by Stan Mason
He paused as a large beach-ball came bouncing towards him and he struck it so that it went back to the young boy who had kicked it towards him.
‘What else?’
‘He shrugged his shoulders aimlessly again. ‘What else is there? There’s nothing more to tell you.’’
She did not hesitate and became persistent in her interrogation. ‘Break it down into more detail.’
He racked his brain to think more deeply. ‘I try to raise the morale of the staff, check banking documents, delegate some of the work... I really don’t have any more to tell you.’
‘Give me some more detail,’ she went on unabated. ‘There must be something more specific!’
He hesitated to think even deeper. ‘We’re a busy branch right in the centre of London and our customers often need a great deal of money. I know most of the transactions are dealt with by computer these days but there are a number of deals that have to be paid for in cash.’
‘Go on. Tell me about it,’ she continued.
‘I don’t know,’ he reacted feeling somewhat discomforted by the constant interrogation. ‘They’re just deals made by individuals and companies.’
‘Not that!’ she retorted. ‘How much cash does your bank hold in its vaults? That’s what I want to know.’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business!’ He felt quite indignant that she was going to such lengths to find out information that he regarded to be sacrosanct to the bank.
‘It could be if you told me. I’m asking you for a reason,’
He considered that she was becoming impertinent and began to regret having come with her on the vacation. If she was going to pester him every day about banking matters, it might have been more beneficial for him to have stayed in London. However, now that he was trapped in a foreign environment, he considered that the trend of the conversation was becoming far more sinister.
‘I really don’t know what you’re getting at,’ he told her, his temper beginning to rise. Why did she want to know how much money was kept in the safe? There could be only one reason. She was scouting for a group of bank robbers and needed the information so that they could establish which bank to rob and what day to carry out the deed. Waverley suddenly realised that he might be over his head in trouble,
‘Don’t be shy,’ she went on. ‘There’s only the two of us here. You can tell me.’
‘Are you fronting for a gang of robbers?’ he asked directly, identifying that he knew her game and was aware of what she was trying to do.
She burst into laughter apparently astonished at the allegation. ‘What do you take me for?’ she reproached laughingly. ‘Whatever you tell me goes absolutely nowhere else... certainly not to any gang of robbers.’ She burst into laughter loudly as she thought about his accusation. ‘Is that how you think of me? You believe I’m trying to find out information to pass to a gang of robbers! I must say you are funny!’
He thought about her remarks and then accepted her honesty although he had no reason why he should do so.
‘We hold the best part of a million pounds in the bank’s vault,’ he related reluctantly.
‘Wow!’ she said, trying to keep her voice down with the surprise. ‘That’s a lot of money! What’s your involvement with it?’
‘If you must know, although it’ll bore the socks off you, I go down into the basement with another officer. He stands guard at the foot of the stairs while I remove the money from the safe. I place it in a trolley and wheel it to the lift. As I said, we’re a very busy branch and a great deal of money is necessary for our requirements of the day.’
‘Does the other bank officer come into the safe to help you with the money?’
‘I told you. He stands guard at the foot of the stairs. The rules are that one of us must be on watch in case intruders enter the bank at that time and come down the stairs. At the first sign of them, the officer would call out a code word and I would close the inner gate quickly and slam the door of the safe shut. Once I did that, it’s impregnable without the keys and the codes. Well I suppose it could be opened but it would take a full day to do it. We’ve worked it out. We’ve practiced it regularly. Once he calls out the codeword, it takes me less than twenty seconds to close everything.‘
‘What happens to the money when you put it on the trolley?’
‘Are you sure you’re not the front woman for a gang of bank robbers?’ he asked checking, although he had only her word to rely on.
‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ she responded. ‘I was once a Girl Guide so you can take that as Gospel.’
He paused before carrying on. ‘ I wheel it to the lift and take it to the banking hall upstairs.’
‘Do you go into the lift with it?’
‘Of course. It must be under control at all times. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
She eased back on her sun-lounger ignoring his question. ‘How often does anyone check the money in the safe?’
‘Every three months,’ he informed her. ‘We had the Inspectors in only last week.’
She stopped asking questions and allowed the information to pass through her mind. Then she sat up again, leaning towards him and said tersely: ‘Perfect!’
‘What’s all this about, Paula?’ he demanded becoming tired of relating his personal role in the bank to her. ‘Why are you asking me all this?’
‘I’m asking you these questions because, if you play ball, you and me are going to be sitting on a beautiful beach in the Bahamas or Bermuda for the rest of our lives living it up happily together.’
He recalled when in London that he thought, on one occasion, that the woman was out of her mind. His memory of the actress Marilyn Monroe and the mental trauma that she had gone through streamed through his brain. Her mother had been in a sanatorium for many years suffering from a mental disease which seemingly was passed down to her daughter with cased the actress disastrous effect. He considered that Paula Stratton may be showing exactly the same symptoms and, if that was the case, it was his misfortune to be with her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he managed to say feebly.
