by Mark Ellis
“Very good, sir.”
Sidney Fleming watched the towering, beetle-browed figure of the bank’s finance director disappear through the thick, oak-panelled doors of his new office. He turned to admire the Canaletto masterpiece of London en fête, which hung above the large, 18th-century marble fireplace. Fleming had wasted little time in appropriating Simon Arbuthnot’s grand office. He always thought the neighbouring office, which Arbuthnot allocated him, rather small and cramped. That was why he had conducted much of his business at the Ritz.
Fleming had had little time today to relax and appreciate his spacious new accommodation. He had spent the morning rummaging anxiously through the desk drawers and filing cabinets in the chairman’s office for the missing bearer bonds. To no avail. The more he thought about the missing bonds, the queasier he felt. Now his afternoon meeting with George Brightwell had given further cause for queasiness. He got up from the huge desk and wandered over to the drinks cabinet by the window. The Tower of London loomed in the distance as he poured himself a large brandy and replayed Brightwell’s revelations in his mind.
“I’m afraid that I have discovered a number of worrying exposures for the bank, Mr Fleming.”
“Exposures? What do you mean?”
“There were a number of account files that Mr Arbuthnot insisted on keeping to himself.”
“Did he now? What of them?”
“Well, after hearing of his sad demise, I arranged for one of my clerks to retrieve those files.”
“Where were they?”
“In his desk.”
“I rather wish you’d waited, Brightwell. As the man now in charge I would have appreciated going through Mr Arbuthnot’s desk first.”
Brightwell steepled his long bony hands before him. “I am very sorry, Mr Fleming. I should have thought but my lack of access to those files has been worrying me intensely ever since Mr Arbuthnot’s departure for the army last year. I have had to assume the status quo ante with regard to them for all my quarterly reports.”
“And you didn’t think to search for those files earlier?”
“How could I, sir? While Mr Arbuthnot was, to my knowledge, alive, I was bound in honour by his instructions to leave them in his possession.”
“And what was in these files?”
“Details of some of the private client funds we manage.”
“And?
Fleming watched a small drop of sweat trickle into Brightwell’s collar. “It appears that Mr Arbuthnot had taken control of those funds.”
“What’s the problem with that?”
“We are looking at quite substantial sums.”
“How much?”
“£2m.”
“So, Simon took under his control – from the fund management department under Forbes, I presume – a substantial portion of the client monies we manage. That is not necessarily so odd. One of the ways he and I built up this company was by attracting client funds and by investing them successfully. He was, of course, a very successful investor, whether on the stock market or in financing projects and ventures. Otherwise we would not be sitting here. Perhaps he decided he wanted to have a bit of investing fun again and get his hands dirty.”
“He certainly got his hands dirty.”
“What does that mean.”
“The £2m has shrunk substantially.”
“To what?”
“To just under £500,000.”
“Good God! I don’t believe it!”
“That is what the records show. There is a reference to some bad market investments but there are also substantial unusual transfers and withdrawals.”
“What do you mean, withdrawals?”
“Mr Arbuthnot seems to have transferred substantial sums directly to overseas banks.”
“What’s wrong with that? He was probably playing some currency game.”
“I have established that the funds so transferred are no longer in the accounts to which they were sent.”
“Are you suggesting, Mr Brightwell, that Mr Arbuthnot was stealing from his own bank?”
Brightwell’s thick eyebrows danced a little jig. “I am afraid that’s what it looks like, Mr Fleming. And there is worse.”
“Worse. What could be worse?”
“It seems that a similar operation has been going on in the banking department.”
“Explain.”
“A number of substantial corporate loans were approved directly by Mr Arbuthnot without being submitted to the Bank Loan Committee.”
“So?”
“It appears that these borrowing entities are mostly fictitious.”
For once, Fleming found himself at a loss for words. He allowed Brightwell to run on in greater detail but stopped listening. Eventually, he halted the finance director’s flow. “That’s enough for now. In summary, would you say the bank is in some difficulty?”
“I would say that is a rather mild way of putting it, Mr Fleming. We have several important clients whose accounts have effectively been pilfered and, on top of that, we have a pending liquidity crisis. There are a number of significant interbank loans that fall due next month. Then…”
“Very well. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to give me some time to think. We can discuss this again tomorrow morning.”
And so Brightwell had left Fleming alone with his thoughts, the most prominent of which was that old cliché about leopards never changing their spots. Simon Arbuthnot had been a chancer all his life. Fleming returned to the desk and, swirling the Courvoisier around in his glass, remembered the first time he had met Arbuthnot.
It had been the summer of 1919. Arbuthnot called himself a junior clerk but, in fact, he was little more than an errand boy at one of the City’s less prominent stock-jobbing firms. Fleming had been an equally lowly employee of a small stockbroking company and was enjoying an after-work drink with a couple of friends in the Jampot (as the Jamaica Wine Room, in an alley just off Cornhill, was known to City workers).
