The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "Now, why is that?" asked Edwin, vaguely irritated.

  "Twice in one day is why is that," said Mr. Amery pointedly. "I've my instructions too."

  He began to move away; if he was to be inconvenienced then, what little he could do to reciprocate he would, just to remind his customer not to take liberties in their established business relationship.

  Edwin's mind, even before it could begin to worry, was put at ease by Amery's parting remark.

  "Will you be wantin' hundreds or gold?"

  "Hundreds will do," said Edwin thankfully.

  The two men knew each other well enough now for Edwin to merely sign on behalf of Mr. Horton's money. Enough letters of "request to pay" had passed between them and been eventually dispensed with; the balance check was an occasional irritating formality, which Amery normally did only when the Manager, Stanton, was "out front" amongst his staff.

  Edwin turned around and leaned on the long counter at the grille, watching the few customers "remaining complete their business or file past the guard, now stationed at the double doors. In ten minutes he'd be back at Garraway's with George and Mac—for coffee, he remembered. No more champagne. The minute hand of the bank clock dropped to the half hour.

  George's stride was long and fast; Mac, despite the fact that they'd left overcoats and hats at Garraway's, was warm enough to perspire.

  "Why in hell are we walking up a sweat?" Mac asked, sobering irritably.

  "Mac," said George, his voice taut and harsh, "when Ed walks out of the Continental I'll apologize for your exercise."

  "Okay, okay," said Mac. They both turned into Lombard Street and onto the crowded pavements where early starters were leaving the City, which was closing down for the short week end.

  §

  Mr. Farley, Mr. Fenwick and four policemen pushed past two customers coining out of the Continental as they entered. The guard, recognizing police uniforms, stepped back to allow them passage. Inside the bank, only a few people near the door noticed the group; then, as the entourage crossed toward the access gate to the bank proper, more heads turned in mild curiosity.

  Edwin's back was to the group. Mr. Amery was counting out money on his side of the grille. He looked up casually, saw policemen and indicated the diversion to his customer. Edwin turned around. His entire system reacted, as a man's must at the final drum roll before execution. Mr. Amery was again counting. "Two thousand . . . one hundred, two hundred, three hundred..." Edwin saw the access gate open at the end of the long counter and, through the glass, the Manager's door, first ajar, then pulled back wide. Mr. Stanton was behind his desk as two of the men stepped into the office almost sixty feet away from Edwin and the teller.

  "Three thousand ..." Mr. Amery continued, "... one hundred, two hundred, three hundred ..."

  Edwin looked quickly at the still-open outer doors of the bank. The guard was interested in the distant group, but remained unconcerned as customers continued to file out. "Seven hundred, eight hundred, nine and four thousand..." said Mr. Amery, "... one hundred..."

  Edwin looked around, his brow now beaded with sweat, and saw Mr. Stanton, through the glass, rise from behind his desk; he was shaking his head, but the two men continued talking furiously. The four policemen had entered the bank proper and lounged, seemingly unconcerned, looking about at nothing in particular.

  "You all right, Mr. Noyes?" came Amery's voice.

  Edwin brushed his brow and coughed quickly. "Cold coming, probably," he said harshly. "Have you finished?" His voice broke, and he coughed again to hide it.

  "You'd better take yourself a hot toddy and then to bed, Mr. Noyes," said Mr. Amery pleasantly.

  "Just count," said Edwin; "please," he added plaintively.

  Very slowly, now deliberately, with that look universal to bank tellers, no matter whether they hold your money or are refusing you credit, Mr. Amery began to place final notes on the pile heaped behind his grille.

  "Four hundred, five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred..."

  Hunched over the counter, Edwin caught only a glimpse of Stanton, seemingly on his toes, looking around him, beyond the crowded filing cabinets and along the counter to the only teller still paying out.

  "Four thousand eight hundred, nine hundred and a thousand—that's five, Mr. Noyes," Mr. Amery said impassively. At which precise moment, in the distance, Mr. Stanton pointed and said something to the two men beside him.

