The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘That may well be the case,’ said Henry, ‘but you still only paid yourself forty-two thousand last year,’ he continued, ‘which is less than one per cent of your turnover.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Angela, ‘but I enjoy the work, and it keeps me occupied.’

  ‘But don’t you consider you deserve a better return for your efforts?’

  ‘Possibly, but I only charge my clients five per cent of the profits, and every time I suggest putting my fee up, they always remind me that they are a charity.’

  ‘But you’re not,’ said Henry. ‘You’re a professional, and should be recompensed accordingly.’

  ‘I know you’re right,’ said Angela as they stopped outside the Nat West bank and she dropped the cash into the night safe, ‘but most of my clients have been with me for years.’

  ‘And have taken advantage of you for years,’ insisted Henry.

  ‘That may well be so,’ said Angela, ‘but what can I do about it?’

  The thought returned to Henry’s mind, but he said nothing other than, ‘Thank you for a most interesting evening, Ms Forster. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’ Henry thrust out his right hand, as he always did at the end of every meeting, and had to stop himself saying, ‘See you next year.’

  Angela laughed, leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Henry certainly couldn’t remember when that had last occurred. ‘Goodnight, Henry,’ she said as she turned and began to walk away.

  ‘I don’t suppose . . .’ he hesitated.

  ‘Yes, Henry?’ she said, turning back to face him.

  ‘That you’d consider having dinner with me some time?’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ said Angela. ‘When would suit you?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Henry, suddenly emboldened.

  Angela removed a diary from her handbag and began to flick through the pages. ‘I know I can’t do tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I have a feeling it’s Greenpeace.’

  ‘Monday?’ said Henry, not having to check his diary.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the Blue Cross Ball,’ said Angela, turning another page of her diary.

  ‘Tuesday?’ said Henry trying not to sound desperate.

  ‘Amnesty International,’ said Angela, flicking over another page.

  ‘Wednesday,’ said Henry, wondering if she had changed her mind.

  ‘Looks good,’ said Angela, staring at a blank page. ‘Where would you like to meet?’

  ‘How about La Bacha?’ said Henry, remembering that it was the restaurant where the partners always took their most important clients to lunch. ‘Eight o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Suits me fine.’

  Henry arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early and read the menu from cover to cover – several times. During his lunch break, he’d purchased a new shirt and a silk tie. He was already regretting that he hadn’t tried on the blazer that was displayed in the window.

  Angela strolled into La Bacha just after eight. She was wearing a pale green floral dress that fell just below the knee. Henry liked the way she’d done her hair, but knew that he wouldn’t have the courage to tell her. He also approved of the fact that she wore so little make-up and her only jewellery was a modest string of pearls. Henry rose from his place as she reached the table. Angela couldn’t remember the last person who’d bothered to do that.

  Henry had feared that they wouldn’t be able to find anything to talk about – small talk had never been his forte – but Angela made it all so easy that he found himself ordering a second bottle of wine, long before the meal was over – another first.

  Over coffee, Henry said, ‘I think I’ve come up with a way of supplementing your income.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s talk business,’ said Angela, touching his hand.

  ‘It’s not business,’ Henry assured her.

  When Angela woke the following morning, she smiled as she remembered what a pleasant evening she’d spent with Henry. All she could recall him saying as they parted was, ‘Don’t forget that any winnings made from gambling are tax-free.’ What was all that about?

  Henry, on the other hand, could recall every detail of the advice he’d given Angela. He rose early on the following Sunday and began preparing an outline plan, which included opening several bank accounts, preparing spreadsheets and working on a long-term investment programme. He nearly missed matins.

  The following evening Henry made his way to the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, arriving a few minutes after midnight. He was carrying an empty Gladstone bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. After all, he had to look the part.

  The Westminster and City Conservative Association’s annual ball was coming to an end. As Henry entered the ballroom, party-goers were beginning to burst balloons and drain the last drops of champagne from any remaining bottles. He spotted Angela seated at a table in the far corner, sorting out pledges, cheques and cash before placing them in three separate piles. She looked up and couldn’t mask her surprise when she saw him. Angela had spent the day convincing herself that he didn’t mean it and, if he did turn up, she wouldn’t go through with it.

  ‘How much cash?’ he asked matter-of-factly, even before she could say hello.

  ‘Twenty-two thousand three hundred and seventy pounds,’ she heard herself saying.

  Henry took his time. He double-checked the notes before placing the cash in his battered bag. Angela’s calculation had proved to be accurate. He handed her a receipt for £19,400.

  ‘See you later,’ he said, just as the band struck up ‘Jerusalem’. Henry left the ballroom as the words ‘Bring me my bow of burning gold’ were rendered lustily and out of tune. Angela remained transfixed as she watched Henry walk away. She knew that if she didn’t chase after him and stop the man before he reached the bank, there could be no turning back.

  ‘Congratulations on another well-organized event, Angela,’ said Councillor Pickering, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I don’t know how we’d manage without you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angela, turning to face the chairman of the ball committee.

