That Will Do Nicely

by Ian Campbell

  "I guess so." Brent uttered eventually.

  Pascoe ran through the basic details again, as he extracted the application forms from one draw and a Falk folding plan of central London from the other.

  "Right-oh, Mr. and Mrs. Brent, this is what we do. First, I need your signatures on these application forms," he said pushing a form to each of them.

  "We need your ordinary signature... the one you are going to use when you cash the cheques." Each of them signed with the ball-point pens Pascoe had provided.

  "Now if you would like to fill in the other details, Name, address, etc.," He waited, patiently for them to fill in the forms." How many dollars would you like to take? Remember, the upper limit is $15,000 each. You can take it all now if you wish, or $5,000 each now and come back for the rest another day. It's entirely your decision."

  "What do you think hon'?" asked Brent, looking at his wife.

  "Just how much do we get paid?" asked Mrs. Brent exercising a universal female talent for getting right down to things.

  "A minimum of 6% Mrs. Brent,"

  "I thought you promised us 15% yesterday?" retorted Mrs. Brent, as sharp about such things as her husband was reticent.

  "No, what I said Mrs. Brent, was that we would allow a maximum commission of 15%. For example, for every $1,000 of cheques you take and cash, you only have to return $850 to us at the day's rate of exchange. That's an overall profit of $150 less any commission you have to pay on the exchange. Some places will charge you more than others, but the maximum you should have to pay will be 9%. You should make a minimum of 6% clear profit, which on $15,000 amounts to $900.

  "Yeah, I think I've got it," said Mrs. Brent, beginning to explain it to her husband.

  "Yes, that's all right. We understand," she added," You are going to give us each $15,000 and we are going to give you $14,100 back. That's right?"

  Pascoe nodded.

  "Where do we sign?" asked Mrs. Brent.

  "How much would you like to take?"

  "Oh we'll go for broke I guess... we'll both take the $15,000"

  Pascoe took two wallets of cheques from the drawer of the desk and noted the opening and closing number sequence of each set of cheques on the application forms.

  "This is the difficult part, Mr. and Mrs. Brent. Can you please sign each cheque in the space provided at the bottom." Pascoe indicated the space with his finger. In all, it took them a little over twelve minutes to sign all the cheques. Everyone was glad when it was over.

  "Thank you very much. Now here is your receipt with the numbers of the cheques you have and there is the book of words which explains what to do and where to go if you get into difficulties. Now, when you've cashed them all, or don't want to carry any more money around with you, just bring everything back here to us and we'll pay you your commission in cash. Is there anything at all you're not sure of?"

  "No, I think you've covered everything pretty damn well. If we run into any problems at all, we'll holler... good and loud!"

  "Then I wish you luck, Thanks for coming."

  Sam moved smartly around the desk to open the door for the Brents, but in doing so, forgot she had to operate the electric button to release the catch on the outer door. For a moment everyone was trapped until Sam hit the right button. As soon as the coast was clear, they both heaved a sigh of relief.

  "Coffee?" Pascoe asked, "We might just have time for one."

  "Yes, I think I will. Thank you."

  Pascoe poured two cups from the machine Sam had had installed and they had barely started drinking it when the buzzer sounded again. This time it was four Americans all together, the Kennerlys accompanied by Mr. Dodge and his daughter. Pascoe remembered them from the hotel. They had been the first to arrive.

  Pascoe welcomed everybody, then asked the guard to bring a couple of extra chairs through from the ante-room. When everyone was comfortably seated, he started his address, amending it slightly from the first time.

  This time, the men accepted the full amount, while the women, being a little more circumspect, took $10,000 each.

  "We will be able to come back for more later, won't we Mr. Guyton?" asked Dodge's daughter, anxious not to miss out on the full commission.

  "Yes, of course you can. It might even be possible to take more than the full amount, if not everyone turns up in the next day or so. We will ask you to keep to the areas marked on the maps though. I think, Miss Fairbrother, that everyone will be more comfortable if they complete the formalities in the outer office. There's a little more space out there." Pascoe motioned to the door and handed over the maps and application forms to Sam.

