by Stan Mason
‘Great!’ he muttered to himself. ‘He’s not here!’
He moved towards the desk, looking first at the diary to see whether any incriminating evidence might be there. Then he opened the drawers in turn to see whether he could find something incriminating. When he failed to do so, he pulled a face with annoyance and was just about to leave the office when his eyes moved to the waste-paper basket. He went over to it and pulled out one of the many torn banknote wrappers which almost filled the basket,
‘What the hell are you up to, Mr. Waverley?’ he asked himself, ‘Why all these wrappers? Hm... Mr. Crozier’s going to love this!’ He paused to think for a moment trying to fathom out why so many torn banknote wrappers should be there but he couldn‘t think of a rational answer. Spurring into action, he collected all of them, placed them in a very large envelope, and left the office without being seen.
Two hours later, he knocked on Crozier’s door and almost entered before the senior man gave him permission to do so.
‘What’s it this time?’ snapped the senior man sharply. His subordinate was beginning to annoy him with his erratic behaviour and his enthusiasm to please him.
Abbott threw the envelope containing the banknote wrappers on the table excitedly. ‘I found these in Mr. Waverley’s waste-paper basket,’ he echoed with a broad grin on his face. ‘There’s something very fishy about this and we need to get to the bottom of it.’
Crozier took some of the wrappers out of the envelope and his mind reeled as he tried to fathom why they were in his colleague’s office.
‘What do you make of this, Abbott?’ he asked, climbing down from his high horse in bewilderment. There had to be a reasonable explanation but he couldn’t think of one on the spur of the moment.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Abbott, ‘but it proves something.’
‘What does it prove?’
Silence prevailed as Abbott was unable to provide an answer. ‘I invaded his office to look for clues,’ he said eventually.
‘What else did you find?’ asked the manager.
‘Nothing of interest except that he’s clearly up to no good.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ came the reproach. ‘He’s a senior officer of the bank. Caesar’s wife could do no wrong?’
’What?’ exclaimed the junior man failing to understand the term.
’It’s a literary term, for... never mind. If this is all you could find you’re wasting my time! I’ve more important things to do.’
‘But the banknote wrappers are all undone. They had to come out of the safe!’
‘You can get a hundred of them from the stationery cupboard.’
‘But these are all torn open,’ pressed Abbott raising his voice slightly. Every single one of them!’
‘Give Waverley a ring and ask him what he’s about.’ he suggested.
‘I can’t do that,’ complained the junior man weakly.
‘It’s a simple question. All you need to ask him is why there are so many torn banknote wrappers in your waste-paper basket?’
‘It would be more appropriate for you to ask him.’ bleated the younger man.
Crozier immediately went on the defence. ‘Are you suggesting that I I have to admit that I was snooping in his office.’
‘No, sir, of course not!’
‘Then what are you suggesting, Abbott?’
‘Maybe you should ask for a check on the money in the safe. In the light of these banknote wrappers, the Accountant could make an inspection.’
‘I’ll arrange to do that on the quiet next Monday,’ confirmed Crozier meekly. ‘But I hope for your sake this isn’t a fool’s errand, Abbott! I seriously hope not!’
The subordinate nodded slowly and made for the door. He wished that he could get a transfer to be as far away from Crozier as possible. It was a nightmare working for the man but he realised that he was stuck in the same position until the manager reached promotion and moved on. That was the reason Abbott was so eager for Waverley to become promoted, made redundant, or left the bank of his own accord. However, to his misfortune, he knew that he had a long wait ahead before that happened. A very long wait!
***
Neil Waverley entered the lounge in his home and went directly to the cocktail cabinet to pour himself to a glass of wine. Then sat back in his comfortable armchair and reached for the remote control to turn on the television set. The introductory music came on to introduce the daily news.
‘This is Justin Thorpe with the news headlines,’ began the newsreader. In a steady monotone. ‘In the House of Commons, the Prime Minister stated that the Government would not consider a U-turn concerning the new tax rises. Percy Augustus Took, the mass murderer who has been on Death Row for fourteen years, was executed early this morning. A number of protestors outside the prison were arrested as they demanded mercy, Harvey Bergman, the actor in films such as ‘Well Wisher’ and ‘Gold Fever’ won the Oscar award in Los Angeles. In Europe last evening the Heads of the...’
The doorbell rang and Waverley pressed the remote control to turn off the television set. ‘Come in, Paula,’ he shouted loudly. ‘You don’t have to ring. Just come in!’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘You’re early this evening.’
There was a long pause before a well-dressed man and a woman entered the room.
‘Sorry to intrude on your privacy, Mr. Waverly,’ greeted the man with a strong American accent. My name’s Milton Stetch. This is Alison Berger. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Waverley shocked at their unsolicitous entrance into his home. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’re investigating matter of extreme importance and we’re asking for your assistance,’ related the woman point-blank.
Waverley stared at them scanning them up and down. ‘Can I see some credentials?’