Fleming saw a dark, handsome young man playing cards with three men in a corner. Suddenly one of the men had jumped to his feet and shouted: “You’re a bloody cheat! Give me my money back, you swine! I’ll have your guts for garters.” The young man, who appeared to be the person so addressed, was laughing his head off. One of the barmen walked over to the group and asked them to pack in their game and get lost. The aggrieved man was in no mood to budge and had to be removed forcibly by the barman and a colleague. The laughing young man gathered up his apparently substantial winnings and walked out into the alleyway. The two other card-players melted away.
When Fleming left the pub a few minutes later, he encountered the young man destined to be his lifelong business partner sitting calmly on a stone step. Simon Arbuthnot winked as he took a long draw on his cigarette. “Rum old do in there, eh?”
“What did you do to upset the man?”
Arbuthnot blew smoke through his nostrils. “Fellow’s a poor loser, what can I say?”
“Did you cheat him?”
“Cheat? An interesting word that, isn’t it? No, I don’t think I cheated him. I took advantage of the knowledge I had, which he was not aware I had. It’s easy to win at cards when you know the other fellow’s hand.”
“And how did you know his hand?”
“Ah.” Arbuthnot expelled another cloud of smoke. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” He smiled enigmatically at Fleming. “It’s a bit like the stock market, really.”
“How do you mean?”
“Let’s take a clever chap, who makes a killing in the market. Just as I might know in a card game something another player doesn’t – like the fact I’ve worked out what cards he’s holding – so chances are the clever chap in the market also knows something that the fellow on the other side of the bargain doesn’t. Some good or bad results about to be reported, new contracts won or lost, a top manager about to jump ship, a large amount of stock about to be dumped, etc.”
Fleming leaned against the raili
ng beside the step. “That’s a rather cynical view, isn’t it? What about investors who have carefully assessed the prospects in a business market and then back their educated judgment?”
“If they are any good, they are taking advantage of the superior market knowledge they have acquired. They know something that the chap on the other side of the bargain doesn’t. It’s the same thing, don’t you see?” Fleming couldn’t help laughing and his companion joined in with his idiosyncratic giggle.
“Arbuthnot’s the name, making it rich is my game.” He reached out a hand and grasped Fleming’s firmly.
“Sidney Fleming.”
“One of THE Flemings?”
“No such luck. My father owns a shoe shop in Bermondsey, not a merchant banking empire.”
“What a pity! Notwithstanding, if you are bright and ambitious I think you and I could be friends. Look.” He produced a bunch of notes from his jacket pocket and waved them in Fleming’s face. “I’m quite flush at the moment. Let’s go up west and have some fun. What do you say?”
And so it had started. Within months, the two men had left their clerking jobs and started a small ‘investment company’ as they called it. Arbuthnot raised most of the initial capital through his card-sharking skills. They traded stocks and shares, commodities, government bonds. Whatever could be traded. Fleming developed a valuable expertise in specialist financial stocks and in overseas trading and commodity companies.
However, from the outset, there was never any doubt about who would be the boss. Arbuthnot would have been the leader even if Fleming had raised the capital. He had charisma, brains and pluck. Fleming, though no shrinking violet, was happy to be the number two and he felt lucky to have fallen in with Arbuthnot. Soon, a one-room office in Moorgate had expanded into a more comfortable suite of rooms in Finsbury Square, overseen by a shrewd and sharp secretary called Vera.
Within a few years, their business had become comfortably profitable but Arbuthnot was not content and wanted to take on more exciting projects. That was how they had ended up doing business in Albania.
In the middle of a God-forsaken part of that God-forsaken country there was a copper mine. Using the contacts they had made in the City, they raised £20,000 to develop the mine. Arbuthnot charmed the local bandit chiefs and government officials and paid the necessary substantial bribes. Work began but within the year it became apparent to Arbuthnot and Fleming that the mine was a dud.
Arbuthnot got local accountants to produce figures, which showed that all but £1,000 of the investor funds had been spent. This sum was returned to the investors. In fact, a total of just under £5,000 had been spent. The balance of £14,000 was retained and eventually found its way into the balance sheet of their London business. Fleming had initially been kept in the dark about the accounting sleight-of-hand and had argued with his partner when he found out. He’d had two choices. Do the honourable thing, blow the whistle and be ruined. Or stick with his partner and weather the storm.
He had capitulated. Arbuthnot was a persuasive man. “Don’t worry, Sidney. We’ll make this money grow and we’ll get the investors their money back plus a good return with the other deals this money will fund.” Of course, the investors were irate and Arbuthnot’s reputation took some buffeting but such was his charm that few considered the possibility of fraud. Those that did simply participated no more in their deals. Arbuthnot had little difficulty replacing them.
Fleming refilled his brandy glass. And Simon had been right. The investors who stuck with them did very well for several years. There were further rolls of the dice. Simon had met his wealthy wife soon after their financial partnership began. He wasn’t able to access her funds at the outset but by the time the Wall Street Crash knocked them back, his wife was dead and he had found a way to break up the trusts in which those funds had been tied up. So that money came into the investment pot.
In 1931 Arbuthnot and Fleming had founded Sackville Bank. After the crash, and with Arbuthnot’s slightly racy reputation, it was no easy thing for them to get the bank off the ground. But a few years later, Arbuthnot had pulled off his master stroke and after that there had been no stopping them.
