“Merde!” he said, and turned his attention back to the croupier.
“Put it all on 13,” said the young man.
The croupier glanced across at the deputy manager, who nodded. He spun the wheel and released the ball, feeling for the lever once more. It landed in 13, but only for a moment before it popped back out and settled in 27. The young man let out a piercing scream, and as he stood up and left the table, yelled at the woman, “You’ve left me with no choice.”
Maxine collapsed into the nearest chair and burst into tears, as her husband ran out of the back of the casino and onto the terrace. The manager left his desk and walked quickly out onto the balcony. He watched as the young man ran out onto the beach, and continued running toward the sea. The manager looked more closely, and could have sworn he was holding a gun in his right hand.
He quickly returned to his desk and was trying to get his security chief on the phone, when he heard a single shot ring out.
“Get back up here,” said the manager when André came on the line. “And quickly.”
The manager walked over to a large safe embedded in the wall. He entered an eight-digit code and pulled open the heavy door. “How much did he say would solve his problems?”
“Three hundred thousand francs,” said Duval, as André burst into the room.
“Take this money,” said the manager, handing over an armful of cash, “and carry out the boss’s orders.”
The security chief slipped out of the room, walked down the back stairs and out of a rear entrance onto the beach. He quickly identified a set of fresh prints in the moonlight, and followed them until he came to a body lying in the sand, blood pouring out of his mouth, a pistol by his side. The head of security looked up to check no one was watching him, before he began to stuff wads of cash into the dead man’s jacket pockets, and then his trouser pockets, finally leaving a few francs scattered in the sand by his side.
André double-checked to make sure no one had seen what he’d done, before he got off his knees and made his way back toward the casino. Once inside, he ran up the back stairs and into the manager’s office.
“Job done,” was all he said.
“Good. Now no one will be able to suggest he committed suicide because he lost heavily at the tables.”
* * *
Maxine waited until the head of security had disappeared back into the casino, before she made her way out onto the beach. She kept glancing back to be sure no one was watching her.
When she found the body, she knelt down on the sand, and began to extract the francs from his pockets, before placing the bundles of cash in a large empty handbag. She even picked up the few stray ones that were lying by his side.
Maxine knelt down and kissed her husband gently on the forehead. “The coast is clear, my darling,” she whispered, glancing back up toward the casino.
Jacques opened his eyes and smiled. “I’ll see you and François back in Paris,” he said as his wife picked up the bag and slipped quickly away.
THE SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT
1
ARTHUR DUNBAR STUDIED Mr. S. Macpherson’s account with some considerable satisfaction, bordering on pride. His eyes returned to the bottom line: $8,681,762. He checked it against last year’s figure, $8,189,614. An increase of 6 percent, and one mustn’t forget that during the past year his client had spent $281,601 on personal expenditure, which included all his household bills, and a quarterly payment to a Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw, who, Arthur assumed, must be his long-serving staff.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, and not for the first time thought about the man who hailed from Ambrose in the Highlands of Scotland. When Arthur had first been given the responsibility of handling the account, some eighteen years ago, all his predecessor had told him was that a man, not much older than Arthur was at the time, had turned up at the bank and, having made a fortune on the railroad, deposited $871,000 in cash, and announced he was going home to Scotland.
It made Arthur smile to think that anyone who turned up with $10,000 in cash today would be subject to an investigation by their recently formed money-laundering team, and if they didn’t tick all the boxes, their file would be handed over to the Toronto police’s special investigation squad.
Arthur had long ago stopped trying to fathom why Mr. Macpherson still did business with the National Bank of Toronto, when there were so many Scottish banks that were just as competent and considerably more convenient. But as he had conducted his affairs in an exemplary fashion for the past twenty-five years, the subject no longer arose, and in any case, NBT wouldn’t have wanted to lose one of their most important customers.
Although Arthur knew very little about his client other than that they both shared the same heritage, one thing he had learned over the years was that he was unquestionably a shrewd, intelligent businessman. After all, he had multiplied his original investment tenfold, while at the same time withdrawing enough money to live an extremely comfortable lifestyle. In fact, only once in the past eighteen years had he failed to show a profit, despite stock market collapses, changes of governments, and countless skirmishes around the globe. He appeared to have no vices, and his only extravagance was purchasing the occasional painting from Munro’s, a fine art dealer in Edinburgh—and then only if it was by a Scottish artist.
Arthur had long ago accepted he didn’t have Mr. Macpherson’s flair for finance, but he was quite happy to sit at the feet of the master and when any new instructions came, he would invest a portion of his own money in the same shares at a level no one would have noticed. So when the bank’s senior vice president checked his own account at the end of the quarter, it stood at $243,519. How he would have liked to thank Mr. Macpherson in person, because retirement was fast approaching for Arthur, and with his little nest egg and a full pension, he looked forward to ending his days in a degree of comfort he felt he had earned.