‘Sure,’ replied the man calmly, feeling into his pocket to produce a warrant card which showed his details. The woman followed likewise.
‘You’d better sit down,’ he told them. ‘What do you want from me?’ He searched for an answer to determine whatever they wanted to ask him but nothing came to mind. ‘I can only spare twenty minutes and then I have to go.’
‘We won’t detain you as long as that,’ the woman told him.
‘Okay, how can I help you?’
‘You’re married to a woman... Elizabeth Ann Waverley,’ continued the man.
‘For the moment,’ came the reply. ‘Solicitors are dealing with the divorce papers. What’s happened? Is she in some kind of trouble?’
The man ignored his question and proceeded onward. ‘What do you know about Cole Hamley or Antonio Pepperino?
‘Nothing,’ he returned blankly. ’I found out my wife was having an affair with someone called Cole. I never knew his surname. ’I’ve never heard of the other man. What’s it all about?’
‘They’re actually one and the same man. His real name’s Pepperino,’ explained the man. ‘Tell us all you know.’
Waverley shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. ‘There’s not much I can say,’ he replied. ‘My wife came home recently telling me that she was leaving me to go off with a man named Cole to New York that very evening. That’s all. I can tell you. I never met him.’
‘Did she mention anything about drugs?’ asked the woman in an equally strong American accent.
Waverley reacted strongly to the word. ‘Drugs!’ he spat. ‘I should think not!’
‘Did you know whether the man you knew as Cole ever brought drugs back to this house?’ questioned the man with a determined tone in his voice.
‘I certainly hope not. I told you, I didn’t know the man. Drugs in this house indeed!’ he rattled adamantly. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘We have a warrant out for his
arrest on drug dealing and black marketeering illicit goods,’ the woman informed him candidly. ‘We learned that he came to London and we’re trying to track him down.’
‘They were flying to New York that evening,’ repeated Waverley. ‘Oh, yes! She said they were going to live in Brooklyn.’
‘We’ve already tracked down that address but he’s flown the coop,’ the man told him.
‘Not that I really care but do you know what’s happened to my wife?’
‘She vanished with him,’ explained the woman dryly.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll find her,’ said the man.
‘Well I don’t want her back if that’s what you’re thinking. Not now... not ever!’
The man stood up as though preparing to leave. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr. Waverley,’ he said in his drawl. ‘If anything else triggers in your mind, you can ring me at the American Embassy. Here’s my card. ‘ He removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to the banker.
‘I’ll do that,’ he promised staring at it.
‘Thanks for your help,’ concluded the woman. ‘You’re obviously expecting someone else so we’ll leave the front door open.’
They departed and the banker stared at the business card bleakly. ‘Hell’s bells!’ he uttered to himself. ‘What have you got yourself into, Liz. More importantly, are you still alive?’
Outside the house, Paula pulled up in her car. She stared at the two people leaving, wondering whether they were latecomers hoping to look over the house with a view to purchasing the property. She entered through the open door to go into the lounge, staring in bewilderment at the banker.
‘Who are those people?’ she asked inquisitively.
They’re American investigators... either from the FBI or the CIA,’ he told her bluntly.
‘Wow!’ she uttered in astonishment. ‘What were they here for?’
‘They have a warrant out to arrest Antonio Pepperoni.‘ he continued. ‘They want him on charges of drug pushing and black racketeering illicit goods.’
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘He’s the man Elizabeth went off with,’ he related calmly.
‘You’re kidding!’ she blurted out with disappointment. The last thing she wanted was the banker’s wife to return and spoil her plans for a future relationship. ‘’How do you feel about that?’
‘Hell, Paula!’ he spat angrily. ‘She was having an affair with him behind my back. She left me and there are divorce papers with the solicitors. I can’t get rid of the woman quickly enough. I don’t have feelings for her any more.’
‘In that case, you need to move fast,’ she told him. He stared at her bleakly and she was forced to explain. ‘The end is nigh for her if the man’s on the run. She’ll soon find herself penniless and homeless. What do you think she’ll do?’
‘I hate to say this but my mother was right. She’ll come back here with her tail between her legs begging me to take her back.’
‘Dead right!’ came the response. ‘She’ll come straight back here. When is final completion for this property?’
‘This Friday. Just a few days to go.’
‘Thank Heavens for that. If she gets back here she’ll take root and not Heaven or Earth will shift her. It’s lucky you sold the house.’
‘I did so only because you advised me. Why do I always listen to you?’
Her face broke into a broad smile. ‘Because I’m your Guardian Angel,’ she told him. ‘Now... are you ready to come to rehearsal or are we going to continue wittering here and have to suffer the wrath of the Director next time we go?’
He laughed and stood up to reach for his jacket. Someone up there really had it in for him. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. And now he was faced with the possibility of his wife turning up, begging for him to take her back. He considered that there was nothing more that could possibly cause him concern but he wasn’t too sure about that either. Destiny was on a destructive course and he had to steady his nerves and go with the flow. However, it was clear that it wasn’t going to be easy!
