The Account

by Roderick Mann

  Numb with shock, her mind refusing to function properly, she pulled on her dress, fumbling with the buttons. She stuffed her bra and panties into her bag, looking around, fearful she might have forgotten something. She looked a mess. There was no way she could use the lift. She would have to use the emergency exit. She looked around the room once more. Then, as if afraid she might awaken him, she tiptoed from the bedroom and let herself out of the suite.

  Chapter 26

  Julia lay on the bed in her darkened flat, curled in the foetal position, hands clasped together, unable to think or move. Robert was dead. She was pregnant. There was nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

  Again and again she went over the events of the past two days, as if by reliving the hours she had spent with him she could find an explanation for the grief that now engulfed her.

  What if he had not come to London? What if she had not made love with him? Would he still be alive now? Was guilt to be added to the nightmare?

  The flat, which had always given her solace and comfort, now seemed an empty place, cold and unfriendly. She shivered. When the lift ground to a halt at her floor she sat up quickly, listening, trying to convince herself that it was Robert. There had been a terrible mistake; he was not dead; he had come to fetch her. Then she heard the door of the flat across the hall open and close and she lapsed back into despair, knowing the night would be long, knowing she would not sleep, knowing there was worse to come.

  Brand’s death was front-page news in the London papers next morning.

  He had been discovered naked in his £1,200-a-day suite at the Burlington Hotel by the night maid. Suzy Miller, a young Irish girl Julia knew well, described how she had found him. ‘He was lying on the edge of the bed,’ she reported. ‘There must have been someone with him when he died because a bathrobe had been draped completely over him.’

  Millionaire’s Death Mystery, was the Daily Express headline. The Daily Mirror reported: From the state in which Brand was found it is believed that he had been with a woman when he died. Burlington Hotel a Millionaire’s Love Nest? ran the headline. Both papers ran the same grainy picture of Brand taken some fifteen years earlier as he left his New York office. Some of the stories called him ‘the richest man in the world’. Others settled for ‘industrial giant’ and ‘art-loving tycoon’. The Sun attempted to contact Grace Brand in Mexico but was told she had collapsed.

  The stories detailed Brand’s enormous holdings in real estate, oil, radio stations, cattle ranches, tankers and hotels. There were pictures of The White Dolphin, the Gulfstream jet and the house in Acapulco, described as ‘Xanadu by the sea’.

  Most of the papers contacted Julia’s office during the day. Discovering that she had called in sick with flu they telephoned Moscato direct. Next day he was reported to be outraged at the scandalous stories being printed about his wealthy guest. ‘Clearly he felt unwell after taking a shower and lay down on the bed, pulling a robe over himself,’ he said.

  Although the Chelsea police, called in immediately, made it clear there was no suspicion of foul play, and the hotel doctor stated categorically that it was a straightforward heart attack, stories about Brand continued to surface all week. A married multimillionaire found dead in an expensive London hotel suite with suggestions of a mystery woman – a tabloid news editor could not ask for more.

  Parsons, tracked down by a group of photographers and reporters, threatened physical violence when he was accosted leaving the hotel. A picture of the old man, arm upraised, appeared in the Evening Standard. Then one of the papers got hold of a young steward from The White Dolphin who, baited with money, talked about Brand’s cruise to Corsica with a young woman. ‘They seemed very much in love,’ the steward reported. ‘They certainly slept together.’ Next day several papers took up the hunt for the woman. A reporter, sneaking a look at the log of The White Dolphin, found out where it had gone in Corsica and confronted Jean Louis and Nicole. They sent him on his way. ‘Mr Brand was a cherished friend of ours,’ Jean Louis said angrily. ‘We do not betray the friendship now that he is no longer here.’

  Huddled in her flat Julia combed the papers each morning, fearful that her relationship with Brand was about to be exposed. As the days passed, and it was not, she felt ashamed at her concern. She ate nothing but dry toast and fruit. The thought of food nauseated her. When Lisa finally insisted on coming to see her she was shocked how gaunt and ill Julia looked.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you can’t go on like this. Deena isn’t due back from her father’s till next month. I’m going to move in to look after you.’

  ‘I’d rather be alone,’ Julia said.

  ‘He wouldn’t have wanted this,’ Lisa said. ‘He’d have been horrified to see you like this.’

  With fatigue and exhaustion battling despair for first place in her body Julia looked at her friend with hollow eyes. ‘I loved him, Lisa. I loved him so much.’ And then the tears came and racked her body as Lisa held her close.

  It was a week before Julia returned to the hotel. To her relief she discovered that Moscato had gone to Rome on a two-week vacation. She still looked pale and sick, and Emma made no secret of her concern.

  ‘You should still be in bed,’ she said severely. ‘You’re not at all well. Please see the doctor.’

  Julia looked at the grey-haired woman whose distress was so clearly genuine and squeezed her hand. ‘Thanks, Emma. I’ll be all right.’

  She wished she could be certain this was true.

