The Benchminder

by Stan Mason

  ‘I’m sorry, the wrong newspapers were collected,’ confessed the senior man. ‘I’ll need to rethink the situation.’

  ‘The man’s nearly at the end of his tether. I don’t think he can take much more.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ retorted Rigby slowly. ‘Get some refreshments for him and the Manager. They must be thirsty if not hungry.’

  ‘I think the man’s much more constructive in his demands,’ continued Carlisle moodily.

  Rigby felt his mouth go dry. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘It was the photograph that did it. Like waving a red rag to a bull. He’s now asking for half a million pounds in used notes delivered to the branch in an hour.’

  ‘How much money do you have in the safe, Carlisle?’

  ‘Just over eight thousand pounds.’

  ‘Let him have it. Give it to him as a token of good faith. If he has all that money in his grubby little hands he won’t let the bomb go off.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mr. Rigby. It’s not that simple.’

  The senior man crashed his fist down on the desk in a fit of temper. ‘Why can’t you do it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr. Brown holds the key to the upper part of the lock in the general safe and I hold the lower one. He refuses to release his key. He says he’s a man of honour and he rather die than relinquish his responsibility.’

  ‘Surely he’s aware of the danger to himself and you, as well as the branch! Can’t you pass on an instruction from me to release the key?’

  ‘It’s not the only problem. You see there are codes for the security lock of the general safe’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ continued Rigby tiredly. ‘Mr. Brown has the code for the upper part and you have the code for the lower one!’

  ‘That’s right. We both retain the code numbers by memory so there’s no way the safe can be opened unless we’re both there. And the man won’t let Mr. Brown leave the office.’

  ‘Now listen carefully!’ ordered the Head of Functional Control angrily. ‘You’ve got to get the Manager out of that office and down to the safe. Explain to the bandit exactly what’s going to happen.

  ‘It’s all very well, Mr. Rigby but Mr. Brown’s a very stubborn man. You see, he retires next year. His wife died two years ago and he doesn’t relish the idea of being put out to grass. The bank is his whole life and his loyalty values are very high. He wouldn’t surrender the key or his code whatever the situation.’

  ‘Put me through to him. I want to speak with him personally!’

  ‘I can’t do that. The man tore out the wires to his telephone in his office.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to convey an order from me to him. A very explicit order. He must join you in opening the bank’s safe. I’ll take the responsibility for the money and if he needs confirmation by more senior authority, I can arrange that too. I want to be quite clear on this. I will not accept his refusal to obey this order. He to give up his key and the safe’s code and hand all the money inside it to the bandit. Is that clear?’

  Carlisle pauses momentarily and then closed his eyes. He was between a rock and a hard place. The order contravened every second of the security rule book of the bank. The problem was to convince the Manager to disregard the teachings of a lifetime which had been drummed into him fiercely in his early days of training. How was it possible for a man with forty years of experience to ignore all that he had been taught on the word of a person he didn’t know at the other end of a telephone line. ‘ I understand,’ he replied lamely. ‘I’ll do as you say.’

  The line went dead a little too quickly for Rigby’s comfort as he replaced the receiver thoughtfully. It was known as Murphy’s Law... if there was any chance that something would go wrong it would go wrong.

  ‘Any other telephone calls?’ he asked Ben Howard, but his question was in vain. He moved towards the door as if to leave and then halted in his tracks, turning to his secretary. ‘Ring Miss Williamson, will you, Betty. Ask if Strangeway has arrived yet. If he hasn’t, tender my sincere apologies. I’m not going to sit in the mausoleum when there’s work for me here!’ He moved back towards his desk, extracting a cigarette from the packet provided by Ben Howard and lit it, spewing the smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Where do we go from here?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘I’ve blown our chances with the newspaper idea. Bristow collected the wrong newspapers. The bandit’s now demanding the sum of half a million pounds. It’s got completely out of hand on all sides.’

  ‘If it’s all over bar the shouting,’ exclaimed the younger man, ‘why are you so worried? It’s out of your control. You Can’t really do anything about it and it’s not your fault. You need to put it down to experience.’

  ‘The main snag is our own manager, Mr. Brown. He’s been in the bank for forty years. One of the old school. A widower, and he’s a man of honour, I’m told. Not the kind of person who allows any Tom, Dick or Harry to rob the bank... especially not his branch! In his opinion, we must resist such criminals at all costs to protect society.’

  ‘But surely it’s out of his hands,’ claimed Howard with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘What can he do to resist?’

  ‘He won’t release the key to the general safe and give up his code to the upper part of the lock. He intends to defend it until the day he dies... which might well be today! So no one can do a bloody thing!’

  The younger man pulled a face. ‘What do we do then?’

  Rigby inhaled deeply forcing his assistant to wait for a reply. ‘Our only hope is for someone to recognise the man’s photograph in the newspaper but people don’t normally buy early editions. They get them after leaving work and we haven’t that much time.’

  ‘There’s always the unexpected factor,’ cut in Betty Brewer with optimism. The unexpected when all seems to be doomed. Like in the Holy Bible... the opening of the Red Sea for the escaping Israelites, and the finding of manna when they were hungry. Incidents which, on the face of it, are not logical but succeed nevertheless.’

