Banker's Draft

by Clive Mullis

  Cornwallis gave his proxy a brief smile and shook his head. ‘No, nothing wrong. I’m only here to see a couple of people and thought I’d better see how you’re doing. Everything okay?’

  ‘Oh, rather,’ he exclaimed, relaxing again. ‘It’s been such fun. Voting here, voting there, never a dull moment.’

  ‘Good, good. Glad you’re enjoying yourself.’ Cornwallis smiled again and a long pause ensued, he had never really managed a long conversation with Conrad, who was a product of the same education system as himself; he knew his manners and which spoon to use for the soup, which summed up his total list of qualifications. Cornwallis considered him naive, but harmless; which was why he chose him to be his understudy. He’d known him from school, but Conrad had no title, a definite disadvantage for someone who had no discernible talent. He looked as innocent as a new born puppy and acted like one too. Cornwallis coughed gently and thought he’d better at least try to show some interest. ‘What are you up to at the moment?’

  ‘Oh, well, lots of things really,’ Conrad chirruped. ‘We have a major vote concerning the Gornstock Bank this afternoon, I did wonder if you’d come here because of that; and the other day we had a vote granting a loaf of bread a week to the elderly and infirm: they’re to get one each, free.’

  ‘Wonderful idea,’ replied Cornwallis cynically. How the elderly and infirm could survive on just a loaf of bread a week was beyond him; the normal government policy was to give them as little as possible in the hope that they would die off quicker. ‘And what is the bank vote for?’

  ‘Well, it’s to lend it some money. Apparently, it hasn’t got much for some reason or other so it has asked the Assembly to help out a bit.’

  Cornwallis looked confused. ‘Hang on,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘Let’s go through that again. You just said the bank has got no money?’

  Conrad nodded. ‘That’s what they say. I’m doing as you said and following the lead from your father. Apparently, we’re voting against it, but it will probably still go through. It’s jolly exciting all this you know.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ A kernel of concern lodged itself into his mind, but Conrad would know nothing, so it would be a waste of time trying to talk to him about it; he would just have to speak to his father. ‘Oh, well, I’d better leave you to it then.’

  ‘Right you are, Jocelyn,’

  Cornwallis frowned in thought as he made his way back down the corridor. He couldn’t fathom how the bank could have run out of money; that was what it was there for. He felt sure that Conrad had got it wrong, that it was really the other way around and the bank had to lend the government money, the normal way of doing things. He knew his father would be in the bar by now and so headed downstairs to the first floor.

  The bar bustled with activity; he walked through the door and it seemed as if every member of the Assembly had made an appearance. Cornwallis threaded his way through the throng, nodding a greeting every now and then, recognising some and having not a clue as to who some of the others were. He forced his way to the counter where some bar staff were taking orders and waited until he caught the eye of one. He popped a couple of olives into his mouth and looked around for the pork scratchings, but there were none there, the greedy bastards had already emptied the pots. He fished out the book of matches that MacGillicudy found at the scene last night and compared it to the ones on the counter. The pictures were different.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The bartender interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Ah, yes. A pint of splodge please,’ answered Cornwallis, remembering that splodge was the general term in here for best bitter. Within seconds a foaming pint appeared and Cornwallis thought that they must have a few already drawn, sitting there, waiting beneath the counter.

  ‘I’ll put it on your tab, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m Cornwallis, but you can put it on my father’s. Before you go could you take a look at this for me?’ Cornwallis handed over the little book of matches and waited while the barman twisted and turned it in his hands.

  ‘It’s a matchbook, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ he replied patiently. He wanted to say more, but knew he couldn’t, not if he wanted another drink, that is. ‘It’s different to these others; do you know why?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. These ones are for the members,’ he said, indicating the pile on the counter, ‘and this one comes from the Inner Ring’s bar, sir. They like to be a little different to everyone else, sir,’ he added in a lower voice.

  ‘The Inner Ring? Oh, yes, of course, silly me; must have picked up the wrong one.’

