restroom, and the third a secretary’s office, but with no sign of a secretary. At the far end of the corridor he found a door that had CHAIRMAN painted on it in faded gold letters. He walked in, and it took only one glance to know that the room had once been occupied by Lawrence. But not that often. The office was well furnished and comfortable, with a fine display of paintings, including portraits of Lawrence’s father and grandfather, but it didn’t feel lived in. Alex closed the door, walked across to the window, and looked out onto a magnificent view of the bay.

  He sank down into the comfortable red leather chair behind a teak desk, on which rested a b
lotting pad, a phone, and a silver-framed photograph of a young man he didn’t recognize, but thought he might have seen at the funeral. He picked up the phone, pressed a button marked FRONT DESK, and when a voice came on the line, said, “Please ask Errol to join me in the chairman’s office.”

  “The doorman, sir?”

  “Yes, the doorman.”

  While he waited for Errol to appear, Alex wrote down a list of questions on a sheet of paper. He hadn’t quite finished when there was a gentle tap on the door.

  “Come in,” he said. The door opened slowly to reveal Errol silhouetted in the doorway, but he made no attempt to enter. “Come in,” Alex repeated. “Take off your hat and coat and have a seat,” he added, pointing to the chair on the other side of his desk.

  Errol removed his hat, but not his coat, and sat down.

  “Now, Errol, you told me earlier that you’ve worked for the bank for twelve years. That means you’re in possession of something I need desperately.” Errol looked puzzled. “Information,” said Alex. “I’m going to ask some questions that may embarrass you, but will help me do my job, so I hope you’ll feel able to assist me.” Errol sank back in his chair, not looking as if he wanted to assist the new chairman. Alex changed tack. “You also told me it was Mr. Lowell who got you your job.”

  “Sure did. Lieutenant Lowell spoke at a Veterans’ Association meeting, and when he heard I’d served in Nam—”

  “Which division?”

  “Twenty-fifth, sir.”

  “I was with the 116th.”

  “Mr. Lawrence’s division.”

  “Yes, that’s how we met. And, like you, it was Mr. Lowell who got me this job.”

  Errol smiled for the first time. “If you served alongside Lieutenant Lowell,” he said, “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  “I’m glad to hear that because, like me, you got on well with Mr. Lowell. How about Mr. Ackroyd?”

  Errol bowed his head.

  “That bad?”

  “I’ve opened his car door every working day for the past twelve years, and I’m still not sure if he knows my name.”

  “And his secretary?” asked Alex, looking down at his list of questions.

  “Miss Bowers. She left with him. But don’t worry, sir, no one will miss her.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “She was a little bit more than his secretary, if you catch my drift.” Alex remained silent. “And, frankly, no one blamed Mrs. Ackroyd when she finally divorced him.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Ackroyd?”

  “Not really, sir, she didn’t visit the bank that often, but when she did, she always remembered my name.”

  “One final question, Errol. Did Mr. Lowell have a secretary?”

  “Yes, sir, Miss Robbins. A real gem. But Mr. Ackroyd sacked her last week, after twenty years’ service.”

  * * *

  “Come in.”

  “You asked to see me, chairman?”

  “I did, Mr. Jardine. I need to see the bank’s audited accounts for the past five years.”

  “Any particular version, chairman?” said Jardine, unable to resist a smirk.

  “What do you mean, any particular version?”

  “It’s just that Mr. Lowell preferred to be shown an abbreviated version, which I used to guide him through once a year.”

  “I’m sure you did. But I am not Mr. Lowell, and I will require a little more detail.”

  “The summary in the annual report stretches to three pages, and I think you’ll find it quite comprehensive.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I suppose you could study the detailed accounts we prepare for the IRS every year, but they stretch to hundreds of pages, and it would take me two, possibly three, days to put them all together.”

  “I said I wanted to see the past five years’ accounts, Mr. Jardine, not next year’s. So make sure that the full IRS version,” said Alex, emphasizing the word “full,” “is on my desk within an hour.”

  “It might take a little longer than that, sir.”

  “Then I might have to find someone who understands how many minutes there are in an hour, Mr. Jardine.”

  Alex had never seen anyone leave an office as quickly. He was about to call Mr. Harbottle, when the phone on his desk rang.

  “I’ve tracked down Miss Robbins, chairman,” said the switchboard operator, “and I have her on the line. Shall I put her through?”

  “Please do.”

  “Good morning, Miss Robbins. My name is Alex Karpenko, and I’m the new chairman of Lowell’s.”

  “Yes, I know, Mr. Karpenko. I read about your appointment in this morning’s Globe, and of course I heard your moving eulogy at Mr. Lowell’s funeral. How can I help?”