  ‘Are you implying that a fifty-nine year old manager is going to hammer a mad bank robber into the ground to save the day?’ scoffed Rigby. ‘Or that the bandit’s going to walk out of the branch in disgust for the poor service he’s been given?’

  ‘Strange things do occur,’ she shrugged meekly ‘Perhaps a miracle might happen at Croydon branch. It really doesn’t matter what you do about it. It’s all writing up there in Heaven, you know.’

  ‘Miss Brewer. Do try to be a little more constructive and less obscure,’ muttered her boss irritably.

  Her attention was diverted by another telephone call shortly and she looked across the office in his direction. ‘Mr. Grover, Industrial Relations is on line one,’ she called out.

  Rigby made a face of a man in deep suffering. ‘Yes, Grover!’ he barked downt he line. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I’m not making any headway, Rigby,’ whined the other man. ‘And time’s running out. Do you have any suggestions?’

  ‘How advanced are the negotiations?’

  ‘We seem to have come to a watershed. The unions are determined to strike for no other reason than principle. What the hell am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Let them strike!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let them strike! Call their bluff! They can’t challenge a bank of this size and get away with it! Tell them you’re not going to negotiate with them any more. They can’t go on strike!’

  ‘I can’t allow that to happen,’ declared Grover sorrowfully with an element of fear in his voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would be tantamount to failure.’

  ‘When the staff find out that their holidays, their cars, their televisions, their mortgages and their fringe benefits are all in jeopardy they’ll cut short their strike. Take a bold stance... h
it them where it hurts. In 1926 the miners in Britain went on strike but the Prime Minister held out and he took them back on at lower wages. Hit them below the belt. That’s the way to deal with them!’

  ‘Are you kidding? There would be riots!’ He had hoped for something more solid on which to act.

  ‘Tell them that if they strike the bank intends to hit them hard... very hard. Tell them the break in their service will break all the contracts and affect their pensions. Unofficial strike action will be regarded as termination of employment with the bank. That’ll scare them. Secondly, tell them that they’ll be relocated to remote parts of the country at the bank’s discretion. Make it cleaer they’ll be relegated to the Russian front or have to leave the bank altogether. They’ll also have the highest mobility factor having to move house every few years, change the children’ schools, and go to join different communities leaving families and friends behind. Put the fear of God into them... don’t be soft and give in! Play it dirty... very dirty! And thirdly, tell them that those who go on strike will be regarded as non-co-operative and therefore will not get further promotion or better jobs within the bank. Do you get the point?’

  ‘I can’t tell them all that?’squealed Grover in horror. ‘In any case, it’s illegal.’

  ‘Agreed,’ retorted Rigby, ‘but you have to make them realise that the bank will do all that without anyone knowing. Remember, if they go on strike for a long period, they’ll fall far behind with mortgage payments and other debts. They can’t do it!’

  ‘It’ll be like lighting a blue touch-paper. They’ll see through it all as lies. They’ll never believe me.’

  ‘Pull yourself together man and get real!’ snapped the banker angrily. ‘Haven’t you got any backbone? Stand up to them like a man... especially one in Industrial Relations!’

  ‘I’d never get away with it.’

  ‘Look Grover. You’ve come to me for advice and I’m giving it. What you do is your own affair.’

  ‘And you would force them to strike?’

  ‘No... don’t force them to do anything!’ returned Rigby with alarm, becoming exasperated at the dullness of the other man. ‘If they insist on striking let them, but first warn them of the risk they’re about to take and the consequences I’ve mentioned.’Those people have well-paid jobs in the bank. If they strike they’ll lose money and caused themselves self-inflicted suffering. The bank will survive... it’s the staff that costs money.’

  Grover coughed and wheezed at the other end of the line. The firmness of Rigby’s attitude was sufficient to agree that method of approach. When the conversation ended, the banker drew deeply on his cigarette and allowed the smoke to drift to the ceiling. ‘He’ll never get away with it,’ he told his secretary sadly. ‘Another round peg in a square hole, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Why did you give him the advice then?’ asked Better Brewer simply.

  ‘Because it’s the right advice. The problem is that it’s in the hands of the wrong man.’

  ‘There’s a call on line tow from Mr. O’Connor in International Division... Asia Region.’

  ‘Never heard of him. What’s he want?’

  ‘It appears there’s been a coup d’etat in Indonesia... l... ’

  Rigby stared at her strangely and interrupted rudely. ‘What the hell has that got to do with Functional Control? I thought our operation covered the bank and certain international problems not the overthrow of a bloody government. ‘

  Betty Brewer waiting for him to finish, completely unruffled by his tantrum. Then, when the time was ripe, she repeated the message. ‘It seems there’s been a coup d’etat in Indonesia. Mr. O’Connor believes our manager in our branch in Java has been arrested. Either that, or he’s hiding in the bushes in a nearby golf course.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved in that one. As far as I’m concerned, where he’s ducking out in the woods or perspiring in a dirty prison, that’s his problem not mine. And you can tell that to O’Connor in very clear terms.’