‘I’m going to analyse the information you’ve given me and talk to you about it later. In the meantime, let’s enjoy the sun!’
She leaned back on her sun-lounger and placed her arms down by her sides. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon... too good to waste by simply sitting in the bar drinking martinis. They could always do that later on after dinner. Subsequently, they sat in silence for quite a while and then the sun began to fade. He turned towards her with a view to leaving.
‘I think I’ll go and have a shower before dinner,’ he told her.
He lifted the camera case from between the sun-loungers and the lid fell open. To his dismay, the necklace that he had found at the side of the marital bed in his house fell to the tiles below. Paula looked at it and sat up straight.
‘What’s that?’ she enquired, believing that he had bought it for her as a present.
‘I found it in the bedroom at home,’ he told her. ‘It’s the only thing I have that belonged to Elizabeth.’
‘Do you want my advice?’ she snapped, disappointed that it was not for her.
‘I’m going to get it anyway so you might as well tell me,’ he said glumly.
‘Go down to the edge of the sea tomorrow and throw it as far as you can. Get her out of your system entirely. You don’t want to hold on to anything that belonged to her.’
‘You reckon it’ll work?’
‘I know it will, if you get rid of it!’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ he returned easily,. ‘I’ll take it to Reception and ask them to keep it in their safe. In that way, it’ll stay there for ever because I shan’t redeem it... nor will anyone else.’
‘Whatever,’ she responded
with disinterest. ‘It’s up to you how you get rid of it!’
He stood up and went to the reception area where he was attended to by a member of the hotel staff.
‘I’d like to put this item in your hotel safe,’ he told him.
The man produced an envelope and invited him to write his name and room number on it. Then he took it and placed it in the safe.
‘Farewell, Liz,’ muttered Waverley to himself as the man opened the safe and placed the envelope inside. ‘Goodbye for ever!’
Paula joined him at that moment and they left to go to their separate rooms, agreeing a time when they would meet up again for dinner.
Although they were supposed to be relaxing on vacation, they both had a lot to think about. She was ready to prepare a plan whereby he could rob his bank and get away with it. On the other hand, he found himself in the company of a woman whom he believed was either totally disillusioned or partly insane. It appeared to him that she was suffering from a mental condition which faded at times so that she often seemed to be normal. To his belief, she was out of her mind and acting very strangely... very strangely indeed!
Chapter Five
On the third-floor corridor of the prestigious Prescot Bank, Ernest Crozier ambled along slowly and thoughtfully towards his office muttering incoherently to himself. He was in a fairly good mood and decided that this was one of the most inspirational and creative moments in his life. He had a pension to scribe poetry in his spare time, not that any of it was of worthy value or even interesting, but sometimes he came up with, what might be determined, a winner although such success was extremely rare. Nonetheless, he had inflated views of his ability to write poetry considering himself to be one of the great stalwarts, emulating Alfred Lord Tennyson, Keats and Shelley, but, in truth, he was simply a legend in his own mind. In olden days he would have been termed a poetaster... an inferior poet. However, in modern times, no one ever took any notice of whether poets were good or bad. In fact many poems written in the modern era had no rhyme and very little reason or quality. In a vain attempt to prove his prowess, he had entered a number of poetry competitions but his entries never seemed to win a prize or ever achieve a certificate which commended him for his efforts. He always assumed that either the competitions were fixed on the grounds of nepotism or that the judge’s decisions were greatly impaired.
Shortly, he reached his office, pausing for the inspiration to continue as he mouthed a few odd rhyming words, and then entered. He sat in his executive chair swivelling to and fro before producing a sheet of paper and writing down the poem which flirted in his mind.
‘Oh, simple sky above me, release my spirit free.
For my ambition’s higher, than of the tallest tree.
My heart is filled with gladness, and seeks to dominate,
But all my wishes granted, will still be down to Fate.’
He read it through and smiled to himself. ‘Another classic,’ he uttered triumphantly. ‘You’ve done it again, Ernest!. You’ve done it again!’ He read the short poem through a second time loudly and had almost finished when Abbott, his assistant, knocked on the door and entered the room.
‘Sounds like a great poem, Mr. Crozier,’ he told the senior banker who began to make a number of noises as though clearing his throat. It was strongly against his wishes for his subordinate to know of his secret passion but clearly the secret was out. ‘Did you write that one yourself? It sounded really good.’
‘Yes... I wrote it myself for a prize competition,’ boasted the senior banker immodestly.
‘Well I think it’s commendable. Can’t think of anything to write myself. Hopeless at it.’
‘I’ve compiled a complete anthology of poems which, by the grace of God and when my ability is recognised, will be highly sought after one day,’ he went on. ‘But enough about poetry! Your news is far more important. What have you come up with?’
Well,’ began Abbott seriously, ‘my research has taken me into the heart and bowels of an amateur operatic society...’
At that point, Crozier interrupted the junior. ‘Bowels!’ he repeated loudly. ‘Bowels? What are you talking about Abbott? Leave the poetry to me and get down to brass tacks. Tell it as it is! Bowels indeed!’