Arbuthnot had been charismatic, bright and brave. He had also been a massive risk taker and had taken many shortcuts. Now it looked like the man had returned to his old ways in the months before his death. Why? Fleming finished his brandy. He closed his eyes and thought he could hear that charming giggle again. He addressed Arbuthnot’s spirit out loud. “Everything was such a laugh to you, Simon. This, however, is not funny. What sort of a catastrophic mess have you left us in?”
CHAPTER 8
Thursday 12 June
London
Pulos pulled back the silk curtains and collapsed exhausted on to the four-poster bed. In the hallway of his Ritz suite, Marco was tipping the porters and sorting out the luggage. Pulos had originally intended for his bodyguard to have a separate room but, after some thought, had booked a big enough suite to accommodate them both. There were two small bedrooms on the other side of the drawing room, one for Marco and one for the luggage.
Marco was a useful man to have close to hand if things got dangerous, as well they might on this trip. He had been with Pulos for several years and had always done efficiently what was asked of him, however unpleasant the task might be. Recently, Pulos had wondered whether he shouldn’t have sent Marco at the outset to deal in his own direct fashion with the Meyer problem in New York. It still might have to be dealt with that way.
In the end, he had travelled from Argentina by air. He had left with Marco on the Monday evening. There had been stops in Rio, the Azores and then in Lisbon. There had been three aircraft and all had been noisy and uncomfortable. Sleep on the planes had been almost impossible and on the final leg he had acquired an earache. Once Marco had unpacked, Pulos would send him out to a pharmacy to get some ear drops.
His watch was still on Argentina time. It was eight in the morning in Buenos Aires so one o’clock in London. A greater time difference than usual because, as his secretary had advised him, wartime Britain was now operating something called Double British Summer Time to extend the evening light. Despite his exhaustion, Pulos knew he should really crack on. Much might have happened since he left Buenos Aires. He had cabled Sackville from Lisbon to notify the bank of his impending arrival. Perhaps it would have been better to turn up unannounced? Be that as it may, he was here now. He leaned back on the soft pillows. He’d be more effective after a nap, though.
He yawned then called out. Marco hurried into the room. “I’m going to lie down for an hour. Then we’ll get started. I have a few small errands I’d like you to run. I’d also like you to arrange for the hotel to lay on a permanent car. I don’t want to rely on taxis.”
“You wish me to drive, Señor Pulos?”
“No, no. This is your first time in London. I think that is too much to ask of you, especially as the place is such a terrible mess.” Pulos had been shocked by the destruction and wreckage they had seen on their way from the airport to the hotel. “No, ask them to get us a nice car with a good local driver.”
“Yes, señor.”
Pulos gave Marco further instructions regarding ear drops and buying newspapers. Marco would have no problems because he spoke perfect English. Pulos had arranged lessons for him a couple of years back and he had proved an excellent student. Pulos had kept Marco’s linguistic talent a secret from Simon Arbuthnot and his English colleagues. Accordingly, Pulos had learned many interesting things from Marco’s stints as chauffeur or guide.
After Marco had departed on his errands, Pulos undressed and got under the bedcovers. He was soon asleep.
* * *
Merlin, refreshed by a particularly good night’s sleep, stood by the open window of his office enjoying the view of the river and the warmth of a sun already quite high in a cloudless blue sky. He turned at the sound of the door opening and saw his team file in. Back at his desk, he acknowledged everyone w
ith a smile, and looked down at the notes he’d made earlier.
“We are making some progress. Thanks to more good work by Robinson, we now know that, from early January, Bridget Healy stayed for several weeks in the Belgravia house of her wealthy older sister, Patricia Lafontaine. Mrs Lafontaine is, for what it’s worth, the widow of a major arms dealer. We know little about Healy’s activities in London during this time. About the only thing we do know is that she wasn’t in the house much. She eventually moved out at the end of March and her sister suspected she had found a man to look after her.”
“The father of her child?”
“A reasonable presumption, Sergeant. What else do we know, Constable?”
“Bridget never told anyone in the house where she was going except once when she mentioned the Ritz bar. As it happens, when I searched her room, I found one of those sticks people use to stir their cocktails. Sorry, I’ve forgotten what they’re called.”
“A swizzle stick.”
“Thank you, Detective. Well, I found a corroborative swizzle stick in her room.”
Merlin looked back at his notes. “So, the Ritz bar. Worth following up. So, just to be clear about the timeline, Bridget Healy left her sister’s at the end of March and we found her dead at the Bedford Hotel on Thursday 5 June. According to the medical report, the aborted child had been conceived three months before at the beginning of March, three or four weeks before she left her sister.
“Moving on to de Metz, we had a better meeting with a French officer at Carlton Gardens and now have more background on him. This officer had met de Metz, who had made several visits to the Free French HQ, seeking financial help. When such help was not forthcoming, he started making claims that he possessed important and thus financially valuable security information. His claims on this weren’t believed. We also know that the train ticket we found was to Bletchley in Buckinghamshire. De Metz went there and enquired about a place called Bletchley Park, which is rumoured to be some sort of government installation.” Merlin steepled his hands in front of him. “Have I missed anything?”
