by Stan Mason
They walked to a slum area until they arrived at a house with an overgrown weed-ridden garden. The façade displayed ugly grey brick, pitted and scarred with the old door gaping like an dull brown mouth. Each of the four large windows had been covered with a double shutter but one of them upstairs had torn itself away from the rusted flanges, squeaking noisily as it flapped idly in the breeze. In all, they displayed paneless windows blocked with cardboard to exclude the elements. A few odd red tiles once used to patch up the grey-slated roof stared out incongruously beneath the chimney pots, one of which had toppled to shatter itself on the stippled cement at the edge of the garden, An attic window bulged out like a swollen eye surveying the surrounding scenery. Beside it, a rift in the brickwork had begun to creep down from the roof to a crack that was barely visible at the lintel above the front door. The property was in an awful state of repair... a wreck ready for slum clearance. As they walked up the garden path, a thin pale-faced woman opened the front door to empty the contents of a tea-pot over the weeds in the garden.
‘He lives in an island in the park,’ Mum,’ disclosed the boy indiscreetly.
The woman turned to him in appreciation. ‘Thank you for bringing him home. He’s such a handful. I never know where he is half the time. But then boys will be boys.’ She glanced at the Russian’s clothes. ‘You’re wet through and you’ve torn your jacket,’ she observed. ‘Come inside and let me fix it.’ Without waiting for his reply she turned and went back into the house.
He followed her inside and looked around. The room was small and miserable with badly-fading wallpaper peeling everywhere, There was an old three-piece suite showing signs of brown wood at the arm-rests where the cloth had worn through and a square table with two old wooden chairs which had seen far better days, An ancient chest of drawers fitted neatly into a recess in the wall, while an old piano with a broken easel rested in the only available space. The woman placed a cloth on the table and bustled into the kitchen before returning with a full teapot, some sandwiches and cake.
‘My name’s Elsie’ she told him pleasantly as she poured out the tea.
Some time later, when the boy had been washed and put to bed, she attended to his jacket while he read a newspaper. After a short while, he stared out of the back window at the desolate garden filled with debris and weeds. The comfort of a house, even one as dilapidated as this, appealed to him and he was content to stay there for a time, Elsie continued to sew his jacket ostensibly unconcerned by his presence, glancing up at him occasionally, each time to offer him a brief smile.
‘Where do you live,?’ she asked innocuously.
‘As your son told you. In a hut on an island in the park,’ he replied.
‘You need someone to look after you,’ she remarked. ‘Have you any family?’
He shook his head remaining silent. It was too long a story to relate to a stranger.
She fingered another rent in his jacket which she hadn’t noticed earlier. ‘I still have some of my husband’s clothes. He died three years ago.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’
He followed her to the bedroom reluctantly, taking the suit she handed to him which had been hanging idly in the wardrobe. She left him along for a while and he held the garment in front of his body, staring at himself in the long mirror fixed to the wardrobe Removing his t rousers with the intent of trying on the suit, he laid full length on the big soft double bed sinking deeper into the feather eiderdown. Nostalgic bliss ran through his body as he enjoyed the moments of luxury. It was all so comfortable compared with the hard ground in the wooden hut in the park. He raised himself up, put on the suit, and strutted out through the doorway, ‘How do I look?’ he asked brightly.
‘It fits you well,’ she commented with a smile on her face.
‘He froze awkwardly for a moment. ‘I can’t pay you for it, I haven’t any money.’
She laughed quietly. ‘I don’t want any money, love,’ she retorted amiably. ‘It’s yours!’ Here... sit down and drink your tea. I’ll get the paraffin lamp. We don’t have electricity here any more.’
She lit a candle, opened the door of the cellar, and disappeared down some creaking wooden stairs. Ivan settled in an armchair and closed his eyes. She returned a few minutes later with a lighted lamp which she placed on the table. He produced a battered cigarette case from his pocket and offered her one.
‘What did your husband do for a living?’ he asked casually.
She tore a strip from the newspaper and tilted it down the funnel of the paraffin lamp. ‘Nothing,’ she replied glumly. ‘Absolutely nothing!’ She put the flame to the end of his cigarette and then to her own before inhaling deeply. ‘Bone idle. As lazy as the day was long. When the war broke out, he was the first conscientious objector. Wouldn’t even fight for his own country! Ivan shrugged his shoulders aimlessly as Elsie poured him another cup of tea and sat facing him. ‘And what do you do?’ she asked although he already knew the answer, picking up his jacket to complete the repair.
He offered a negative reply and began to doze lightly where he sat. The cosy atmosphere of the room began to lull him into a false sense of security. He suddenly sat up straight. ‘Is there anything else to eat?’ he asked cheekily.
As she returned to the kitchen to comply with his request, he went into the bedroom again to stare at himself in the mirror. He glanced around the room and his eyes landed on the dressing-table. There was always the chance that something of value was hidden away inside. He slid open the top drawer and rummaged around with his hand. Stockings, underwear, safety pins, a suspender belt, cotton wool... nothing of any value. He tried the next drawer which squeaked as it opened. More underwear, a couple of blouses, a belt, elastic, handkerchiefs, an odd key, and cards of hooks-and-eyes, There was nothing here... the woman was as poor as a church mouse!