If there was a Mrs. Macpherson there were no clues to suggest it, so Arthur rather assumed that, like him, his client was a bachelor. But like so many mysteries surrounding the man, he didn’t know for sure, and assumed he never would.
However, something had been worrying Arthur about the account for some weeks, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. He opened the file again and noted the figure, $8,681,762, before checking every entry meticulously. But all seemed to be in order.
He then studied each check that the different individuals and companies had presented during the past month, before checking them against the entries in the ledger. Every one tallied. All the usual household expenses and utility bills, food, wine, gas, electricity, even Hudsons, the local newsagent. But he still felt something wasn’t quite right. And then, in the middle of the night, it hit him like a thunderbolt. Less, not more.
On arrival at the bank the following morning, the first thing Arthur did was to take Mr. Macpherson’s ledger out of the bottom drawer. He turned the pages back to the previous quarter, and was able to confirm the most recent bills were considerably less than those for any other quarter. Had they been considerably more, Arthur would have spotted it immediately, and become suspicious. The fact that they were less, aroused his interest. The only entry that remained consistent was the monthly banker’s order for his long-serving retainers, Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw.
He leaned back in his chair and wondered if he should inform the manager of this break in routine, but decided against it for two reasons. It was coming up to quarter day, when he would receive his new instructions from Mr. Macpherson, and with it no doubt a simple explanation as to why the bills had fallen, and second, he didn’t care much for the new manager of the bank.
There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Arthur had considered the possibility of being appointed manager himself, but his hopes were dashed when that position was filled by a Mr. Stratton from their Montreal branch, who was half his age, but a graduate of McGill and the Wharton Business School. Arthur on the other hand had, to quote his late father—a former sergeant in the Seafort
h Highlanders—risen through the ranks, and quite recently acquired the title of senior vice president. However, everyone in banking circles knew there were several vice presidents, and you only became the senior VP because everyone else had retired and you were next in line. “Buggins’s turn,” as his father would have described it.
Arthur had applied to be the manager of one of the bank’s smaller branches a couple of times, but hadn’t even made the shortlist. On one occasion he’d overheard a member of the panel say, “Dunbar’s a good enough chap but simply isn’t officer material.”
He had also considered leaving NBT to join one of their rivals, but quickly discovered he wouldn’t be starting at the same salary, and he certainly couldn’t hope to be offered the same pension plan as he was entitled to after so many years of loyal and devoted service. After all, in eighteen months’ time he would have been with the bank for thirty years, which meant he could retire on two-thirds of his current salary; less than thirty years, and it would only be half. So he only had to cling on for another eighteen months.
Arthur turned his attention back to the pile of checks on his desk, and was about to go over them once again, when the phone rang. He picked it up and immediately recognized the cheerful voice of Barbara, Mr. Stratton’s secretary.
“Mr. Stratton wondered if you could pop around and see him when it’s convenient—” code for as soon as possible—“as there’s something he’d like to discuss with you fairly urgently—” code for now.
“Of course,” said Arthur. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
He disliked being summoned to the manager’s office because it was rarely, if ever, good news. Last time Stratton had called for him was when he needed a volunteer to organize the Christmas party, and the responsibility had ended up taking hours of his spare time without any remuneration, and gone were the days when he could hope that one of the girls from the typing pool would go home with him later that evening.
The happiest of these occasions was when Barbara had joined the bank, and they had what might be described as a fling. He found they had so much in common, even enjoying the same passion for classical music, although he still couldn’t understand why she preferred Brahms to Beethoven. And the biggest regret in Arthur’s life was that he didn’t ask her to marry him. When she married Reg Caldercroft in accounts, he ended up as best man.
He closed the Macpherson file and placed it in the top drawer of his desk, which he locked. He left his room and walked slowly down the corridor, knocked on the manager’s door and received a curt “Come” in response. Something else he didn’t like about Mr. Stratton.
Arthur opened the door and entered a large, well-furnished office, and waited to be told he could sit down. Stratton smiled up at him and pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. Arthur returned the smile, equally insincere, wondering what voluntary chore was about to be thrust upon him.
“Good morning, Arthur,” said the young man.
“Good morning, Mr. Stratton,” replied Arthur, who had once addressed him as Gerald when he first took over as manager, only to be told, “not during working hours.” And as they never met socially, it was also the last time he had addressed the manager by his Christian name.
“Arthur,” he said, the same smile. “I’ve had a letter from head office that I felt I ought to share with you, remembering that you are the bank’s senior vice president and our longest-serving member of staff.”
What’s he after? was Arthur’s first thought.
“I have been instructed to make cutbacks on staff. The figure they are insisting on,” Stratton said, looking down at a letter on his desk, “is ten percent. And the board are recommending we start by offering senior staff the opportunity to take early retirement.”
To make way for younger people who they will only have to pay half the salary, Arthur wanted to say, but kept his counsel.
“And of course, I thought you might consider this an ideal opportunity, after your little scare last year.”