  Henry pushed his way through the hotel’s swing doors and out onto the street, feeling for the first time that his anonymity was no longer a weakness but a strength. He could hear his heart beating as he headed towards the local branch of HSBC, the nearest bank with an overnight safe deposit. Henry dropped £19,400 into the safe, leaving £2,970 of the cash in his bag. He then hailed a taxi – another departure from his usual routine – and gave the cabby an address in the West End.

  The taxi drew up outside an establishment that Henry had never entered before, although he had kept their accounts for over twenty years.

  The night manager of the Black Ace Casino tried not to look surprised when Mr Preston walked onto the floor. Had he come to make a spot-check? It seemed unlikely, as the company accountant didn’t acknowledge him but headed straight for the roulette table.

  Henry knew the odds only too well because he signed off the casino’s end-of-year balance sheet every April, and despite rent, rates, staff wages, security and even free meals and drinks for favoured customers, his client still managed to declare a handsome profit. But it wasn’t Henry’s intention to make a profit, or, for that matter, a loss.

  Henry took a seat at the roulette table and saw red. He opened his Gladstone bag, extracted ten ten-pound notes and handed them across to the croupier, who in turn counted them slowly before he gave Henry ten little blue and white chips in return.

  There were a number of gamblers already seated at the table, placing bets of different denominations, five, ten, twenty, fifty and even the occasional hundred-pound golden chip. Only one punter had a stack of golden chips in front of him, which he was spreading randomly around the different numbers. Henry was pleased to see that he held the attention of most of the onlookers standing round the table.

  While the man on the far side of the table continued to litter the green baize with golden chips, Henry placed one of his ten-p
ound chips on red. The wheel spun and the little white ball revolved in the opposite direction until it finally settled in red 19. The croupier returned one ten-pound chip to Henry, while he raked in over a thousand pounds’ worth of golden chips from the gambler on the other side of the table.

  While the croupier prepared for the next spin of the wheel, Henry slipped his single chip in the left-hand pocket of his jacket, while leaving his original stake on red.

  The croupier spun the wheel again and this time the little white ball came to a halt in black 4, and Henry’s chip was raked in by the croupier. Two bets, and Henry had broken even. He placed another ten-pound chip on red. Henry had already accepted that if he was to exchange all the cash for chips, it would be a long and arduous process. But then Henry, unlike most gamblers, was a patient man, whose only purpose was to break even. He placed another ten pounds on red.

  Three hours later, by which time he had managed to exchange all £2,970 of cash for chips without anyone becoming suspicious, Henry left the table and headed for the bar. If any one had been following closely what Henry had been up to, they would have observed that he had just about broken even. But then that was his intention. He only ever meant to exchange all the surplus cash for chips before he could execute the second part of his plan.

  When Henry reached the bar, his Gladstone bag empty and his pockets bulging with chips, he took a seat next to a woman who appeared to be on her own. He didn’t speak to her and she showed no interest in him. When Angela ordered another drink, Henry bent down and deposited all of his chips into the open handbag she had left on the floor beside her. He was already walking towards the exit before the barman could take his order.

  The manager pulled open the front door for him.

  ‘I hope it won’t be too long before we see you again, sir.’

  Henry nodded, but didn’t bother to explain that the whole exercise was about to become part of a nightly routine. Once Henry was back outside on the pavement, he walked towards the nearest tube station, but didn’t start whistling until he’d turned the corner.

  Angela bent down and closed her bag, but not before she’d finished her drink. Two men had propositioned her earlier in the evening and she’d felt quite flattered. She slipped off her stool and walked across to join a short queue of punters at the cashier’s window. When she reached the front, Angela pushed the pile of ten-pound chips under the steel grille and waited.

  ‘Cash or cheque, madam?’ enquired the teller, once he’d counted her chips.

  ‘A cheque please,’ Angela replied.

  ‘What name should the cheque be made out to?’ was the teller’s next question.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Angela said, ‘Mrs Ruth Richards.’

  The cashier wrote out the name Ruth Richards, and the figure, £2,930, before slipping the cheque under the grille. Angela checked the figure. Henry had lost £40. She smiled, remembering that he had assured her that over a year it would even out. After all, as he had explained often enough, he wasn’t playing the odds, but simply exchanging any traceable cash for chips, so that she would end up with a cheque which no one would later be able to trace.

  Angela slipped out of the casino when she saw the manager chatting to another customer who had clearly lost a large sum of money. Henry had warned her that the management keeps a much closer eye on winners than losers, and that as she was about to embark on a long and profitable run she shouldn’t draw attention to herself.

  One of Henry’s stipulations was that there should not be any contact between the two of them, other than when he came to collect the takings, and then again for that brief moment when he deposited the chips into her open bag. He didn’t want anyone to think that they might be an item. Angela reluctantly agreed with his reasoning. Henry’s only other piece of advice was that she should not be seen collecting the cash herself during any function.

  ‘Leave that to the volunteers,’ he said, ‘so that if anything goes wrong, no one will suspect you.’

  There are one hundred and twelve casinos located across central London, so Henry and Angela didn’t find it necessary to return to any particular establishment more than once a year.