On the following day at ten forty-five. Waverley went down in the lift to the safe with the trolley, his briefcase resting on the top filled with newspaper cuttings. This was no dummy run... this time it was the real thing. Johnson came down the stairs and placed his key in the safe lock before entering his code, then he returned to the foot of the stairs. Waverley’s heart was in his mouth and he kept looking around nervously as he opened the safe door and pushed the trolley inside. He removed the money from one of the large plastic boxes in the safe before filling it with the wrappers containing newspaper cuttings. Splitting the real banknotes into those which the bank required and the remainder he was going to steal, he placed the latter into his briefcase and did up the buckle of the briefcase to prevent any of the wrappers from falling out. He then placed the large plastic box with the newspaper cuttings to the bottom of the pile to ensure to avoid detection. Shortly, he wheeled the trolley out of the safe and moved it towards the lift before closing the safe doors.
Without delay, and with his heart in his mouth, he took the lift upwards to satisfy the Chief Cashier with the daily monetary requirement and sauntered back to his office with the briefcase full of money. He sat down in his chair with perspiration rolling down his face. He wasn’t sure that he carry on with this nefarious activity for more that another four times and he stared bleakly at his hands which were shaking. He was sure that someone would notice his nervousness and start an investigation. If that happened and he was asked to open his briefcase, his world would come to a sudden end. However, the first part of the operation was completed. He had to hope that his luck didn’t run out. He hid the briefcase in a drawer of his desk and failed to leave his office for one second in case someone came in and discovered it.
At one o’clock. Waverly left the office to go for lunch. Instead of going to the Manager’s Dining Room as he usually did, he walked along the City streets with the briefcase filled with money. He approached the Swiss Bank of London with his heart in his mouth and entered, going up to the Reception desk.’
‘I’d like to open an account,’ he told the Receptionist flatly, managing to steady his nerves. ‘I’m a new customer.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ she replied politely. ‘May I have your name?’
‘De Vries,’ he replied. ‘Jan de Vries.’
‘If you’d like to take a seat, one of the managers will come to see you.’
He sat in a comfortable executive chair looking around the room. It was far different to his own branch but clients here dealt in to the scale millions of pounds sterling or Euros rather than small-time customers of his own bank. He didn’t have to wait long and shortly a manager arrived to assist him.
‘Mr. De Vries,’ he greeted pleasantly. ‘Delighted to meet you. Please come with me.’ He led him down a corridor to a fairly sizeable office which possessed furniture that looked extremely modern while the room was decorated very smartly. ‘Please take a seat. My name’s Hans Messler. I understand that you want to open an account. Tell me something about yourself.’
‘My name’s Jan de Vries,’ repeated Waverley trying to speak on an even keel. ‘I’m from Amsterdam. I’m a second-hand arms dealer with contacts in Israel, Dubai and Pakistan. Here’s my business card.’ He handed it over together with the documents given to him by Paula Stratton. ‘These are some documents supporting my claim as well as my passport. I also have Diplomatic Immunity from the British Government. All the papers are here.’
‘How long have you been a second-hand arms dealer?’ asked Messler bluntly.
‘Just over four years,’ stated Waverley plucking a figure out of the air to answer the question.
‘Why do you want to open an account after trading for four years? Surely you already have at least one other bank account,
’
‘I‘ve just started branching out on my own. That’s why I need it. So far I’ve been working for an organisation and they handled all the finance, Now it’s entirely up to me. I need to open an account to continue trading.’
Messler ran his eyes over the documents and pursed his lips. ‘Very impressive,’ he said eventually as Waverley squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. ‘You do realise the account will be for deposits only. You will not be allowed to go overdrawn’
‘That’s all I want it for... deposits.‘’
‘How much do you intend to pay into your account initially.’
Waverley placed the briefcase on the manager’s desk and opened it. ‘I’d like to start off with a deposit of a hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds.’
‘Are you laundering money... only I’m sure you understand that such an act is illegal?’ came the allegation.
‘I’m afraid that all my customers pay either in cash or in gold. I do not accept gold. It’s that kind of business. I should be paying in over half a million in sterling within a very short period.’
Messler pressed a button at the side of his desk and an assistant entered. ‘Hingler,’ he said to the man sternly. Sternly. ‘Take this money to the vault. On your way back photocopy these papers including the passport.’ He paused to open the passport and tuned over the pages inside. ‘I see you’ve travelled far and wide,’ he uttered.
Waverley could have kissed Paula had she been there with him. In all the excitement about the plan, the guillotined newspapers, and stealing the money from the bank’s safe, he had failed to looked at the pages in the passport which showed a volley of rubber stamp entries from countries he was supposed to have visited. Had they not been there, his cover would have been blown for no arms dealer could stay in London never having travelled elsewhere in the world.