The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  §

  Coming from opposite ends of "Change Alley," Mac and George greeted each other with an exuberance accumulated throughout the morning when each had realized what it meant: that the scheme was over. Months of tension now dissipated in the crisp air as sunlight found its way into the narrow alley and bathed both men with momentary warmth as they clapped each other about the shoulders. To the idle onlooker, they could have been brokers successful in a morning's coup or City speculators informing each other of an improving market.

  They stamped their feet to improve circulation, blew warm breath into the cold air and smiled in anticipation of Edwin Noyes's imminent arrival. The rendezvous time had been strictly set. It was eleven thirty.

  The four-seater growler was unable to enter the narrow alley, so Edwin Noyes alighted at the southern end and, taking the leather bag in one hand and the package from the Continental Bank in the other, began awkwardly to negotiate the increasing pedestrian traffic that flowed to and fro from Cornhill and Lombard Street.

  Dogs chasing a cat almost took Edwin's feet from under him, and four urchins ran by, knocking into him, one of them depriving the gen'lem'n of a loose handkerchief from his side pocket. Edwin's nose was running and he was irritated by the time he saw George and Mac. Their laughter at his condition and disheveled appearance did not soften Edwin's mood; after all, that morning, it was he alone who had completed the operation.

  But it was just that thought which went home to Edwin as George and Mac relieved him of the bag and package, then indicated the warm, inviting interior of Garraway's with sympathetic smiles. Just as the awkward weight had been lifted from his arms by his two friends, so the burden of the past weeks dissolved in his mind; thus a smile was on each of the Americans' faces as they entered Garraway's for the last time.

  §

  The rush and bustle of "Change Alley" continued as the City went about its business. An old man of modest means, waiting in a solicitor's office, adjacent to Garraway's entrance, with a view down the Alley, saw two small chimney sweeps pass; a gypsy seller of lucky heather; two beggars— one legless—who always seemed to be about the area, one dragging the other on a makeshift cart. A pair of well-to-do ladies, veiled against recognition, passed, clinging tightly to each other, chattering excitedly, moving beneath their voluminous dresses as if on wheels, rolling rather than walking. A window cleaner, farther down the way, was washing the bow front of a gentlemen's accouterments shop. The numerous bank messengers ran up and down, clutching their satchels. Three soldiers of a Guards regiment sauntered by, pausing beside the cleaner at the gentlemen's shop before merging with the crowd.

  As the old man shifted in his seat and checked his pocket watch against the ancient clock on the dark interior wall opposite, he took his gaze from the Alley for the first time in some minutes and so missed the emerging figure, moving slowly, coming up the narrow public way as if in a state of shock—ashen and distracted. He was jostled continually but appeared not to notice.

  The old man signed loudly, then coughed, in the hope his solicitor, through the closed door, would remember an appointment already well overdue. He pocketed his watch and again squinted out into the busy Alley, to catch the first sight of a man who, he noted, looked decidedly ill. As the figure stepped slowly into sunlight out of shadow, the old man confirmed his first impression, but then forgot the Alley altogether as the door opened and a clerk beckoned to him from the inner office.

  He went in to his solicitor, rallying arguments to support his important business. He would not pay out more money under any circumstances. It was his opinion that he had been duped. The door closed; the room was. empty; the sole, vaguely concerned witness to Mr. Fenwick's physical state, gone. It was eleven thirty-nine.

  §

  Fenwick felt the need to lean on something the moment he sensed sunlight on his face. He was faint. He put out his hand and steadied himself against the wood support of a doorframe. He could feel warmth from somewhere, but could make no'sense of his surroundings. Thoughts merged with voices. He was unable to decipher reality from the fearful imaginings that inundated his mind.

  The one word at Blydenstein, not twenty minutes before, had destroyed Fenwick's world.

  The door beside Fenwick opened suddenly and several men came out; with them, the warmth of the interior and a babble of conversation. Fenwick smelled alcohol, and the one clear thought of a strong brandy for a moment checked his growing confusion. At eleven forty, Fenwick entered Garraway's.