  "If you would like to take them through Miss Fairbrother, I shall see to the cheques."

  This time Pascoe took four sets of cheques and wallets from the desk-drawer and when Sam indicated she was ready, he called her in to hand over the cheques.

  So far... so good, he thought, sitting down to prepare the next half-dozen batches of cheques. He listed the numbers on the application forms so as to save some time for subsequent clients, but knew it would only improve things provided everyone took the maximum $15,000. Still it was worth a try.

  He was listing the numbers on the sixth form when the buzzer rang again. Two more Americans announced themselves and were duly ushered through the outer office into Pascoe's office while the Dodges and Kennerlys were still appending their signatures in the outer office.

  Things continued at the same hectic pace for most of the day and did not let up until after 4 p.m. At one time, just before lunch, there had been three people with Pascoe and another nine in the outer office, three of whom were seated at Sam's desk, while another two were trying to sign their cheques on their knees. The rest waited until Pascoe or Sam could speak to them and give them their instructions.

  More than once, Pascoe found himself apologizing for the cramped conditions and explained that it was only a temporary office. The Security guards were impressed - they said as much and commented that it was nice to see a British company doing such brisk business. Pascoe hated explaining to them that he represented an American Bank but at least the guard had the good sense to keep his comment of 'bleedin' Yanks' to himself until after the clients had gone.

  The guards went off duty promptly at 5.30 p.m. and they received only one more customer between then and six, at which time they thankfully closed the door. They were alone for the first time since breakfast.

  "How many people did we see today?" asked Sam, sinking into the more comfortable of the office chairs. Pascoe counted the number of application forms before replying.

  "Ninety-six altogether and about seventy took the maximum $15,000. The rest took either $5,000 or $10,000."

  "How much does it come to then?"

  "It'll take a moment to work out, because I have just remembered what we haven't brought... a calculator. I'll have to buy one in the morning." He sat at the desk and worked the calculation out on the back of an application form.

  "$1,245,000 dollars!" he exclaimed. Sam let out a cry. Pascoe felt the shock run through her body as she took in the figure.

  "It's not all ours, darling. That's the gross figure... the net's a little bit less... $1,058,250 and that's only if they convert it all and bring it all back. We are a long way from home yet!"

  "But just think of it... that sort of money... doesn't it excite you? It sure as hell excites me!" she hugged him tight.

  “Darling, I think we had better clear up and leave. Remember, we have got to find somewhere to stay tonight."

  "And that's just where you're wrong. Everything's taken care of! I'm in charge of R & R. Remember?"

  They finally left the office at 6.30, a full half hour after dealing with their last customer. It had taken Pascoe that long to work out the setting of the alarm system.

  "Come on! Get a move on." Sam shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

  "I'm sorry. I was miles away thinking about the alarm system."

  "Thinking what about it?"
<
br />   "Just that, if it should go off, it could prove embarrassing, to say the least."

  "You mean involving the police."

  "More than that... I'll explain as we walk."

  Sam took his arm, and as they left the alley, steered him towards the underground station. "You see," Pascoe explained, "With that sort of alarm, the police can usually notify a key-holder... someone they can contact in the middle of the night, rouse out of bed and bring down to the office to switch off the alarm ; check the premises and reset it if need be."

  "You mean Spriggs."

  "Who is Mr. Spriggs?"

  "He's our janitor!", replied Sam. "If the alarm goes off in the night, he waits for the police and lets them into the premises, then notifies us... "

  "That's just it Sam - your Mr. Spriggs doesn't know where we will be. I don't even know where we'll be."

  "But I do." said Sam.

  "Oh! And where might that be?"

  "Room 121, Great Eastern Hotel. Liverpool Street Station. We're booked in under the name of Guyton!"

  "You're the limit. When did you arrange that?"