  The bartender smiled sympathetically, obviously used to the eccentricities of Assembly members and now he would just add another one to the list. Cornwallis eased himself away and went to look for his father; he would undoubtedly be here somewhere.

  The only people allowed in the Inner Ring bar were the inner circle of government who hammered out all the major policies. That meant, the head of the government, also known as The Warden, and his Inner Ring colleagues, plus the secretariat of the various departments.

  Cornwallis ticked off in his head the names of those who could use the Inner Ring Bar when he saw Radstock over on the far side talking to a couple of men who he didn’t know, he watched the secretary for a few seconds, but then a group came and stood right in front of him, blocking out his view. When he got to peer around the group, Radstock had gone. ‘Bugger,’ he said quietly. He took another mouthful of beer and had a moment where he remembered how drunk he’d been last night and how he meant to cut back, but then he decided to cut back tomorrow and took another pull. His eyes scanned the bar as he walked around and eventually spotted his father holding court with three of his cronies. He walked over and his father stopped mid-flow as he caught sight of his son.

  ‘Gods, a visitation. Given up the day job, my boy?’ bantered Cornwallis senior, the Earl of Bantwich.

  Cornwallis smiled back. He was looking at himself in thirty years’ time, the only difference being that his father had grey hair and dressed with more panache; light green suit with a gold waistcoat, and wearing a frilly cravat at the neck, which really looked more like a waterfall under his chin. ‘Not yet, but don’t worry, when I stick the silver spoon back up my arse, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Hope for you yet then my boy,’ replied the earl with a smile. ‘What brings you to this den of iniquity then?’

  ‘A little enquiry, that’s all.’ He got on well with his father which was unusual amongst the peerage; probably because they moved in different circles so had no need to compete. ‘I just saw Conrad; he tells me there’s a vote this afternoon on the bank, apparently, it’s run out of money. What’s it all about?’

  ‘You started to become interested in politics, then?’ asked the earl with a raised questioning eyebrow.

  ‘No worries there, I’m afraid, it’s just that it sounded a bit strange.’

  ‘Not so strange when you think about it. The bank is as greedy as ever but it’s over-reached itself this time. I think we need to give it a kick in the old whatsits and stop the loan it’s asking for. But it will go through; a lot of people here will lose a lot of money if it doesn’t.’

  ‘But you won’t?’

  The earl grinned. ‘Let’s get it right, we won’t.’ He apologised to his cronies and steered Cornwallis away. ‘I’ll explain, but we don’t want everybody to know our business.’ He caught hold of a steward, ordered two pints of splodge and then indicated an alcove where they could speak in private. Once they had settled on the plush red velvet seating, the earl began. ‘We have a good accountant, my boy, very dextrous with figures he is.’

  Cornwallis nodded in understanding. ‘Roland Goup you mean?’

  ‘The very same, how did you know that? Never mind, probably told you at some time. Well, Roland is the best accountant in the city and has managed to move most of our money away; he’s put it into hard currency, gold, silver, diamonds, etc, and of course the odd bond or two,
some of it here, and some of it abroad. The result is that we keep only a small percentage in the bank over here and that’s what he declares for our income. It’s a bit underhand, I know, but it’s not exactly illegal. The upshot is that we may lose a little should the bank collapse, but most of it is safe.’

  ‘And that’s what everybody else has done is it, moved their money out?’

  ‘Oh no, only the more prudent of us, that’s why the vote will go through. You may not notice, but most of the people here are panicking like mad. The bank has got them by the short and curlies. I don’t doubt that there has been some under-the-counter dealing in all this, it’s probably buying the votes of half the people here.’

  ‘And what will happen to the people out there?’ Cornwallis indicated with his hand the general populace of Gornstock.