  “I understand that Mr. Ackroyd sacked you last Friday.”

  “Yes he did, and ordered me to clear my desk by close of business.”

  “Well, he had no authority to do so. As you were Lawrence’s personal assistant, not his. So I was wondering if you’d consider coming back and doing the same job for me.”

  “That’s most generous of you, Mr. Karpenko, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a younger person to herald in a new era for the bank?”

  “That’s the last thing I need. I’m sinking under a sea of paperwork, and I have a feeling you might be the one person who knows where the lifeboat is.”

  Miss Robbins stifled a laugh. “When would you like me to start, chairman?”

  “Nine o’clock, Miss Robbins.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “No, this morning.”

  “But it’s already eleven thirty-five, chairman.”

  “Is it?”

  * * *

  “Hi, Alex, I’m Ray Fowler, company secretary. What can I do for you?” he said, thrusting out his hand.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fowler,” said Alex, making no attempt to rise from behind his desk, or to shake the outstretched hand. “I want a copy of the minutes of every board meeting held during the past five years.”

  “Not a problem, sir, I’ll have them sent up immediately.”

  “No, you will bring them up yourself, Mr. Fowler, along with any notes you made at the time when you drew them up.”

  “But they may have been mislaid or destroyed after all this time.”

  “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, Mr. Fowler, that it’s against company law to destroy any material that might later prove relevant in a criminal inquiry.”

  “I’ll do my best to locate them, chairman.”

  “I seem to remember President Nixon saying something similar when he was ordered to produce the Watergate tapes.”

  “I hardly think that a fair comparison, chairman.”

  “I’ll let you know how I feel about that, Mr. Fowler, but not until I’ve read the minutes.”

  * * *

  “He did what?” said Ackroyd.

  “Asked to see the bank’s audited accounts for the past five years and all the board minutes with any attached handwritten notes,” said Ray Fowler.

  “Did he indeed? Then we’ll have to be rid of him before he gets his feet under the table, and starts causing any real problems.”

  “That might be easier said than done,” said Fowler. “We’re not dealing with Lawrence Lowell any longer. This guy’s smart, tough, and ruthless. And don’t forget he now has control of fifty percent of the bank’s shares.”

  “While Evelyn owns the other fifty percent,” said Ackroyd. “So he can’t do anything without our backing, certainly not while we still have a majority on the board.”

  “But what if he were to find out—”

  “Let me remind you, Ray, if the IRS were to discover what you’ve been up to for the past ten years, I can tell you exactly where the buck will stop, and as I’m not President Truman—it won’t be with me.”

  * * *

  There was a knock on the door.

  Alex checked his watch: fifty-eight minutes and twenty seconds. He smiled and said, “Come in, Mr. Jardine.�
��

  The door opened and the bank’s finance director led six of his staff into the chairman’s office, all of them laden down with boxes.

  “Here are a few to be getting on with, chairman,” said Jardine, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

  “Put them over there,” said Alex, pointing to a long table against the far wall.

  The six assistants immediately carried out his orders, while Jardine stood and watched.

  “Will that be all, chairman?” he said confidently.

  “No, it won’t, Mr. Jardine. You said these were a few to be getting on with, so when can I expect the rest?”

  “I’m afraid that was my feeble attempt at a little humor, chairman.”

  “It fell on deaf ears, Mr. Jardine. Could you ensure that no one from your department leaves the building tonight before I do, and that includes you. I have a feeling,” he said, glancing across at the stack of files, “I’ll be needing several questions answered before I go home.”

  * * *

  “Evelyn, we have a problem.”

  “Douglas, I expect you to take care of any problems at the bank, especially now you’re the chairman.”

  “But I’m not the chairman,” said Ackroyd. “Just before he died, Lawrence appointed some guy called Alex Karpenko to take his place.”

  “Not him again.”

  “You know the man?”

  “Our paths have crossed,” said Evelyn, “and I can tell you, he doesn’t take prisoners. But as I now own one hundred percent of the bank’s shares, I can remove him whenever—”

  “Lawrence also left his fifty percent holding in the bank to Karpenko. The guy’s already started digging, and if he were to find out—”

  “Do we still have a majority on the board?” asked Evelyn.

  “As long as you turn up to vote, we do.”

  “Then I’ll have to fly back for the next meeting, won’t I. And, Douglas, the first item on the agenda will be to remove Karpenko from the chair and replace him with you. All I expect you to do is organize the meeting without him working out what we’re up to.”

  “It may not be quite that easy,” said Ackroyd. “He’s already taken possession of your brother’s house, and I suspect your villa in the south of France will be next on his list.”