by Stan Mason
‘I fully understand the nature of the job and I’ll do it with dignity and integrity.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant. You could cause the bank a great deal of embarrassment by failing on a major issue... certainly if you exceed your authority. There’s always a chair reaction to disaster in banking and I wouldn’t be able to support you.’
‘I’d like to state two points,’ returned Rigby in an attempt to reduce the argument of the other man. ‘Firstly, the Board made me their prime selection for this appointment. You may regret that by the end of the day but it follows that they trust me. You could do the same and cast off all the pain and anguish. Secondly, if your authority is usurped, I would still expect you to support me. You’re entitled to protect me at all times.’
The senior man took exception to his flippant attitude but he chose not to enter into further discussion. In reality, he could do little but to support the man. Nonetheless, a shot across the bows would not go amiss and that was his main intention. If he turned a blind eye now, it might allow precedents because Rigby’s decisions might seriously contravene the policy of the bank. If that happened, there would be trouble.
’Stay in line for your own sake,’ warned the senior executive calmly. ’I can’t have you hauled up in front oft eh Chief Executive every month because of some misguided folly. It would cause havoc and practically destroy your career in the bank.’
There was not future in entering into a dog-fight with the senior man. Rigby considered that honour was the better part of valour. ’Yes, sir,’ he responded with a slight tone of indifference in his voice. ‘I appreciate the problems of authority in an organisation as large as this bank but Functional Control leaves little margin for error as I’ve discovered today. It’s a kind of death-or-glory job.’
The senior man nodded as if in agreement with the comment. ‘You could call it that. Cut along now and report to me if anything happens. I want to know. And please... no more bribes or empty promises!’
The junior man got to his feet, moved towards the door, and opened it. ’You were a Colonel in the army, weren’t you?‘ he asked quietly.
‘That’s correct,’ confirmed the senior executive perplexed by the question.
‘I think you have some habits that are dying very hard.’ He felt that he had to leave with a parting shot even if it merely boosted his own ego and he left the office without waiting to see the reaction of the other man. No one in the bank was going to tell him how to run his job! Surely they all had enough to do without interfering in his affairs! As he walked down the corridor with a swift gait, a telephone engineer emerged from one of the lifts and almost knocked him down.
‘Where’s Mr. Rigby’s office,’ he asked urgently.
’Follow me!’ ordered the banker. ’Are you fitting the new extensions?’
’Nah... I’m here to fit two new lines.’
They reached the office and entered. ’Chief Inspector Church must have pulled a few strings to get you here so fast.’
’I was working in the building,’ explained the engineer. ‘Got an urgent ‘red’ from the office. What’s up then?’
‘You may well ask,’ riposted the banker tiredly.
‘They don’t ask me to do ‘reds’ unless it’s top priority. It’s always for special reasons.’
‘Did the security people stop you from coming to the Boardroom floor?’
‘No, mate. Security always been soft in this place.’
Rigby shook his head and turned to his secretary. ‘Make a note, Betty, that the security in this bank is appalling. We can’t have people wandering about in Head Office willy-nilly!’ He turned to the telephone engineer who stood gaping at him oafishly.
‘Well don’t just stand there, man, set up those lines as fast as you can!’
‘If you want a fast set of lines,’ declared the engineer staring around the room, ‘they’ll have to be fitted from the hallway with wires trailing through.’
‘I don’t care how you do it,’ growled the banker. ‘Just get them connected!’ He sat down in his comfortable chair and extracted a cigarette from his gold case and lit it. The pressures of the day were beginning to irritate him.
‘Have you given up any more thoughts about blowing up Croydon branch?’ ventured Betty Brewer attempting tactfully to remind him of his earlier idea.
‘I’m glad you reminded me of that,’ he told her, grateful for her support.
The telephone engineer turned towards him with wide-eyed astonishment. ‘Blow up your Croydon branch!’ he echoed, unable to control his curiosity. ‘Are you going to blow up one of your branches?’
‘You job is to fix up two telephone lines in this office,’ he was reproached sharply, ‘not to listen to other people’s conversations. Whatever you might hear in this office you must forget immediately or it could cost you your job. Do you understand?’
The man swallowed hard and went about his business without another word while the banker turned his attention to his secretary, satisfied he had stemmed further intrusion. ‘There’s a company in Bermonsdsey,’ continued Rigby, ‘called Bailey & Harrison. Demolition experts. No... leave it! Get me a copy of the early edition of the Evening Gazette. I want to see a picture of that bandit.’
‘Bandit!’ exclaimed the engineer, falling into silence quickly and returning to his work as he noted the angry expression on Rigby’s face.
Betty Brewer left the office while her boss blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. For a moment, the telephones were silent and everything was at peace. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it all changed. ‘Well it take long to connect these lines?’ he asked eventually.
The man stared at him wondering whether it was permissible to speak. ‘About twenty minutes if there’s no complications.’
‘It mustn’t take longer,’ pressed the banker unreasonably. ‘The lives of three men may depend on them. It’s very important.’