The junior man screwed up his face having been stopped in his flow. He had important information to relay yet his superior was preventing him from continuing because of one stupid word. ‘Mr. Waverley,’ he continued almost offensively, ‘is a member of an amateur operatic society by the name of The Carlton Theatre Group. I should imagine that accounts for something.’
‘Why should it? came the sharp response. ‘Anyone can belong to an operatic society. That’s of no value to me! I want something cogent that we can pin on the man.’
‘You’re not going to blackmail him, are you?’
Crozier went red in the face at the accusation. ‘Of course not, Abbott,’ he retorted angrily. ‘What the hell are you thinking of. We’re trying to get promotion for both of us by removing him. Do focus your mind on what we’re doing, man!’
‘He’s a senior bank manager cavorting on the boards pretending to be other characters. It’s not fitting. Not for a man of his rank in the bank.’
His superior swung around in his chair to stare out of the window. ‘Maybe not,’ he returned smartly, ‘but it’s not a crime. In fact it’s a perfectly ordinary pastime for most people. Is that all you’ve come up with?’
‘No there’s more. My source tells me that he plays cards every week. Poker... gambling!’
‘Ah,’ uttered the senior banker with interest, swivelling around in his chair to face the other man. ‘That might be something we can latch on to. Which casino does he go to?’
‘He doesn’t go to a casino. He plays cards with friends at their houses.’
Crozier stared at him with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘What’s bad about that?’
‘He’s a gambler. Poker’s a gambling game always played for money.’
‘I very much doubt that we can make any headway with that. Not unless he’s robbing the bank to pay for his gambling debts. However card games with friends never amount to anything of value. Can’t you come up with something really juicy? Something that we can nail him on!’
The subordinate hung his head in shame. ‘I’m doing my best, Mr. Crozier. I thought I’d come up with some really good stuff on gambling and walking the stage. You see, even if we can’t use that stuff, we’re creating a profile of the man’s private interests.’
‘It’s walking the boards not walking the stage,’ corrected the senior man.
‘My error, sir,’ apologised Abbott realising that he was losing the battle. He had come to the office with real excitement as to the information he had discovered about the Assistant Manager only to be shot down in flames. ‘As I said, sir,’ he repeated. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘Well your best isn’t good enough, Abbott!’ reproached his Manager curtly. ‘It’s not good enough! I expect the people who serve me to be right on the ball. Fast... efficient... effective... not lazy, docile and undecided. Go back and work at it again. I want cogent results. Do you hear... cogent results!’ He spun around in his chair to face the window again as though the junior had left the room.
‘I’ll keep digging,’ returned Abbott feebly, knowing that he had little chance of finding something nefarious about the Assistant Manager. He was on a hiding to nothing! ‘I’m, bound to come up with something sooner or later.’
‘Make it sooner, Abbott. Time isn’t on our side. Get going! You’re wasting time!’
His subordinate left the room unhappily, closing the door gently behind him.
‘Make it sooner, Abbott,’ repeated Crozier to himself. ‘Time isn’t on our side.’ He paused to think for a moment as inspiration came to him once more. ‘Time is so ephemeral, it fills me full
of fears, It passes by so quickly, it simply disappears! Brilliant... now that is brilliant.’ He took another sheet of paper from his desk drawer and wrote down the words with great delight. ‘You’re a genius,’ he told himself. ‘A true genius... like Mozart!’ After scribing the words on the sheet of paper he sat back in his chair waiting for further inspiration and then ranted on with further poetry. ‘In the ancient time of Gethsemane, where Angels fear to tread, Where the spirits of our ancestors, lie irrevocably dead... yes... that sounds about right.’ He picked up his pen again to write down the words before he forgot them. ‘You’re a genius completely unrecognised at present but your time will come, Ernest. Your time will come! What was that again? In the ancient time of Gethsemane...’
At that moment, the telephone rang and his body went taut. He knew that he would never be able to remember any of the words after the call had finished. It was another case, similar to the one that had happened to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the renowned poet, who had the inspiration to write the poem Xanadu. He was sitting at his table one day when inspiration struck him. As he began writing, there was a knock on the door and he went to answer it. The caller was a man who had lost his way and wanted to know the way to Porlock. Coleridge told him and then went back to his poem but, to his dismay, the inspiration had left him... all because of a man searching for Porlock! It was the same with Crozier for after the call his mind dwelt solely on banking matters and poetry became a distant pastime.
For a few moments, he stared at the single line that he had written and then screwed up the sheet of paper and threw it in the waste-paper basket. The Fates were against him, he considered, but he still believed that one day he would be recognised as one of the great poets. However he followed the simple principle that he must never rhyme a poem with moon and June. Those endings were reserved for amateur poets... not for one of his elite standard.
***
From the dawn in the early hours of the morning in Spain, the sun rose quickly to shine brightly in a clear blue sky indicating that the temperature would rise to a high level in the afternoon. A warm breeze blew initially from east to west across the Mediterranean calming the heat to a small degree.