  By this time Julia had missed Brand’s funeral, which took place privately in New York. A service was held afterwards at St Patrick’s Cathedral. Black limousines stretched around the block, reported the Independent’s correspondent in New York.

  Elliott Hirsch, who for more than thirty years had acted as the Brand Corporation’s general counsel, and who now took over as President, eulogized Brand as a brilliant man and a great philanthropist, who was always prepared to share his wealth with those less fortunate. So moving were some of the tributes that Grace Brand, who had flown in from Mexico, broke down during the service and had to be escorted out.

  Reading this at her desk Julia felt an increased sense of isolation. Robert Brand had been her lover; he was the father of her unborn child. Now he was buried some 3,000 miles away, being praised by people of whom she had never heard.

  She closed her eyes, fighting hard to keep the tears from coming again. God in heaven, she thought, will I never stop weeping?

  As the days passed, stories about Brand disappeared from the news pages. Soon the press was taken up with a new sensation. And although at first the Burlington had buzzed with rumours about Brand’s death – with Emma speculating endlessly whether any of them were true – soon they too ceased.

  Julia rarely left the office before 7.30 p.m. Now that Lisa had moved in with her they usually ate at home, for Julia wanted to avoid seeing people she knew.

  She did her best to follow the regimen set down by the doctor, drinking a lot of milk, eating well-balanced meals prepared by Lisa and taking plenty of exercise. Sometimes, when the nausea continued on and off throughout the day, she was wiped out by the time she reached home.

  Again Lisa broached the subject of abortion. ‘There’s just no way you can keep this child,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to make a decision.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Julia said.

  ‘You’ve got to talk about it. While Robert was alive it might just have worked. But now you’re on your own. Soon you’ll have to quit your job. You think that bastard Moscato will keep it open for you? No way. You’ll have a child and no job. For God’s sake be sensible. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking what you’re doing is courageous. It isn’t.’

  ‘I know that.’

  She had already come to a decision. She would not have an abortion. With Robert gone that seemed the ultimate act of betrayal to his memory. And she wanted the child. She was not being courageous, or sentimental, or romantic. She wanted the child bec
ause it was his. And he had made it possible for her to have it and support it.

  ‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ she said. ‘Robert made sure I was taken care of. He made arrangements.’

  Lisa, pouring herself a glass of wine, looked up. ‘What sort of arrangements?’

  ‘He opened a bank account for me.’

  ‘Then you’ve got some money?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What do you mean, you think so?’

  ‘I haven’t signed papers or anything. I was supposed to do that the next day. Then –’

  ‘Where is this money?’

  ‘In Switzerland.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘It’s his bank.’

  ‘Do you know how much?’

  ‘Twenty million dollars.’

  Lisa half rose from her chair, knocking over the red wine. It spilled across the white cloth and dripped down onto the floor. She jumped up to get a paper towel, looking at Julia with astonishment.

  ‘Twenty million dollars?’

  ‘Yes. He said he wanted us to be all right.’

  Lisa tossed the wine-soaked paper into the waste bin. ‘And I’ve been worried sick about you. Julia, you’re rich. You’ve no more worries. You can keep the child; you can do anything you like.’ She shook her head. ‘Which bank is it?’

  ‘I’ll get the paper.’

  She fetched the page.

  ‘Banque Eberhardt,’ Lisa read. ‘Rue de Hesse. Geneva.’ She looked up. ‘You must call them immediately. Ask what the next step is.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit tasteless? So soon?’

  ‘Julia, this is a bank we’re talking about. Banks don’t have souls. This is business. If Robert set up an account for you there the money belongs to you. Promise me you’ll call tomorrow.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Paul Eberhardt slammed down the telephone, shaken by Grace Brand’s drunken rage. The woman was out of her mind. She was asking him to do the unthinkable, to undo an account that had already been set up, confirmation of which was in his files and in the computer.

  Did she really think he could suppress it? Pretend that the order for a £20 million transfer of funds had never taken place? The idea was insane.

  Although the order to set up the new account had come through the day after Robert Brand died, instructions for it had gone into effect before his death. That made it legal and binding. That was Swiss law.

  But if he ignored Grace Brand’s shouted demands, what then? She was crazy enough to do anything.

  And what about the Lang woman? What was he supposed to tell her when she called? I’m sorry. There is no account. How could he do that?

  He cursed himself for calling Mexico. He had felt bound to offer sympathy to the widow and, since Brand was now dead, bring up the subject of the new account. He had not anticipated the stream of abuse which followed.

  He buzzed his secretary. ‘I need the last Brand file.’

  A moment later she came in holding a folder. ‘Will you need me further, Monsieur Eberhardt? It’s past six.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘So it is. No, Marte, you may go.’

  ‘The file?’

  ‘I’ll replace it myself.’

  He opened the file and flicked through the contents.

  There it was in Brand’s own writing.

  Following my phone call you are to set up an account for Julia Lang, Flat 5, 208 Great Portland Street, London W1, England, and transfer £20 million from account 0279270 held with you. Acknowledge. Brand.