The engineer stared at him for a moment in distress and then began to work at greater speed. ‘Three men! Three men!’ he kept repeating as he ran a set of cables towards the door as fast as he could.
Rigby walked to the window and stared down at the throng milling outside the front of the bank. They were still making a nuisance of themselves, parading up and down with banners and placards in those places where is was still possible to march. One youth had climbed the figurine at the centre of the fountain where he waved a large piece of red cloth bearing words that were too small to distinguish from a distance. It was an unsatisfactory situation causing embarrassment to customers of the bank who had difficulty in entering and leaving. He glanced at the clock as one of the telephones rang.
‘John... it’s Sandra,’ greeted his mistress. ‘Do you know there are hundreds of people outside the front entrance of the bank. It’s almost impossible to get in and out.’
‘I did notice a crowd,’ he returned dryly.
‘I had lunch with Mr. Whittaker after you left me. He’s oin International Division. I mentioned your name in case it might do you some good.’
‘Thank you very much,’ he said gratefully, raising his eyes to the ceiling in despair. ‘I need more contacts than I need a hole in the head.’ The last part of the sentence was uttered in such a low tone it was inaudible to her.
‘He works for Mr. Sowerby. Do you know him?’
‘Sandra!’ he asked firmly. ‘Is there anything you want at this moment? I’m under a great deal of pressure.’
‘Not really. I just thought I’d mention it. There was another man a the table by the name of Creskin... ’
Rigby had taken enough of her chatter. He was no loner willing to entertain a large volume of insensible gossip so he brought down his index finger directly on one of metal knobs at the top of the telephone to cancel the call. He hadn’t ‘donked’ anyone in years. It took hi
m back to his days as a junior when there had been a premium on the time in the Local District Office. There were always callers who rambled on and on, wasting precious time, and he learned the ‘donking’ system from a wiser and more experienced colleague. ‘Kill the call by ‘donking’’ he was told. ‘It does two things. Firstly the conversation is concluded abruptly just when you want it to end. Secondly, it preserves your time to allow you to get on with your work. The person at the other end of the line will become irritated but will assume that the call was cut off by the switchboard. They won’t bother to ring back.’ It was sound advice and worked practically every time. Naturally, he couldn’t work that way as an executive but today was an exception.
At that moment his secretary burst into the office waving a newspaper excitedly. ‘It’s here!’ she declared breathlessly. ‘Front page! They printed everything!’
Rigby took it from her and stared hard at the front page, his face turning to disappointment. The newspaper carried a large photograph of the profile of the man but the quality was very poor. He felt inclined to attack Evans for the lack of definition before realising that the conditions had been extremely difficult. There was no point in venting his temper on the helpful journalist.
‘Well let’s hope and pray,’ he stated, turning his head to look into the eyes of the inquisitive telephone engineer. He flaunted the newspaper at the man who stung himself into greater energy to fulfil his task. ‘This is one of the men you’re going to help to save.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Betty Brewer intensely, noticing the concern on the face of her boss.
‘I just pray that someone will come forward and identify him,’ he muttered miserably.
The approach he had taken to unmask the robber had been easy. There had been plenty of time and a fair amount of room in which to manoeuvre. Now time was running out fast and he felt the muscles in his stomach turning into a knot. It was all coming to a head. For him, personally, he had ventured into an unknown path and there was no turning back!
Chapter Five
The history of the bank had been carefully recorded in a series of red bound leather-covered ledgers on a year by year basis since it first began. Most of the details had been written painstakingly in beautifully-formed copperplate handwriting... the work of many dedicated scribes who spent their spare hours fulfilling the task for posterity. In modern times, as the speed of banking increased rapidly and other methods of recording became available, the red ledgers disappeared to be replaced by masses of typewritten sheets enclosed in cardboard covers, bound by a plastic spiral that weaved down the spine. In that way, the records of the bank were continued in the march of time. Discussions had taken place whether to input the information on to the computer system. If that happened, future generations would be able to examine the change in methods of historical analysis during specific periods of the past.
Rigby felt an urgent need to search those records to extract information on past robberies and to ascertain the effect of bank policy where simple criminal acts occurred. There was little doubt in his mind that he would have to defer such intentions for another day mainly as a result of the exigencies of his duties. Yet bank policy was a factor he could not afford to dismiss from his mind. In the first place, precedence had to be given to life and limb... that was the main reason why protective glass had been installed in front of all the bank tellers in the branches. Secondly, there was the protection of money, although the insurance companies always provided cover for loss due to robbery. At certain times in the past, the bank had suffered in both ways. The Birmingham incident some fifty years earlier was bordered in black in the records as the worst day ever. Six masked men had entered the branch early on one July morning brandishing pistols and shotguns in a menacing manner. It was a straightforward robbery with a firm demand that the cashiers empty their tills on to the counter. Two men forced their way into the rear of the branch and descended to the vaults with the manager and the chief clerk to empty the main safe where some twenty thousand pounds were deposited. While they were downstairs, two other began to fill sacks with the money on the cashiers’ tills before a zealous bank employee in the Securities Section decided to become the hero of the day and, in a moment of sheer stupidity, pressed the alarm button with all his might. The hooting klaxon could be heard over the radius of half a mile and the agitated nervous bandits reacted violently and predictably. There were no bandit screens in those days to inhibit access to the tellers in general. In their fury, they climbed over the counter and attempted to shoot every single bank clerk in sight. Only the messenger escaped the slaughter by wedging his tall thin body into the tiny lift used to transport heavy sacks of coin to the basement vault. Little was taken in money that July morning but the cost in human life had been phenomenal. The sheer horror of the indiscriminate killing of twelve innocent bank employees that day was something that would haunt the bank for eternity.
