Paper Money (24 page)

"What are you talking about?" Jesse looked at him as if he were mad.

"What-do you mean, burn them? You going potty?"

Tony turned around and gripped Jesse's arm, squeezing hard. "Listen.

If you go into the Rose and Crown, ask for a half of, bitter and a meat

pie, and pay with a tenner; and if you do that every day for a week;

what will they all think?"

"They'll think I've had a tickle. You're hurting my arm, Tone."

"And how long would it take for one of those dirty little snouts in

there to get round the nick and spill it? Five minutes?" He let go.

"It's too much, Jess. Your trouble is, you don't think. This much money,

you've got to keep it somewhere, and if it's kept somewhere, the Old

Bill can find it."

Jesse found this point of view too radical to digest. "But you can't

throw money away."

"You're not listening to me, are you? They've got Deaf Willie, right?

Their driver will connect Willie with the raid, right? And they know

Willie's on my firm, so they know we done the job, right? You bet your

life they'll be up your place tonight, slitting the mattresses and

digging up the potato patch. Now, five grand in oncers might be your

life savings, but fifty grand in tenners gotta be incriminating, right?"

"I never thought of it that way," Jesse said.

"The word for it is overkill."

"I suppose you can't put that much money in the Abbey National. Anybody

can have a good night at the dogs, but if you got too much, it proves

you've had a tickle, see?" Jesse was explaining it back to Tony, as if

to demonstrate that he understood. "That's it, ain't it?"

"Yes." Tony had lost interest in the lecture. He was trying to think of

a foolproof way of disposing of hot money in large quantity.

"And you can't walk into Bardays Bank with over a million nicker and ask

to open a savings account, can you?"

"You're getting it," Tony said sarcastically. Suddenly he looked sharply

at Jesse. "Ah, but who can walk into the bank with a pile of money and

not arouse suspicion?"

Jesse was lost. "Well, nobody can.

"You reckon?" Tony pointed to the packing cases of surplus Forces

clothes. "Open a couple of those -boxes. I want you dressed as a Royal

Navy seaman. I've just had a bloody, clever idea. "AN EDITOR'S

CONFERENCE in the afternoon was rare.

The editor sometimes said: "The mornings are fun, the afternoons are

work." Up until lunchtime, his efforts were expended in the production

of a newspaper. By two o'clock it was too late to do anything

Significant: the content of the paper was more or less determined, most

of the day's editions had been printed and distributed, and the editor

turned his brain to what he called administrative sludge. But he had to

be around, in case something came up which required a top level

decision. Arthur Cole believed that such a thing had come up.

Cole, the deputy news editor, sat opposite the editor's oversize white

desk. On Cole's left was the reporter Kevin Hart; on his right was

Mervyn Glazier, City editor.

The editor finished signing a pile of letters and looked up. "What have

we got?" Cole said: "Tim Fitzpeterson will live, the oil announcement's

been delayed, the currency van raiders got away with more than a

million, and England are all out for seventy-nine."

"And?"

"And there's something going on."

The editor lit a cigar. If the truth were known, he quite liked to have

his administrative sludge interrupted by something exciting like a

story.

"Go on." Cole said: "You remember Kevin came in during the morning

conference, a little overexcited about a phone call allegedly from Tim

Fitzpeterson.

The editor smiled indulgently. "If young reporters don't get excited,

what the hell will they be like when they get old?"

"Well, it's possible Kevin was right to say it was the big one.

Remember the names of the people allegedly blackmailing Fitzpeterson?

Cox and Laski." Cole turned to Hart. "Okay, Kevin."

Hart uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

"Another phone call, this time from a woman who gave her name and

address. She said that her husband, William Johnson, had been on the

currency van raid, that he had been shot and blinded, and that it was a

Tony Cox job." The editor said: "Tony Cox! Did you follow it up?"

"There is a William Johnson in hospital with shotgun wounds to the face.

And there's a detective beside his bed, waiting for him to come round.

I went to see the wife, but she wouldn't speak."

The editor, who had once been a crime reporter, said: "Tony Cox is a

very big fish. I'd believe anything of him. Not at all a nice man. Go

on." Cole said: "The next bit is Mervyn's." "There's a bank in trouble,"

the City editor said. "The Cotton Bank of Jamaica--it's a foreign bank

with a branch in London. Does a lot of UK business. Anyway, it's owned

by a man called Felix Laski." "How do we know?" the editor asked. "That

it's in trouble, I mean."

"Well, I got a tip from a contact. I rang Threadneedle Street to check

it out. Of course, they won't give a straight answer, but the noises

they made tended to confirm the tip." "Tell me exactly what was said."

Glazier pulled out his pad. He could write shorthand at 150 words per

minute, and his notes were always immaculate. "I spoke to a man called

Ley, who is most likely to be dealing with it. I happen to know him,

because--"

"Skip the commercial, Mervyn," the editor interrupted. "We all know how

good your contacts are." Glazier grinned. "Sorry. First, I asked him if

he knew anything about the Cotton Bank of Jamaica.

He said: "The Bank of England knows a good deal about every bank in

London."