  For the next three years, Henry and Angela took their holidays at the same time, but never in the same place, and always in August. Angela explained that not many organizations hold their annual events in that particular month. During the season Henry had to make sure that he was never out of town because from September to December Sunday was the only night Angela could guarantee not to be working, and in the run-up to Christmas she often had a lunchtime event, followed by a couple more functions in the evening.

  Although Henry had written the rulebook, Angela had insisted on adding a subclause. Nothing would be deducted from any organization which failed to reach the previous year’s total. Despite this addendum, which incidentally Henry heartily agreed with, he rarely left a function with his Gladstone bag empty.

  The two of them still met once a year at Mr Preston’s office to go over Ms Forster’s annual accounts, which was followed by a dinner a week later at La Bacha. Neither of them ever alluded to the fact that she had siphoned off £267,900, £311,150 and £364,610 during the past three years, and after each function deposited the latest cheque in different bank accounts right across London, always in the name of Mrs Ruth Richards. Henry’s other responsibility was to ensure that their new-found wealth was invested shrewdly, remembering that he wasn’t a gambler. However, one of the advantages of preparing other companies’ accounts is that it isn’t too difficult to predict who is likely to have a good year. As the cheques were never made out in his or her name, any subsequent profits couldn’t be traced back to either of them.

  After they had banked the first million, Henry felt that they could risk a celebration dinner. Angela wanted to go to Mosimann’s in West Halkin Street, but Henry vetoed the idea. He booked a table for two at La Bacha. No need to draw attention to their new-found wealth, he reminded her.

  Henry made two other suggestions during dinner. Angela was quite happy to go along with the first, but didn’t want to talk about the second. Henry had advised her to transfer the first million to an offshore account in the Cook Islands, while he carried on with the same investment policy; he also recommended that in future whenever they cleared another hundred thousand, Angela would immediately transfer the sum to the same account.

  Angela raised her glass. ‘Agreed,’ she said, ‘but what is the second item on the agenda, Mr Chairman?’ she asked, teasing him. Henry took her through the details of a contingency plan she didn’t even want to think about.

  Henry finally raised his glass. For the first time in his life, he was looking forward to retirement, and joining all his colleagues for a farewell party on his sixtieth birthday.

  Six months later, the chairman of Pearson, Clutterbuck & Reynolds sent out invitations to all the firm’s employees, asking them to join the partners for drinks at a local three-star hotel to celebrate the retirement of Henry Preston and to thank him for forty years of dedicated service to the company.

  Henry was unable to attend his own farewell party, as he ended up celebrating his sixtieth birthday behind bars, and all for a mere £820.

  Miss Florence Blenkinsopp double-checked the figures. She’d been right the first time. They were £820 short of the amount she had calculated before the uninvited guest dressed in a pinstriped suit had walked into the ballroom with his little bag and disappeared with all the cash. It couldn’t be Angela who was responsible; after all, she had been one of her pupils at St Catherine’s Convent. Miss Blenkinsopp dismissed the discrepancy as her mistake, especially as the takings were comfortably up on the previous year’s total.

  The following year would be the convent’s one-hundredth anniversary, and Miss Blenkinsopp was already planning a centenary ball. She told her committee that she expected them to pull their socks up if they hoped to set records during the centenary year. Although Miss Blenkinsopp had retired as hea
dmistress of St Catherine’s some seven years before, she continued to treat her committee of old gals as if they were still adolescent pupils.

  The centenary ball could not have been a greater success, and Miss Blenkinsopp was the first to single out Angela for particular praise. She made it clear that in her opinion, Ms Forster had certainly pulled her socks up. However, Miss Blenkinsopp felt it necessary to triple-check the cash they had collected that night, before the little man turned up with his Gladstone bag and took it all away When she went over the figures later in the week, although their previous record had been broken by a considerable amount, the cash entry was over two thousand short of the figure she had scribbled on the back of her place card.

  Miss Blenkinsopp felt she had no choice but to point out the discrepancy (two years running) to her president, Lady Travington, who in turn sought the advice of her husband, who was chairman of the local watch committee. Sir David promised, before putting the light out that night, that he would have a word with the chief constable in the morning.

  When the chief constable was informed of the misappropriation, he passed on the details to his chief superintendent. He sent it further down the line to a chief inspector, who would like to have told his boss that he was in the middle of a murder hunt and also staking out a shipment of heroin with a street value of over ten million. The fact that St Catherine’s Convent had mislaid – he checked his notes – just over £2,000, wasn’t likely to be placed at the top of his priority list. He stopped the next person walking down the corridor and passed her the file. ‘See you have a full report on my desk, Sergeant, before the watch committee meet next month.’

  Detective Sergeant Janet Seaton set about her task as if she was stalking Jack the Ripper.

  First, she interviewed Miss Blenkinsopp, who was most cooperative, but insisted that none of her gals could possibly have been involved with such an unpleasant incident, and therefore they were not to be interviewed. Ten days later, DS Seaton purchased a ticket for the Bebbington Hunt Ball, despite the fact that she had never mounted a horse in her life.