  The only immediate clue to Mr. Frederick Albert Warren was in the most recent transactions, according to Bank of England records, with his long-term business acquaintance at the Continental Bank, a Mr. C. J. Horton. Thus Mr. Fenwick had been advised to try there first. As the Bank had been open still when the police, brought by young Farley, promptly arrived in Threadneedle Street, it was decided to waste no time and begin inquiries immediately.

  On their arrival at the Continental and the Manager's office, Mr. Stanton had informed the group, obviously agitated (but with the very best credentials which one of them produced on request), that the customer they sought had been absent some while in person, although indeed his account had an excellent record. But his clerk was a frequent visitor and had, in fact, been in that very morning, he was informed—for further information perhaps, Mr. Stanton suggested (and at that point had risen on his toes to begin a survey of the bank above the level of desks and file cabinets), the teller with whom his clerk did business might be of some help; here he found and pointed to Mr. Amery, who was just finishing business, as all could see, with a last customer.

  As luck would have it—Mr. Stanton smiled at Mr. Fenwick—Mr. Amery (as he now realized) was in fact, at that very moment, dealing with the man whom Mr. Horton had introduced as his personal clerk—a Mr. Noyes.

  Electricity had literally shocked the Victorian world. The increasing uses of this instant transmission of, to the majority, a mysterious force were making reality of the incredible. Soon a switch would (some believed) provide light; now, a button provided sound. No one quite remembered who pressed it that early afternoon in the Continental Bank, but he was excused as what immediately followed was duly unraveled.

  Edwin was dumbfounded at Richard Amery's suddenly open mouth; saw him instantly pull shut the security bars of the grille with time himself only to move his fingers, reaching for the bank notes; heard what must have been the slamming of the great doors behind him; felt perhaps with only the hairs on his neck—or more probably, perceived with the peripheral vision of his left eye—blue uniforms detaching themselves from the distant group.

  His own legs would not move, but everywhere was the sound of running feet, and above it all was the electric cacophony of bells which clanged with a harsh, reverberating ting-a-ling. For one person alone, they were truly the bells of Hell: they rang especially for Edwin Noyes.

  Oranges and Lemons

  WHILE the alarm bells were going off inside the bank, where hell truly broke loose was outside. Instantly the entrance to the Continental became congested as voices rose in the throng, shouting all manner of things. Into this madness George and Mac pushed their way; all eyes were on the closed doors as they slowly began to open.

  George and Mac were the only pair in the crowd who did not have to guess the source of such panic. Mac was beside himself. Even had the discovery happened, as it obviously had, hundreds of men could have answered to Noyes's description had he not been there in the flesh for all to see. His two friends could have shipped off the only recognizable face to any destination; remaining themselves unknown to the authorities. But with Edwin taken, what might happen now? Mac looked desperately at George.

  'His story's solid, George—isn't it?"

  "He'll never betray us, Mac," said George grimly.

  "We've got to do something," said Mac helplessly.

  At that moment a roar went up from the crowd as the great , doors of the Continental opened wide and Edwin Noyes was escorted out. Shouts went up in the throng, packed tight, and not all were out of sympathy with the fell
ow who appeared to be a culprit.

  The police began to force a way through the crowd. In sheer desperation, Mac pushed to within feet of Edwin, but was finally restrained by George. There was a moment, amidst the clamor, when Edwin saw his two friends as they caught his eye. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and appeared calm, as if resigned or confident—which, neither George nor Mac could perceive. He was dragged off. His eventual destination: Newgate Prison.

  "Mac, we've got to leave him," said George. "They don't even know we exist, and they're not likely to, if we go now. We've still got time."

  "In a week, George," pleaded Mac, almost in tears, as the crowd surged past them. "It'll give us time to clear everything, send off the last of the money and . . ." He faltered. ".. . and see what happens to Ed. We've got to help him," he finished.

  "Nothing can be proved," said George emphatically. "With no evidence they can't charge him, let alone hold him long. To the world he's a dupe of some man who's disappeared. They'll have to release him."