‘I must get back soon.’ he told her in the front room when she returned with some sandwiches. ‘If they close the park gates, I have to jump over the barbed wire fence. That’s how my jacket gets torn.’
She watched him gulf down the food in silence and by the time she had finished repairing his jacket, he was fast asleep. It was two hours later before he awoke. Elsie was still sitting opposite him with some knitting, He yawned and stared at the clock on the mantelshelf.
‘Damn!’ he swore. ‘I’ll have to go!’ The park would be closed by now and he didn’t relish having to leap over the barbed-wire fence when he could continue sleeping in leisure on the comfortable armchair. On reflection, it seemed that most of his life would be spent trying to cross barbed-wire fences one way or another.
‘The park will be close by now,’ confirmed Elsie solemnly. ‘If you try to get in, you’ll probably tear your jacket again. Why don’t you spend the night here? You can sleep on the sofa.’
He welcomed the idea instantly. ‘Aren’t you worried about your reputation?’ he argued archaically. ‘I mean there’s the boy... and neighbours.’
‘Please stay!’ This time she was pleading with him. ‘I could do with the company. Just knowing that you were around would be enough.’
‘All right,’ he agreed happily. ‘I’ll stay the night.’
She rose from her chair to fetch some bedclothes and he watched her leave. Elsie was an e sensitive emotional person and he was grateful for the accommodation. Whatever the future held in store, at least he would be comfortable for the night!
Chapter Six
The Bank of Commerce has amassed a wealth of information on its customers over the years and boasted a rich corporate research section to served its branches with data. Sadler used it often to the advantage of the bank but now he needed it for personal reasons. His devious mind planned to maximise on a scheme particular to his own talents If it worked, he would not have to steal from dormant accounts at the branch and his actions would be on the level, however that would depend on ret
urning Della Lancaster to the fold. If the Lancaster family were grateful for the service he offered, he would be well-supplied financially in the new venture, The plan was full of risks but it was a long shot that could prove to be worth the time and effort. His private telephone rang and the information was related to him.
‘Before the First World War, the Lancaster family imported cheap food for the working classes and introduced cold storage into Britain. The British Government offered the company contracts to supply meant to certain parts of the allied armies so that the family became extremely wealthy before the war ended in 1918. They employed some smart advisers who suggested that they buy up farmlands in foreign countries and form a trust to control them. In order to secure their position, however, the Lancasters had to agree to become tax exiles. The tax authorities were powerless to do anything about it and, after all these years, they still can’t crack it.’
‘What of Della Lancaster?’ asked Sadler urgently.
‘She stems from Harcourt Lancaster who was created a baron in 1918. He was past the age of retirement when his wife died but he had long cast his eyes on a volatile American woman called Amy O’Rourke who was a shorthand typist in the New York branch of the company. The lady was ambitious and it wasn’t long before she gained promotion for her commercial ability. Harcourt’s brother, George, noticed her flair for solving long-term problems so he moved her up-scale to act as a trouble-shooter. She was sent ot Paraguay to form a new meat-packing company, then to the Argentine to improve distribution facilities. From then on she went to Russia where the aftermath of the Russian revolutions still affected business, travelled on to Brazil to buy some cattle ranches, crossed to Japan and went on to China where the manager of a depot had died leaving the company’s affairs in a mess. At that time, fighting broke out in Chine and she arranged for a steamer to be ready to sail out of the danger zone at the drop of a hat. In fact the fighting reached her office and she had to run to escape with her life. Quite a woman, Amy O’Rourke. I mean we’re talking about the days when all that women were expected to do was to marry, bear children, cook, and take care of the home.’
‘What happened then?’ continued the banker with interest.
‘Well she drove the company a hard bargain for her services and actually resigned twice. But old Harcourt pursued her and convinced her to marry him in the end. In those days there was a dichotomy of control at the top of the tree. You were either a Harcourt or you followed George. Then one morning, George decided that it was unfair for his brother to have a new young wife. He wanted one as well so he gave Lady Lancaster her marching orders. Like lightning, the Lady rushed of to her solicitor demanding a phenomenally large settlement which was established as a nominal amount of money each year on which no tax had been paid. The company claimed that it was a trust based in Paris but the argument ran a little thin in places. The Inland Revenue hung around like vultures waiting to go in for the kill. George was caught over a barrel. Under pressure from all sides, he had not alternative but to give his wife all that she asked and, in order to get the divorce through, he had to admit falsely that he had affairs with two other women. Poor old George. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot!’
‘What about Amy O’Rourke? What happened to her?’
‘She gave birth to a child... a daughter named Della. Had her very late in life. Harcourt was ninety years old at the time and there was a lot of talk about the true identity of the father, but he was satisfied and that was all that mattered. I can let you have more detailed information on their accounts with various banks and branches if you like.’