  "Yes, sir?" asked the young man behind the long bar. Fenwick merely gazed blankly at the face before him. "What'll it be?" the young man questioned again, now with less politeness. Fenwick remained dumb. "Drink?" the young man said in contempt, thinking his customer already drunk. There were others at the bar, and he had no time to fool with the likes of this man. He was about to take another order, and could see one of the waiters signaling from the center of the dining room, already crowded, that drinks would be required, when Fenwick spoke.

  "Brandy," he said, barely audible.

  The bottle was put beside a glass on the bar top and left for the man to serve himself.

  Instinct alone poured the large measure, and only smell guided the strong aroma to Fenwick's lips. Need, not greed, forced the liquid down his throat in one gulp.

  The barman returned to Fenwick; only now did he register the pale face and shaking hand of this customer in a more sensitive light and so added to his experience, that morning, something that was the foundation of the excellent landlord he hoped to become. His previous dismissal of the man before him turned to genuine concern.

  "Something wrong, sir?" he asked Fenwick.

  The man's eyes stared blankly at the barman as laughter came from the far alcove and three American voices faded once more into the general hubbub of the place.

  "The earth..." began Fenwick, to himself.

  "What, sir?" said the barman.

  Seeing the barman for the first time as the warm brandy found its mark, Fenwick became flustered. He turned around and surveyed the throng in the large dining room.

  Across the seated crowd, in one of the alcoves, three men (as unfamiliar to Fenwick as he was to them, yet as inextricably bound together in the next sixty minutes as brothers of the blood) gave a toast, whose words were lost in the din of Garraway's, then drank down the dregs of the first bottle of champagne, before one reached for a second and another pulled the curtain to shut them off and create privacy.

  The perfect Assistant Bank Manager stared into space, stupefied by the turmoil of his mind.

  "That'll be twopence," said the barman, gently.

  Fenwick took out some money and faced the young man, whose furrowed brow showed continued concern.

  "The earth," repeated Fenwick, "has turned about."

  Resolution flooded Fenwick as the brandy went to work, relieving the Assistant Bank Manager of some of his extreme anxiety. Fenwick was gone in the moment it took the young man to reach down for change of the sixpenny piece. Garraway's door slammed shut, and as the young man could see through a small side window which gave on to the alley outside, his erstwhile customer actually began to run.

  §

  There is a gulf where thousands fell,

  Here all the bold adventurers came,

  A narrow sound tho' deep as Hell,

  Change Alley, is the dreadful name.

  Mac began to read from the Swift poem printed beneath the name, GARRAWAY'S, on the daily menu. The three men had decided on an early lunch, commencing with the champagne already opened. George took up the second verse, blissfully unaware that a middle-aged man, moaning to himself in anguish at the thought of what he must reveal to his superior in a matter of moments, was reaching the intersection of 'Change and Cornhill, still on the run.

  Subscribers here by thousands float,

  And jostle one another down,

  Each paddling in his leaky boat,

  And here they fish for gold and drown.

&nbs
p; Edwin Noyes began the last verse just as Mac decided on the duck, George on the lamb and Fenwick mounted the island pavement in front of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.

  Meantime, secure on Garraways cliffs,

  A savage race by shipwreck fed,

  Lie waiting for the foundered skiffs,

  And strip the bodies of the dead.

  Edwin burst into laughter and chose the lamb. Mac filled their champagne glasses. Three empty stomachs tentatively accepted more of the cold bubbling nectar. Noyes, still suffering from the effects of debilitation during his sojourn in New York custody, became almost immediately "slightly the worse for wear." But this was a celebration. Even George thought, as he observed Edwin's already glazed eyes, What the hell!

  "I am never..." began Edwin unsteadily, ".. to go..." he continued loudly, then muting his voice, finished, ".. . to the bank again. Come shake on that." He extended his hands, and both George and Mac reached out and shook enthusiastically. A waiter appeared through the curtain, bowed to the three men and asked their choice of lunch. They began to order.