Rigby wished that he could examine the old records to determine how the bank had reacted to past robberies but there was too little time for that now. It mattered little for there was no precedent for the current situation. No one had ever gone into a bank branch with a bomb in a holdall. It had never happened before. He sat back in his chair blowing a stream of smoke through his nostrils. It was still peaceful in the office but that was expected during the lunch hour. In a short time, all hell would break loose at Croydon branch.
A short while later, the two bright new telephones stood perched on the edge of his desk. They were now in full working order and the banker issued another instruction. ‘Alert the switchboard operators, Betty!’ he told his secretary,. ‘All calls concerning the Croydon branch are to be put through to these two lines.’
‘Right away!’ she replied efficiently, carrying out the task without delay.
‘Do you remember Ben Howard, my old assistant?’ he asked when she was free to speak again.
‘He’s in Business Development Division.’
‘I need him here now. See if you can get him over to man these telephones. If he wants to clear it with his Head of Department, I’ll give him the authority. It shouldn’t take him away from his work for more than an hour or two.’
‘He may be at lunch.’ she told him sagely. ‘Some people do eat lunch, you know.’ She looked across the office expecting him to react but he failed to respond at all. Not surprisingly, his sense of wit and quick humour were absent.
‘Will you also get me Wiz Prescott in Information Section please. I think he might help me on computer fraud.’
You once promised to tell me how he acquired that ridiculous name,’ she advanced in mock anger. ‘But you never did.’
He shrugged his shoulders as if the explanation hardly mattered but he decided to satisfy her curiosity. ‘Wiz came to the bank when he was thirty-four years old.. He has a photographic memory with a tremendous power of recall. Can you imagine the benefit to the bank of a man of that kind in the right job? So what did they do? They put a round peg in a square hole... sent him to a small branch and left him there to rot. Personnel Department claimed there was nothing more they could do with a late entrant. Anyway, along came the Old Man who was of much lesser rank in those days and he recognised the man’s potential. By that time, Prescott had earned himself a high reputation. He could remember ever detail about customers, every item in the day’s work, every rule, and so on until he became the oracle for all the branch’s procedures. They nick-named him Mr. Wisdom... which was eventually shortened to Wiz.’
‘Does he still have that wisdom?’
‘You’d better believe it! He’s still the found of knowledge to all who need to drink from the water.’ He had not intended to continue but it made no difference for one of the new telephones rang to stem the conversation. He stared momentarily at his secretary who met his gaze and there was a pause before he spurred himself in to action.
‘Perhaps they’re j
ust checking that the line is clear,’ tendered Betty Brewer.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he returned, his heart beating loudly in his ears as he lifted the receiver. ‘Yes,’ he began in a voice that wavered slightly. ‘Rigby!’
‘I’ve just read the headlines of the Evening Gazette,’ came a rich deep voice with the tinge of an Irish accent. ‘Are you the man dealing with the problem at Croydon?’
Rigby swallowed hard. ‘Yes, I’m dealing with it.’
‘Ah fine! We may be able to help each other then. My name’s O’Keefe. You may have heard of me... Tim O’Keefe.’
‘I’m sorry, the name’s not familiar to me.’
‘Well that’s not surprising. My reputation’s much better on the Continent. People call me a specialist bounty hunter. I’m an expert in persuading criminals to surrender before lives are lost and material damage is done. It seems you have a need for my services.’
‘What experience do you have in the field of bank robbery, O’Keefe?’ asked the banker suspiciously.
‘Two in Germany last year... the Deutsche Bank and the Dresdner Bank. There was also one in Italy three months ago... Banca Commerciale Italienne.’
Rigby raised his eyebrows as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ash-tray on his desk and sank deeper into his chair pensively. ‘I don’t recall any incident in Germany last year... nor one in Italy recently.’
‘Ah!’ explained the Irishman with a silver tongue. ‘There’s good reason for that. It was all kept under wraps. The banks didn’t want to upset their customers or their shareholders. As a banker you can understand that.’
Rigby’s eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s why no one knows about them, is it?’
‘That’s correct!’
‘Tell me, how much did they offer you to resolve those problems?’
‘Ten thousand pounds sterling each time. It’s my going rate for the job.’
The banker shook his head slowly and briefly chewed his lower lip. He wondered how MacDonald would react if he knew that a positive decision might be made in favour of the Irishman. The Old Man would quote the bank rules to him again even thought the fee was chicken-feed to the bank if O’Keefe could resolve the situation satisfactorily. ’I suppose you want to start immediately.’