“It wasn’t a scare,” said Arthur, “and I was off work for four days. The only four days in nearly thirty years with the bank,” he reminded Stratton.
“Indeed, most commendable,” said Stratton. “But don’t you think these things are sometimes a warning?”
“No, I do not,” said Arthur. “I’ve never felt fitter, and as you well know, I only need to serve another eighteen months to qualify for a full pension.”
“I realize that,” said Stratton, “and please don’t think I’m not sympathetic. But my hands are tied.” He looked down at the letter, clearly trying to place the blame on someone else. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate the problem I’m facing…”
“It’s me who’s facing the problem, not you,” said Arthur, bolder than he’d ever been in the past.
“And the board asked me to say,” said Stratton, “how much they appreciate the long and dedicated service you have given the bank. And I feel sure you’ll be pleased to know they have agreed that a farewell party should be thrown in your honor, along with an appropriate gift to mark your remarkable service to the National Bank of Toronto.”
“A cocktail party with crisps, peanuts, a glass of vin ordinaire, and a gold-plated watch. Thanks very much. But I’d rather have the full pension I’m entitled to.”
“And I want you to know, Arthur,” said Stratton, ignoring the outburst, “how hard I fought in your corner, but the board … well, I feel sure you know what they’re like.”
Actually Arthur didn’t have any idea what they were like. In fact if a member of the board had passed him in the street, he doubted if they would recognize him.
“But I did manage one small coup on your behalf,” continued Stratton, the same insincere smile returning to his face. “I got you a stay of execution.” And from the look on the manager’s face, he clearly regretted the words the moment he’d uttered them, but it didn’t stop him charging on. “While everyone else will have to leave by the end of the next quarter, six months at the most, you can retain your position as the senior VP for another year.”
“Just six months before I would have scraped over the line,” said Arthur with considerable feeling.
“I did the best I could given the circumstances,” insisted Stratton. “And will be writing to you in the next few days, setting out the finer details.” The manager hesitated for a moment before adding, “I was rather hoping, Arthur, I might rely on you to brief other senior colleagues of the board’s decision. You’re so good at that sort of thing.”
Arthur rose from his place with as much dignity as he could muster, and said calmly, “Go to hell, Gerald. You can do your own dirty work for a change.” He gave the manager the same ingratiating smile, and left without another word.
Once Arthur was back in his office, he swore out loud, something he hadn’t done since the Toronto Maple Leafs lost to the Montreal Canadiens during the last minute of extra time in the Stanley Cup.
He paced aimlessly around his little office for some time before he finally sat down and began to write a letter to Mr. Macpherson explaining why someone else would be handling his account in the future.
* * *
A fortnight passed, but there was no reply from Ambrose Hall. This surprised Arthur, because if there was one thing he knew about his most esteemed customer, it was that he was never less than courteous and unfailingly punctilious.
The bank’s senior VP continued to double-check his mail every morning, but there was still no response to his letter. Even more out of character, when quarter day appeared on the calendar, the usual long typewritten letter detailing Mr. Macpherson’s investment instructions and any other requirements he expected the bank to carry out during the next three months did not appear.
It was while Arthur was trying to get to sleep that the only other possibility for Mr. Macpherson’s uncharacteristic behavior crossed Arthur’s mind. He sat bolt upright and didn’t sleep that night.
Nevertheless, it was still another fortni
ght before Arthur would accept that the “only other possibility,” had become a probability. But it wasn’t until he’d opened a letter from Mr. Stratton confirming the day of his retirement and his pension details, that the first dishonest thought crossed Arthur Dunbar’s mind in twenty-eight years of service to the National Bank of Toronto.
However, Arthur was, by nature, a cautious man, so he allowed the dishonest thought to mature for a while before he even considered a provisional plan—and then only in his mind.
During the following month, he continued to clear every check that was presented in his client’s name, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw’s monthly banker’s order deposited to their joint account at the Bank of Scotland in Ambrose. However, when a new checkbook arrived from the printers, Arthur did not send it on to Mr. Macpherson, but locked it in the top drawer of his desk.
He felt confident that would elicit an immediate response if …
Arthur kept rereading the letter that had landed on his desk. It was hand delivered by Mr. Stratton’s secretary, and was short and to the point.
It is with much regret …
Nowhere in the letter were the words “sacked” or “made redundant,” because they had been replaced with wishing him a happy retirement, and how much he was looking forward to continuing working with him for the next ten months. Arthur swore for the second time that year.
The rest of the month passed without incident, although no letter was forthcoming from Mr. Macpherson. The staff party was considered a great success by everyone except Arthur, who was the last to leave, and spent Christmas alone.
* * *
Arthur checked his calendar: January 7, and he still hadn’t received any further communication from Mr. Macpherson, although he was aware any payments would soon come to an end, because he hadn’t issued a new checkbook for the past quarter. But then Arthur was in no hurry, because he still had another nine months to work on his exit strategy, as befitted a banker who believed in the long game.
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