  §

  Sometimes, Colonel Peregrine Madgewick Francis did not come to the Bank of England on a Saturday. Sometimes he went to the country with his wife and remained there until early on Monday morning. Along with dinners, conferences, the occasional journey abroad or to other parts of Great Britain (all of which were duty, despite the pleasure they more often than not provided), the long week end was a "perk" of office.

  It was as well that March 1 brought a slight fever to the Colonel's wife, cancelling plans to vacate the City in search of first signs of spring in the country.

  Some minutes before midday he was in his "inner sanctum," as he always referred to his office, when Fenwick, unheralded, even by a timid knock on the door, walked in and, unbidden, began talking fast.

  It took several minutes to communicate sense to' Colonel Francis, as information and trivia seemed to issue from Fenwick's mouth at the same time. He babbled. His. superior made no attempt to stem the flow; his ears merely reacted to the single word, repeated, it seemed, with every sentence Fenwick uttered. Finally the man stopped, or rather petered out, as the face behind the desk gradually changed color and its mood became quite visibly dark.

  Peregrine Madgewick rose to his feet slowly and crossed quietly to the long window facing out onto Threadneedle Street. As he put his hands behind his back, first clasped, then locked, his entire body appeared to Fenwick to become rigid. The clock's ticking, the fire's crackling and the muted street sounds lasted almost as long as Fenwick's impromptu speech before anything issued from the lips of the Manager of the Bank of England.

  When it did, it was only the single word, spelled and forced out slowly with increasing volume, so that it finally exploded in the room, leaving no reason to question the might of Empire that lay behind the retribution that would be dealt out to criminal folly. Colonel Francis bellowed.

  "FORGERY!"

  §

  Farley was in Mr. Fenwick's office when his superior ran back down the corridor from the Manager's office and burst in. He crossed straight to his desk, ignoring the young man.

  "Tea, sir?" asked Farley.

  "No!" shouted Fenwick, slamming the open drawer where he normally kept current accounts' queries. "Bring me the Warren file—immediately! Check on all his transactions of the last few days. Send a messenger to Jay Cooke and ..." He paused, suddenly helpless, leaning against the desk as the horror of the impending scandal dawned upon him. He was almost in tears when he said, ". . . and go—yourself, Farley—to Scotland Yard and bring back . . ." He paused again, screwing his eyes tight, his head swimming, "... bring back..." He could hardly say it. "... the police—at once."

  "But..." Farley began, quite perplexed, "... the file, Mr. Fenwick?"

  "Send it in to the Colonel," Fenwick shouted hoarsely. "Now—go!" In fact, it was he himself who left the room to run directly back to the "inner sanctum."

  Farley hesitated a moment longer, quite at sea, then went through into his own adjoining office. As he entered, so did a girl from the corridor leading out to the general offices; she carried a tray on which were milk, sugar, teacup, saucer, spoon, teapot and a jug of steaming water. She knew something was wrong the moment she saw the young man's face.

  Farley looked at the pretty woman and began to reassemble himself; speculation he would leave for the journey to the "Yard," for now he had his instructions. He pointed to the tray and then his desk; he'd take a sip of tea today himself before leaving the building.

  What was in the wind he had, as yet, no idea. That it was something big he had no doubt; that it was. a disaster of sorts he was already correctly guessing; but what he did know was what he said to the girl as he indicated she should leave and reached for the teapot.

  "The moon, girl," he said, " 'as fallen into the Hatlantic Ocean."

  §

  George, Mac and Noyes ate luncheon. By ten minutes after one o'clock they had finished. The plates were cleared. Noyes ordered yet another bottle of champagne. It arrived quickly, the waiter anticipating the need.

  "Speculation and success," said George amiably; and gave the waiter a sovereign. The waiter went, partially drawing the curtain.

  "We're out," began George to his friends, "clean and undetected."

  "And our only loss," Mac laughed softly,; "fifteen thousand pounds." He lifted the glass to his lips.

  "What?" said Edwin. He was, despite ample food and sobering conversation over luncheon of plans to travel fast and far, quite drunk—and dangerously at that, for he did not appear to be; neither did his companions criticize his condition, being much the same themselves.

  Mac patted the black bag beside him, then touched their package from the bank.