  ‘I’m afraid that it’s going to be bad for them; they don’t know it yet, but they will soon, whatever happens. The problem for them is that they lose either way. If the bank collapses, then their money goes too, if the Assembly loans the bank the money it needs, then the Assembly will need to claw it all back, and that income will come from the taxes. Where the bank has leant money, it will demand it back, probably at a very high rate of interest. In either case the general public will pay. It’s hard I know, but that’s their lot in life. They’ve got to have something to be miserable about, it keeps them happy.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is, but the point is…’ and he waved his arm around the bar ‘… is that this lot doesn’t have to pay.’

  Cornwallis slowly shook his head at the injustice. ‘So why has the bank got into this state anyway?’

  ‘Good question, my boy. It invested the money badly, speculated too much, and when it came to pull it all back there wasn’t anything there. It neglected to put the money in safe areas like gold, etc, and instead put it into a paper chase, relying on the success of large businesses here and abroad. Basically it played the market and lost.’

  ‘And we have to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘I understand now. So Roland Goup has protected our money then.’

  ‘He has, clever man that.’

  ‘And if I told you that at present, I’m investigating the murder of Roland Goup’s cleaner at his office, and that the said Roland Goup has disappeared, and that whoever murdered the cleaner also got away with some files, what would you say?’

  The earl stared at his son in dismay; he went pale as the blood drained from his face. ‘Tell me you’re not.’

  ‘I am, and Radstock knows about it too.’

  The steward returned with two pints, took one look at the earl and beat a hasty retreat. He didn’t want to have to deal with another corpse; these old members have got into the habit of dropping dead in the bar, and he was buggered if he was going to deal with another one.

  ‘Radstock?’ The earl had taken a large gulp of splodge which had the effect of restoring a little colour to his cheeks. ‘What’s he got to do with it all?’

  Cornwallis explained how Bough had given him the investigation on the behest of the Secretary to the Department of Justice. He outlined what Bough had told him and where he’d got to so far in the investigation. He showed him the matchbook and told him how Roland Goup had disappeared. In fact, he told him everything. He had no concerns that his father would tell anyone, and it might be just as well that there would be someone in the Assembly able to keep their eyes and ears open. A dropped word here, a whisper there, might be enough to lead him to the person behind it all.

  ‘Well, this is all a bit of a shock, I can tell you.’ The earl drained his pint and clicked his fingers at another steward. Two more pints were shortly on the way. ‘I’m going to have to think this one through. The good news is that I have all the documents so that our money is still safe. It is a bit inconvenient, but it should pose no problem. But you don’t know whose file went missing?’

  ‘No, could be a choice of three, I think: Dooley, Dumchuck or Dumerby. Do you know any of Goup’s clients?’

  ‘God’s no, I have my suspicions who some may be, but we tend to keep it all quiet. It’s not the done thing to talk about personal finances here. Those names are interesting though. As you know, Dooley is a member of the Inner Ring as Chief of the Treasury, and Dumchuck is president of the Gornstock Bank. Dumerby retired as head of the Stock Market last year. If you are going to rattle any of them, I would step very carefully.’

  ‘I know; I will have to be very certain before doing anything. I’ll speak to Radstock first though.’

  ‘No, don’t. Leave him to me. I have a little leverage I can use,’ and he winked conspiratorially.

  Cornwallis would have liked to have asked more, but he knew his father wouldn’t tell him what the leverage might be. He would just have to trust him.

  ‘Come up to us in the next few days, your mother thinks you’ve left the country.’

  Cornwallis agreed, and they passed the next half hour in pleasant conversation with the accompaniment of a couple more pints. Finally, the bell went for the members to take their place for the vote and the bar began to empty.

  *

  Cornwallis chewed the cud as he walked down the street. He had his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and jangled the money as he walked, totting up how much he found. It came to eight dollars and forty three cents. He’d been hungry when he left his father, so he’d grabbed one of Sal’s sausages from across the road. He hadn’t been expecting that she would launch into him in that way and it had taken him a little by surprise.