  George took Mac by the shoulders and shook him. The crowd, now full of rumors, jostled past; running feet and cries of "Forgery," "Bank of England," "Millions lost" were all around them. Lombard Street had never witnessed such a scene. Mac looked in the direction in which his friend had been taken, and almost sobbing, partly to himself, partly to Edwin, he said, "Stay cool, Ed—stay cool."

  §

  When the two men returned to Garraway's, that too was in an uproar. As they collected their belongings from the waiter, paid the bill and began to leave, the young barman said to them excitedly, " 'Ave you 'eard of the Great Bank Robbery, gentlemen?"

  George nodded for Mac's benefit and led his friend from the very place that had spawned their entire scheme.

  "Nice to 'ave, 'ard to keep," said Mac as he stepped into the cold air, the building already denying sunlight to the Alley, which was dark and dismal. The day was waning fast.

  "Mac," said George—consoling, if he could, his friend— "Ed ain't lost yet."

  Then, the two men themselves became lost in the pedestrian throng of Exchange Alley.

  §

  In the middle of a large room quite bare of decoration—gas lamps on the wall, furnished with solid chairs and a single table—Edwin Noyes, now disheveled, sat quite still and calm, watching his inquisitors mill about. The detective sitting opposite him, only feet away, repeated the same questions once more.

  "This Mr. Horton employed you as his clerk, you say?" came the voice again. "He did," said Edwin calmly.

  "And you answer to the name Edwin Noyes?" the man asked. Edwin nodded, then spoke. "Why am I arrested?" he asked.

  The detective paused and looked at several of the other men moving about in the background, as if to corroborate his statement. "Conspiracy to defraud," he said firmly.

  "Is that a charge?" asked Edwin.

  "It will be," said the detective.

  "Have you evidence to substantiate that?" asked Edwin pointedly.

  The detective shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "You are, at present, aiding our inquiries." "I see," said Edwin. "Now..." began the detective again. "Is it voluntary or obligatory?" asked Edwin. "What?" said the detective, a little put out by Edwin's calm.

  Edwin Noyes had long since decided to play to the hilt the only card he had: innocence. He was doing it superbly, confident that the precautions previously taken to ensure his safety and release should this very thing—the unexpected—occur would be sufficient to procure his freedom. 'Am I arrested?'' asked Edwin.

  "You are—aiding our ..." began the detective once again. He was not overly intelligent, but he looked the part and acted it well, provided he kept his voice low, his face stern and the questions he put fairly simple.

  His height and his background as a sergeant in the Army, with if not a distinguished, at least an adequate record, had also contributed to his promotion. From police uniform to plain-clothes detective had been achieved with the aid of a large moustache and sideburns that, at forty, with some added weight around his midriff, gave him the solid appearance of law and order.

  Although he was now an inspector, his imagination was limited, and his intelligence was—well, he got there in the end, but it took time and patience, both of which, as the world knows, a policemen has aplenty.

  "If I am aiding your ..." Edwin emphasized each word. "... inquiries," he continued, "may I make a request?"

  The detective inspector looked across at the other men in the room. Mr. Fenwick was a taut nervous wreck, but Farley, beside him on another chair, watched the whole procedure fascinated.

  "What is it?" asked the detective of Noyes.

  "I would like a cup of tea," said Edwin. Across the room, Farley involuntarily burst into a quickly stifled guffaw. Just as well, because at that moment Colonel Peregrine Madgewick Francis marched in as if John Bull himself.

  He strode directly up to the detective inquisitor—who stood up to greet this new arrival—and looked long and hard into Edwin's face. Nothing could now shock Edwin, so he merely smiled back pleasantly.

  "My name is Francis," said the Manager of the Bank of England. "The man is American?" he continued.

  "We believe so," said the detective.

  "Then I want American detectives in on this," Francis continued. "I want a full report of your intentions."

  "The usual precautions have been taken, sir," began the detective sergeant sonorously. "All ports and stations are full alert. Major cities—er—roads, main routes, are being watched. We have already cabled the United States of America and, come morning, the relay will have instructed even Australia of what information we have at the moment."