  "It's the balance in the Continental," he said.

  "Then that," George said, "John Bull shall have."

  "Indeed," Edwin Noyes said, "he shall not."

  George took no heed of this and merely sipped his drink as Mac mischievously produced the Bank of England checkbook, his two pens and the small vials of ink to which they were attached. He laid them out ceremoniously.

  "We've got that one check, George," he said.

  It had always been policy, agreed upon by them all, that no money would be withdrawn from the Continental without money's being, at the same time, deposited. It was the human touch to maintain the confidence of the bank, to allay suspicion that, even for a moment, the traffic of money had become one-way and to facilitate a speedy transaction when the clerk (more often than not knowing Noyes), aware that the Horton account was good and seeing more going in than being withdrawn, would not even leave his window to complete the required procedure of checking the balance.

  It had been precisely like that during the morning: the withdrawal Noyes had made from the Continental had taken only as long as his signatures on the receipt form and the packaging of the notes he had received. Because of this, the implication in Mac's statement of the one check remaining was obvious to both George and Edwin. George's laugh prompted Edwin further.

  "Write it out," he said to Mac. "Warren to Horton, say—for five thousand pounds." Edwin took another sip of the delicious stimulant from his glass as Mac winked at George, then complied, as if obeying an order.

  "It'll do us as pocket money," Edwin said, watching Mac endorse the back with a second signature and the other pen. "I've been once today already, and we've got ..." He paused, took out his pocket watch and saw the time. "... fifteen minutes before the banks close for business." He wafted a hand.

  "All's well," he grinned at George. "That ends well—as it has," said George. "Forget it, Ed." He turned to Mac. "Now tear it up," he said. "I was just about to," replied Mac with a laugh. "Don't!" cried Edwin, and snatched the check. Completely sober, George would have stopped Edwin.

  Totally drunk, Mac would not have been able to write the check properly; but as the very reason people are prepared to buy expensive champagne is to achieve t
hat exquisite state between reality and oblivion, so the mood in that alcove of Garraway's attested to the fact that if this spirit was the goal, money had been well spent.

  Edwin stood up, moved out of the alcove and bumped against the table. Taking his hat, he said, "It'll be nice to have." He crossed the dining room, negotiating the crowded tables admirably, and was out the door before either Mac or George could make any serious effort to stop him. He was gone, and so, suddenly, was the mood between the two remaining men.

  Instinct provided George with adrenaline, and that sobered him fast. He looked hard at Mac.

  "I know it sounds stupid, Mac—but I've got a feeling .. ." George faltered, faintly embarrassed.

  "It's not stupid at all, George," said Mac, already on his feet. "Let's go!"

  Indicating to the waiter that they'd be back, and for him to look after their possessions in the alcove, the two men left Garraway's without ceremony.

  §

  One glass too many and champagne sours to the taste. Cold air on blood warmed by alcohol, drunk in convivial surroundings at a pleasant temperature, sobers or increases the sensation produced by excess. Edwin Noyes, at the steps of the Continental Bank in Lombard Street at one twenty-seven, had a bitter taste in his mouth and not a little regret that he had decided to return one more time. He hesitated a moment; then, knowing the transaction would take only a few minutes, entered the bank. It was no longer busy, and in fact, Mr. Richard Amery was already closing. Edwin arrived at the grille.

  "Hello again, Mr. Noyes."

  "Mr. Amery," said Edwin, "one I forgot." He took out the check and handed it to the teller. Mr. Amery looked at the clock.

  "You just caught me," he said with a smile, and took the check. "Five in, Mr. Noyes?" "And five out," said Edwin.

  Mr. Amery frowned. He had almost completed cashing up in the hope of an early start home.

  "Could it not wait, Mr. Noyes? I'll be glad to see to it first thing next week," he said.

  "I've my instructions, Mr. Amery," said Edwin.

  "I see," Amery replied. He paused a moment; looked at the check, then into his open cash drawer, all neat and stacked tidy. The clock's minute hand, on the wall, ticked to one twenty-nine. "Right, sir," the bank teller said. "I'll just check the balance."