  "After we got back from the States and you asked me to arrange things like the Grosvenor, the security company and the office and... "

  "Enough darling. You're incredible and I don't know what I would do without you."

  "Well, if you want to know what you can do for me tonight, I've made a list... Hotel, change of clothes, dinner, show or cinema and then... "

  "Whatever you like. You're the boss!"

  From Bank underground station the journey was a simple one... only one stop on the Central line, before they emerged into the late rush-hour throngs at Liverpool Street station, people making for trains heading east into Essex and Suffolk commuter land. The Hotel entrance was right next to the mainline station. This time, Pascoe left Sam to deal with receptionist.

  "Excuse me, but do you have a reservation for my husband and me... Mr. and Mrs. Guyton... " The receptionist delved beneath the desk top and re-surfaced with a handful of reservation cards. She thumbed expertly through them, coming to the Guyton card near the end of her search.

  "Yes, here we are, Guyton, one week, room 121. Do you have some identification Mrs. Guyton?" The words had hardly left the woman's lips before Pascoe felt his knees begin to buckle.

  "We're travelling incognito - my husband's a famous author and if we use our real names this hotel will be swarming with autograph hunters. You wouldn't want that?" Sam switched on her best, most dazzling smile.

  "Listen dearie, It's none of my business if you just want a few nights away from your family. That's up to you. But here, the choice is a simple one... either you produce some identification, or you pay in advance. Now a week in 121 for two people will be... "

  Sam knew when she was beaten. "How about a compromise? We'll pay you now for tonight and tomorrow for the other nights."

  "Yes, I'm quite sure that will be all right. With service and V.A.T. that will be £68.70 please."

  Sam turned to Pascoe, "I've only got my cheque-book or travelers’ cheques darling... could you... "

  Pascoe reluctantly reached for his wallet and drew out two of his remaining £50 notes. He placed them on the counter and waited while the receptionist held each of them up to the light and checked that the silver strip was still there. Pascoe picked up his change and scrutinised it just as carefully. A bell boy escorted them to their room where Pascoe tipped the boy the princely sum of £1 ... after all it was not the Grosvenor!

  "That was close," he remarked to Sam.

  "I thought I got out of it rather well."

  "You certainly did some quick thinking and don't think I am ungrateful for the arrangements... "

  "But I feel this has got a ‘but’ to it."

  "It's time we both started taking this seriously... from now on the risks are going to increase every day and if we don't take precautions we will get caught."

  "I thought it was fool-proof..."

  "It is, up to a point."

  "And where might that point be?"

  "Time, Sam. That's the point. All the time the banks are closed for the holiday, the cheques can't be fed into the system and so can't be detected. We should be safe until next Wednesday at the earliest... "

  "And then?"

  "Then the cheques will start arriving at the clearing banks and possibly some eyebrows will start getting raised."

  "I thought that was why we posted those circulars from Dallas, to buy us extra time?"

  "You're right, Sam, but we will never know how effective that was. We can't take the risk of sitting here until those cheques hit the States. We have to be out of the office by Tuesday lunchtime at the very latest."

  "There will still be people arriving to pay their money in on Tuesday and afterwards probably."

  "I hope so. But we can't afford to be there."

  "We're not going to write off everything after Tuesday?"

  "I have got an idea about that. I think we should employ someone to do it for us, someone to act as cashier."

  "You don't mean to let someone else in on it, do you?"

  "Certainly not. I thought we might hire a temp from one of the agencies. Two might be better... just for the week. We'll have to start them on Tuesday morning and then we'll be able to show them the ropes. Keep the guards on as well, to escort them to the bank."

  Chapter 9

  Delaying Tactics

  Sam sat down on the bed, listening to Pascoe thinking aloud. He had stopped talking to her directly and she noticed his mind seemed to switch to a higher gear, as the random thoughts began to link together. He seemed to be in an almost trance-like state as he paced the room for the next few minutes. Suddenly, he stopped and his face brightened.