  ‘Do you think you should be taking on a young slip of a girl like that in your line o’work? She ‘as too many bits and pieces if you asks me,’ she had said, doing a pretty good job of indicating Rose’s figure. ‘At her age she should be at ‘ome pumping out the kids, not gallivanting around the streets looking like that. Me stall got rammed with people, an’ I couldn’t serve the half of them as they kept looking at ‘er and whimpering; and they wouldn’t move away. She ain’t going to blend in the background like you and Frankie can, you know. People are going to notice her. And anyway’s, you need to get a haircut if you intend trying to do what I think you’re intending trying to do. No, on second thoughts, don’t think it, just do it; ask her out, show her the sights, be romantic. You can manage romantic, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sal,’ he replied meekly. Was he really that transparent? Perhaps she had a point; he hadn’t had a haircut for a while now. A bit of male grooming might give the right impression, smarten himself up a little, and you never know what might happen. He’d tried to convince himself that he had taken her on for all the right reasons, but in reality, he had taken her on for all the wrong reasons, and he suspected that Rose knew this too. Perhaps he shouldn’t have a haircut after all.

  The little bell gave a tinny sounding ting as he pushed open the door. The shop was empty, so he sat down and picked up yesterday’s paper while he waited; the drapes over the internal door were pulled shut, so he thumbed through the broadsheet, just scanning all the gloom and doom headlines. An Aardvark had eaten its owner, a ghost had been arrested for burglary; but the police had difficulty in keeping the handcuffs on. The woodcut print on page three looked interesting, but he really wasn’t bothered that Chardonay from Appleridge thought the new government policy of a loaf of bread a week was generous and showed how much they really cared; it was more to the point, that with her, there really were a couple of points where you could hang your hat. He flipped through the pages some more and then finally laid it down, destined to be cut into pieces and hung on a nail on the privy wall, a fitting end to a gutter press rag, poor Chardonay, he thought, he wondered if she knew.

  ‘Oh, Meester Cornwallis, welcome welcome. It’s bin’ a long long time since we ‘a seen you. Come through, come through.’ Alphonse gave a big beaming smile and put his hands together as if in prayer.

  Cornwallis winced at the sight of the colours; a
yellow flecked coiffure with a bright red shirt and yellow trousers, but worst of all, he wore sandals. But he stood up anyway and followed Alphonse through, trying not to look at the ensemble.

  He stepped through the heavy drapes to another room with a tiled floor where three chairs faced the wall with a mirror in front of each. It was empty apart from a meerkat who had a roll-up stuck in the corner of its mouth and wore a tartan flat cap, sweeping up the hair cuttings with a tiny broom. Alphonse clapped his hands and shortly a young girl came out.

  ‘Look who’s a ‘ere, Sophie, it’s a Meester Cornwallis.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Cornwallis, what can we do for you? Wash, cut and blow-dry?’ Sophie affected the irritating hairdressers’ chirpiness as she led him to a chair.

  ‘Just a trim please,’ muttered Cornwallis awkwardly.

  She sat him down and quickly wrapped a large sheet around him and tucked it into his collar. She then ran her fingers through his hair which caught on the tangles. ‘Oh no, this will not do. It’s going to have to be the full works. It’s lank, got no body and split ends are everywhere.’

  Before he could protest, Cornwallis felt the chair spinning around, she reached forward and pulled a handle over the sink and hot water gushed out. The chair tipped back and before he knew it, Sophie dumped some shampoo and began to wash his hair.

  ‘Tut-tut, you should take better care, Mr Cornwallis,’ she admonished, as she lathered up. ‘A man in your position must always look the part. People like smart, and the smarter the better. Of course there are always your lady friends too, they like to feel that you take the trouble with your appearance, it makes them think that you care.’

  She droned on and on and Cornwallis managed to blank most of it out; he shut his eyes and began to relax, finding it really quite pleasant as she massaged his scalp. He just got to the point of drifting off when the chair sprang forward and she wrapped a towel around his head. The chair spun around again and Sophie began to rub vigorously to dry the excess moisture. ‘Now, let’s see what we can do for you,’ she said, as the scissors began to snip.