Sadler sat thoughtfully at his desk when the conversation had ended. Della Lancaster came from outstandingly good stock... full of drive and ambition and the spirit of adventure. The very thought of her and the vision of her in a white bath robe filled him with excitement. He was suddenly faced with a two-way option. He could develop his association with the women so that it became a permanent relationship or establish a financial arrangement with her family who were all millionaires. Either way would need to be handled with great diplomacy. The official communication system buzzed and he was informed that Morris was on the line.
‘Hey, Mr. Banker,’ he began. ‘I want to talk to you about our deal.’ The fat man’s voice sounded less than enthusiastic.
Sadler became uneasy The last thing he wanted at this time was a prima donna partner full of uncertainty. A negative attitude tended to cause dissension among them. Ultimately it would advance to questions and problems, most of which were trivial and unnecessary. He reflected that if doubts clouded the issue, it was necessary to challenge whether or not the venture had the potential he envisaged at the start. After all, who would want a tramp... a man in a tatty fur coat and a battered trilby hat... to be a co-director of a company.? When indecision and doubt presided, there were so many features to contemplate... not least the question of whether he should take chances with his career and his life again.
‘What do you want to tell me, Mr. Morris,’ he enquired casually, although his blood-pressure started to rise.
‘The percentage you ask for is too high. I think twenty per cent would be the right amount.’
‘I have no intention of renegotiating,’ stated the bank sharply. ‘We agreed fifty per cent.’
‘Look I do my best thinking in the smallest room in the house. That’s where I work out my business problems. I’m going to think about it again. If I don’t come back, I’ve either gone off the idea or I’ve fallen down the hole.’
‘Don’t play smart with me!’ snapped the banker. ‘The deal was set and you know it! If you want to change your mind then it’s best forgotten. I’ve other fish to fry!’
‘But it’s not a deal!’ claimed Morris angrily. ‘All you did was to give me an ultimatum.’
‘I’m not arguing with you, Morris. You know the score.’
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. ‘There’s lots of things I want to say to you, banker,’ he riposted irately, ‘but I need that money to buy the mine. All right. Have it your way. Fifty per cent... but if you slip up on the finance, you’ll need a bone specialist ot put you together.’
Sadler reflected that business partnerships were delicate at the best of times. This one was likely to test the temperament of both men to the full. Despite that, promising ventures often drew together unusual bedfellows... and sometimes they were very successful. However the key issue was the funding and the banker had to resign himself to that fact!
***
As a result of the rapid response by Morris, the banker was forced to examine the list of dormant accounts at the branch without delay. His eyes scanned the names and balances identifying each one carefully. The Kitchener account had been untouched for well over a year. The Netherthorpe credit had lain dormant for two years. Sabat Serenito had not withdrawn any money for a similar period of time while Jonathan Kernan-King had deposited a large amount of money nearly three years earlier but had never drawn a penny. There was the joint account of the Lesserton sisters which had been static for three years whereas the money deposited by A.J. Pattinson had languished in limbo for the same period. The list went on and the banker had to decided from which accounts and how much money he could withdraw from them without drawing attention to the activity. The customers had opened accounts at the branch long before his appointment. He had never seen or met any of them personally and the brief details available were of little practical value. The Lesserton sisters were two ladies approaching their eightieth birthdays. They had tucked away a great deals of money which had never been used. It was possible that one or both of them had died leaving no trace of the account. If so, no one else would know of its existence In that case, Sadler could withdraw the whole of the account and no on would ever be the wiser. In fact if they were both dead it would be unnecessary to repay the money. But were the Lessertons alive or dead? The Kitchener
account was quite robust but when th banker thought about it, an uncomfortable feeling ran down his spine as though it was a trap bated for him, ready to snap shut as soon as he touched the balance. Netherethorpe was a likely target. He considered that he could remove a substantial amount from the account without raising any alarm bells. Inevitably it was necessary to make a positive decision. In a sense, he was overwhelmed by the massive treasure suddenly available to him by turning to crime. If he didn’t succeed with the Lancaster family, he would take this step to steal from the bank irrespective of the consequences. All he could thing about was the Botallack mine. It had started to invade his thoughts by day and his dreams by night. He was about to reach the watershed and there would be no way back. If his criminal activity was discovered, he would lose his appointment at the bank, concede his reputation, and end up in jail. There would never be another opportunity in his lifetime to achieve any ambition. He would be a done-and-out character for ever! In order to carry out his deception, he would need to forge cheques by reproducing the signatures of the account holders, prostitute his professionalism for the purpose of crime, and falsify documents to ensure the successful conclusion of transactions made for his personal benefit. All he needed was to create an account in a false name by which he could transfer the funds. It was no mean feat for a man who recognised that the bank and all his colleagues trusted him as a loyal and faithful servant to the profession and his employer. In his mind he saw it differently. There were limits to frustration day by day and it wasn’t in his character to be subservient to senior personnel in the bank. He was simply a small cog in a giant money wheel with an untamed spirit filled with ambition and adventure, and no one was going to bury him under a mountain of convention!