  He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply. He was beginning to understand the secret of success in Functional Control. The key factor was to process a careful selections of activities. His efforts needed to be contained in order of priority. Other people would have to deal with the rest themselves. In that way he could manage the operation properly and avoid encroachment on his personal health. Against that background, the only thought that disturbed him was the bandit sitting in the Manager’s office in Croydon branch. Perhaps there was some truth in the words of his secretary when she said that destiny was written in Heaven and no one could change it. Alternatively, it was up to man to carry the mantle until the story of life unfolded. The concept did not provide a solution to his problem but it offered a glimmer of hope that a greater power would grant providence!

  Chapter Seven

  At two forty-five that afternoon, the bank appeared to seethe with activity, ready to erupt with excitement. It was a red-letter day when the bank released its annual figures to the public. In general terms, like thousands of other companies, the results were relatively academic... the emphasis resting on whether the financial goals had been achieve by virtue of the level of profits. In essence, a few hundred million pounds one way or the other was academic considering the massive profits earned. Whatever the outcome, critics were likely to reiterate their comments of previous years that the banks were making too much profits and that bonuses were far too high. It was the same every year... argument and counter-argument on the strengths and weaknesses of trading policies, profit figures, and the methods by which the final statistics were derived. Press releases previously prepared were to be handed to newspaper reporters at four-thirty to prevent shareholders from buying or selling the bank’s shares on the Stock Market in advance of the public announcement. Once again, the process was relatively academic for the Stock Brokers had estimated the amount of profit that would be made which had somehow been leaked by the bank. It was simply a case of going through the motions according to company law. Prior to the moment of disclosure, the staff could be heard to scurry along the Boardroom corridor, rustling sheets of paper and maintaining low levels of conversation.

  There was always a feeling that the real truth regarding the figures lay in cosmetic application. The conglomeration of facts and figures were sufficient to clog any financial mind in the absence of key information required to unravel the mass of date. In the final analysis, whatever the results, the business of the bank did not change in the short-term and endeavours would be made to increase the profitability in the following year.

  Rigby sat at his desk in a fixed pose, his back straight and stiff but his head leaning forward. He closed his eyes and pressed he bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. In this way, he alleviated the pressure inside his head without having to resort to taking tablets. He felt he was being overwhelmed by events. He took a few deep breaths to clear his head and then reached for another cigarette in the belief that the nicotine would help him concentrate more clearly.

  ‘While you were at the meeting with Mr. MacDonald,’ his secretary cut into his thoughts, ‘your garage mechanic rang. He wants to know whether you still intend to buy the car.’

  He pulled a face in annoyance. ‘Get on to the people in Personnel Division who deal with cars for executives. I’m entitled to a free car, dammit! Why should they bleat because it’s not a standard model?’

  ‘Peter Cavenagh speaking,’ come a controlled monotonous voice after Betty Brewer had tapped out the number. ‘Personnel, Vehicle Division.’

  ‘Rigby, Functional Control. Have you any knowledge what’s happened to my car application?’

  ‘Rigby isn’t in Functional Control,’ countered the man stubbornly. ‘Davies is in Functional Control. Clement Davies!’

  ‘Stop playing the fool, Cavenagh!’ boomed the senior executive irately. �
�What’s happened to my car application? What’s the hold up?’

  ‘Well it’s an unusual car to say the least, Mr. Rigby, A mock 1934 Bugatti, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not a mock Bugatti anything, Cavanagh! I’ve been waiting three weeks for a reply! I want an explanation or an approval... preferably the latter!’

  ‘I’ve no idea what happened. I’ll write a memo to the Director if you like. Now is it a Bugatti or isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a 1934 Bugatti... with modifications!’

  ‘Ah, well there you are,’ retorted the man at the other end of the line as though he had discovered the reason for the delay. ‘It’s the modifications that are causing concern.’

  ‘Look I’m going to part exchange the bank’s car and another one for it. There shouldn’t be any problem with the price.’

  ‘Two cars! Do you have two cars?’

  ‘One of them doesn’t belong to me.’

  ‘Who does it belong to?’

  ‘Mind your own business, Cavanagh!’ shouted Rigby, affronted to be challenge on his application at this late stage.

  ‘Nasty... nasty!’ came the response.

  ‘The senior executive had no intention of allowing Sandra’s name to become embroiled in the matter. The truth was very simply that they were pooling their cars for something really unusual. ‘The garage wants these two cars right away so, if you don’t approve my application, I won’t have any transport at all... thanks to Personnel Division Vehicle Section!’

  ‘It’s not my fault, old dea,’ warbled Cavanagh. ‘Why is the garage modifying the Bugatti?’

  Rigby gritted his teeth but calmed down sufficiently to explain the situation to the oaf at the other end of the line, although he didn’t expect him to understand a word of it. ‘For two reasons. One because the vehicle came to the garage in a terrible condition and, two, I wanted it to have improved performance.’

  ‘What kind of improved performance? I have to know that for the memo I’m writing.