  "And what is that, may I ask?" said Peregrine Madgewick.

  The detective shifted uncomfortably on his feet now, wishing he could relax with a pipe, alone, to think this whole thing out. "Well, sir," he started, "er, nothing—yet, sir."

  Colonel Francis swallowed and by sheer effort of will retained his composure. "My office, I hope," he said, looking across at both Farley and Fenwick, who actually changed color to a pale green, "... has been ..." continued Francis,"... co-operative?"

  The detective nodded. The Colonel continued.

  "Then when can we expect what must be a speedy arrest of this man"—he paused at the name and spoke it with hate—"Warren?"

  " 'Ard to say, sir," said the detective, decidedly uncomfortable.

  "But you have before you—" began Francis, now losing his patience altogether.

  "A man," cut in the detective inspector firmly, now utilizing his authority and what little information he did have at his disposal, "with a completely acceptable story, who is probably a perfect dupe and will shortly be set free—unless . . ." He looked at Edwin, then again at Peregrine Madgewick and shrugged.

  "He will most certainly not be released," said the Colonel.

  "It is the law," said the detective inspector.

  Colonel Francis barely managed to control himself in damning the entire institution of order, in all civilized countries, with a few choice words. He swallowed and spoke tersely before leaving.

  "I too, sir, have already cabled—America—for more than information." With that (and his contained fury) he left the room.

  The detective seated himself again. A policeman brought in a large tea tray full of steaming mugs. Milk, sugar and the stewed Indian brew of British prison beverage arrived for all in the room. Edwin had his first taste of what was to become familiar. The only one who choked on it was Fenwick.

  §

  More than a week passed for the police, with nothing to show at the end of their investigations but a mass of proof favoring Edwin Noyes's innocence. As he stressed continually, there was nothing to conceal, and if co-operation would speed his eventual release, then these guardians of law to whom he spoke daily, his inquisitors, had only to ask—politely.

  They went to Durrant's. Indeed Mr. Noyes had been a resident, and apart from a few late-night arrivals, with perhaps a lady visi
tor and a little too much to drink, he had been an excellent occupant of two rooms for several months.

  The Manager remembered, quite distinctly, the interview with the Mr. Horton described by detectives, and commented on Mr. Noyes's pleasure at being accepted as his confidential clerk. The newspaper clipping, among Edwin's effects, confirmed the fact that he had solicited for the job in a quite normal way on arrival from America.

  Edwin's introduction to Mr. Stanton at the Continental Bank had been through an official business appointment, and he had been accepted by the Manager solely on the recommendation of his excellent depositor Mr. C. J. Horton. There was not one shred of evidence to prove that Edwin Noyes was anything but an employee of the man, and in no way could he be connected with any nefarious dealings that it was, even now, only assumed had been conducted between Horton and Mr. F. A. Warren.

  Edwin, of course, denied ever knowing Mr. Warren, other than by the checks that came to him via Mr. Horton personally, or were left at the Terminus Hotel. This was amply corroborated by the receptionist, who had grown accustomed to Mr. Noyes and had seen nothing unusual in the employer-employee relationship observed between Mr. Horton and his confidential clerk.

  Alfred Joseph Baker at Jay Cooke, McCulloch and Company confirmed the business transactions with Mr. Noyes and added that it was his opinion that Horton's clerk had little knowledge of F. A. Warren; their conversations had established that they had indeed never met. "Don't know the man myself was his direct quotation of Noyes reluctantly taken down by the police. The fact that a description of Warren exactly tallied that of Horton was, Edwin assured his inquisitors, as much a surprise to him as it was to the authorities.

  The London press overflowed with headlines and columns; the dailies, weeklies and even monthlies speculated with amazement that an impregnable system could be so easily breached and that the fraud could remain undetected for such a length of time. The consensus was that Mr. Edwin Noyes was an innocent dupe and should be immediately set free. Only continued pressure from the Bank withheld liberty from the young American. It had become a scandal and was beyond all law and justice, it was declared.