  "I'm sorry, I got carried away.., didn't mean to," he said by way of explanation.

  "That's all right, it was quite a performance. Well worth watching. Do you do that very often?" Sam enquired, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Pascoe glared at her. "Well now you seem to be back to normal, is there any reason why we can't continue this discussion over dinner? I'm famished."

  "It's amazing, how everything with you resolves to food and sex, but I agree. Let's eat."

  "That only takes care of the food..."

  "Sam!"

  The area around the great London stations, especially in the north of the City, can hardly be described as salubrious. Accordingly, they took a taxi into the West End. It wasn't raining so they easily found a cab on the station rank. Pascoe approached the driver of the first cab on the rank.

  "Can you take us to Peter Marios' restaurant, in Soho... I think it's in Gerrard Street or perhaps Greek Street. It's close to Soho market."

  "Yeah Guv, I know the one you mean. Won't take a jiff." The driver reached backwards out of his window and opened the rear door to the cab. They were there in 15 minutes. Amazingly, although it was some eight or nine years since his previous visit, the restaurant had hardly changed.

  They dined on Lasagna, washed down with liberal amounts of Ruffino, supplied in wicker-covered bottles. It was a simple but delightful meal, enhanced by their tacit agreement not to talk 'shop'.

  "You know Tom, you're the strangest man I have ever met. I have spent the best part of a year with you and still know next to nothing about you. You're not like most men.., they can't stop talking about themselves, but you don't. What makes you tick?" asked Sam.

  "I could ask you the same question."

  "Yes you could, but I asked first."

  "What do you want to know?" There was an edge to his voice as his defense mechanism creaked into gear.

  "Nothing much - just where you come from? Who your parents are? School? Career? Marriage? Check the secrets I can pry out of you."

  "In any particular order, or will you take pot-luck?"

  "I am quite serious .Where do you come from?" Pascoe gazed deeply into her eyes, wondering how much he ought to tell her. It wasn't that he had anything particular to hide.., just th
at he wasn't used to being questioned, especially by her.

  "I thought you could have told that from my accent. Where do you think I'm from?" He said at last, making a game out of it.

  "That's it Tom. I really don't know. You're almost accent less, or rather your accent changes, like the weather. I've heard at least three different ones."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as the one when I first met you at the college. It was a little more distinguished than the rest. Then the one when you arrived at the Grosvenor Hotel.., that sounded very upper.., city-ish. Just this evening, when you booked the taxi, I could have sworn you were a Cockney, the way you spoke to the driver and in here; you ordered the meal in Italian. I know the waiter didn't understand too well, but he's probably from Islington."

  "So I'm a little bit of a mimic... lots of people are. I've noticed that myself. If I am in the company of Americans for example, I tend to start speaking with that sort of accent. I try not to because they must think it very rude. It's one of my sins."

  "There you are again. 'I will tend to... '.Who uses that kind of phrase these days? It's not just the way you sound when you talk, it's the use of the language. I should say you've had an excellent education, but you play it down. What are you afraid of?"

  "I don't see this getting us anywhere, unless you're after membership of the Pascoe Admiration Society. Drink your wine." They raised their glasses to each other and Sam made a grudging toast.

  "To our mutual success."

  "A la callata," replied Tom.

  "There you go again!"

  "Sorry."

  Pascoe turned toward the waiter and mimed the action of writing on paper. Sam watched with interest and was amazed at how quickly the bill arrived. Pascoe placed cash on the salver with the bill and handed it back to the waiter. He helped Sam up from the table, held her coat for her and opened the door for her to exit into the street ahead of him. He knew that each little courtesy he performed would irritate her a little and took a perverse pleasure in challenging her liberalism. From the street, Sam heard him say, "Mille grazi, arriverderci," before the door closed. Was he showing off or was it natural for him to behave that way? She had no way of knowing. It was part of his mysterious persona. But she wanted to know and at that precise moment, she would have given a lot to understand what made Tom Pascoe tick.