  Scribbled at the bottom was the word ‘Acknowledged’, followed by Eberhardt’s initials.

  It was the last message in the file. Attached to it was Brand’s obituary clipped from the Herald Tribune.

  Eberhardt picked up the phone and dialled the extension of his new partner, Alain Charrier.

  ‘We have a slight problem …’ he began.

  When Julia tried to call the Banque Eberhardt, having got the number from directory enquiries, she was so nervous she twice misdialled the last digit of the code. Finally she got it right.

  ‘Banque Eberhardt.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Monsieur Eberhardt.’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘My name is Julia Lang.’

  ‘One moment.’

  One moment became two. Then three. Finally the voice came back: ‘I regret, madame, that Monsieur Eberhardt is unavailable. Perhaps one of our officers could help you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A minute later a deep, heavily accented voice came on the line: ‘This is Alain Charrier.’

  ‘My name is Julia Lang, Monsieur Charrier. I’m calling with regard to an account set up for me by Mr Robert Brand.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Your name again?’

  ‘Julia Lang. I live in London.’

  ‘Who do you say set up an account?’

  ‘Robert Brand.’

  Another pause. ‘Are you sure it was this bank?’

  ‘The Banque Eberhardt. I’m positive. He wrote it down.’

  ‘One moment.’

  Finally the man came back. ‘We seem to have no record of your name, Miss Lang.’

  ‘Perhaps it was done directly with Monsieur Eberhardt?’

  ‘Who set up this account?’

  ‘I told you.’ Julia realized her voice had risen slightly. ‘Robert Brand. You are his bankers, aren’t you?’

  ‘We never discuss our clients, Miss Lang. In any event, as I say, I can find no trace of an account in your name.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Perhaps you should write us a letter, Miss Lang, stating the facts. We will certainly look into it further.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me now?’

  ‘Good day, Miss Lang.’

  That night over dinner Julia related the conversation to Lisa.

  ‘Fly to Geneva,’ Lisa said. ‘See this man Eberhardt. Get it straightened out. You know banks. Someone probably lost the file.’

  ‘They sounded as if they didn’t believe me.’

  ‘They’re Swiss, Julia. They don’t believe anybody where money is concerned.’ She finished her dessert. ‘You know Al Sherrill, the Herald Tribune Financial Editor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He lived in Geneva for a couple of years. He’s sure to know someone you can talk to if you run into problems. I’ll call him tonight.’

  The following week, with Moscato still away, Julia took the Monday off and flew to Switzerland.

  Chapter 27

  Julia arrived at Cointrin Airport in drizzling rain and took a taxi into town. Geneva looked grey and grim; the skies were overcast; the magnificent mountains, which form such a dramatic backdrop to the ancient city, were shrouded in mist.

  She had been there once before on holiday with her parents but that had been in summer when the waterfront was busy with steamers plying their way between Geneva and the lakeside towns. Now the pleasure boats bobbed at anchor in the harbour.

  She checked into the Hôtel des Bergues and, after lunch in the restaurant and a glass of white wine to bolster her confidence, took a taxi to the rue de Hesse.

  She was surprised when the cab drew up outside a grey building with nothing but a small brass plate to identify it. Only the heavy wrought-iron door suggested anything but an ordinary office building.

  In the lobby a uniformed attendant sat behind a desk on which stood a couple of TV monitors.

  ‘I wish to see Monsieur Eberhardt,’ Julia said.

  ‘You have an appointment?’

  ‘He will know who I am.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Julia Lang.’

  ‘Please.’ The attendant indicated a door to one side of the lobby. ‘If you will wait in there.’

  Julia went into a small anteroom that held nothing but a desk and two chairs. On the desk were that morning’s editions of the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times.

  Two minutes passed.<
br />
  A man, grey-suited and silver-haired, wearing pince-nez, walked in. ‘Miss Lang? I am Alain Charrier. We have already spoken on the telephone. How can I help you further?’

  ‘I asked to see Monsieur Eberhardt,’ Julia said.

  ‘He is not here.’

  ‘When will he be here?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  Julia tried to keep her voice calm. ‘Monsieur Charrier, there seems to be some confusion about an account opened here in my name by Robert Brand.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Have you made further enquiries?’

  ‘We can find no trace of the account.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. Mr Brand told me categorically that he had set up an account for me.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just before he died.’

  ‘What is the number of this account?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Charrier frowned. ‘All accounts at this bank have a number, Miss Lang.’

  ‘I was to get it the following day.’

  ‘I see.’ Charrier nodded. ‘One moment.’

  He was gone ten minutes. Julia grew increasingly restive. What was wrong? Why was he keeping her waiting like this? She felt panic setting in. Finally Charrier returned.

  ‘Miss Lang, I have made the most careful enquiries. We have no record of any account.’

  ‘Perhaps there is a code … ?’

  ‘We do not have codes here, Miss Lang, except internal ones. There must be some mistake. Another bank, perhaps?’

  ‘It was this bank,’ Julia said.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’