"I said: "Then you'll know just how viable the Cotton Bank is at the

moment." "He said: "Of course. Which is not to say that I'm going to

tell you." "I said: "They're about to go under-true or false?" "He said:

"Pass." "I said: "Come on, Donald, this isn't Mistermind--it's people's

money." "He said: "You know I can't talk about that sort of thing. Banks

are our customers. We respect their trust." "I said: "I am going to

print a story saying that the Cotton Bank is about to fold. Are you or

are you not telling me that such a story would be false?"

"He said: "I'm telling you to check your facts first." That's about it."

Glazier closed his notebook. "If the bank was okay, he would have said

so.

The editor nodded. "I have never liked that kind of reasoning, but in

this case you're probably right." He tapped his cigar on a large glass

ashtray.

"Where does it get us?"

Cole summed up. "Cox and Laski blackmail Fitzpeterson. Fitzpeterson

tries to kill himself. Cox does a raid. Laski goes bust." He shrugged.

"There's something going on."

"What do you want to do?"

"Find out. Isn't that what we're here for?"

The editor got up and went to the window, as if to make time in which to

consider. He made a small adjustment to his blinds, and the room became

slightly brighter. Slats of sunshine appeared on the rich blue carpet,

picking out the sculptured pattern. He returned to his desk and sat

down.

"No," he said. "We're going to leave it, and I'm going to tell you why.

One: we can't predict the collapse of a bank, because our prediction on

its own would be enough to cause that collapse. Just to ask questions

about the bank's viability would set the City all a-tremble.

"Two: we can't try to detect the perpetrators of a currency raid.

That's the police force's job. Anyway, anything we discover can't be

printed for fear of prejudicing a trial. I mean, if we know it's Tony

Cox, the police must know; and the law says that if we know an arrest is

imminent or likely, the story becomes sub judice.

"Three: Tim Fitzpeterson is not going to die. If we blunder around

London asking about his sex life, before you know it there will be

questions in Parliament about Evening Post reporters scouring the

country for dirt on politicians. We leave that sort of thing to the

Sunday rags."

He laid his hands on his desk, palms down "Sorry, boys.

Cole got up. "Okay, let's get back to work."

The three journalists left. When they got back to the newsroom, Kevin

Hart said: "If he was editor of The Washington Post, Nixon would still

be winning elections on a law-and-order ticket."

Nobody laughed.

THREE P.M. "I HAVE Smith and Bernstein for you, Mr. Laski."

"Thank you, Carol. Put him on. Hello, George?"

"Felix, how are you?"

Laski put a smile into his voice. It was not easy; "On top of the world.

Has your service improved any?" George Bernstein played tennis.

"Not a bit. You know I was teaching George junior to play?"

"Yes."

"Now he beats me."

Laski laughed. "And how's Rachel?"

"No thinner. We were talking about you last night. She said you ought to

be married. I said: "Didn't you know? Felix is gay." She said: "Gay?"

So why can't happy people be married?" I said: "No, I mean he's a

homosexual, Rachel." She dropped her knitting. She believed me, Felix!

Would you credit it?"

Laski forced another laugh. He was not sure how much longer he could

keep this up. "I'm thinking about it, George."

"Marriage? Don't do it! Don't do it! Is that what you called to say?"

"No, that's just a little thought hovering around in the back of my

mind."

"So what can I tell you?"

"It's a little thing. I want a million pounds for twenty-four hours, and

I thought I'd put the business your way." Laski held his breath.

There was a short silence. "A million. For how long has Felix Laski been

in the money market?"

"Since I found out how to make a real profit overnight."

"Let me in on the secret, will you?"

"All right. After you lend me the money. No kidding, George: can you do

it?"

"Sure we can. What's your collateral?"

"Uh--surely you don't normally ask for collateral against

twenty-four-hour money?" Laski's fist tightened on the phone until the

knuckles bulged whitely.

"You're right. And we don't normally lend sums like this to banks like

yours."

"Okay. My collateral is five hundred and ten thousand shares in Hamilton

Holdings."

"Just a minute."

There was a silence. Laski pictured George Bernstein: a thickset man

with a large head, a big nose, and a permanent broad grin; sitting at an

old desk in a poky office with a view of St. Paul's; checking figures in

The Financial Times, his fingers playing lightly over the keys of a

desktop computer.

Bernstein came back on the line. "At today's price it's not nearly

enough, Felix."

"Oh, come on, this is a formality. You know I'm not going to screw you.

This is me--Felix--your friend." He wiped his brow with his sleeve.

"I'd like to do it, but I've got a partner."

"Your partner is sleeping so heavily there's a rumor he's dead."

"A deal like this would wake him if he was in his grave. Try Larry

Wakely, Felix. He might do something for you."

Laski had already tried Larry Wakely, but he did not say so. "I will.

How about a game this weekend?"

"Love to!" The relief in Bernstein's voice was obvious. "Saturday

morning at the club?"

"Ten pounds a game?"

"It'll break my heart to take your money."

"Look forward to it. Good-bye, George."

"Take care."

Laski closed his eyes for a moment, letting the phone dangle from his

hand. He had known that Bernstein would not lend him the money: he was

just trying anything now. He rubbed his face with his fingers. He was

not beaten yet.

He depressed the cradle and got a purring tone.

He dialed with a chewed pencil.

The number rang for a long time. Laski was about to dial again when it

answered. "Department of Energy."

"Press Office," Laski said.

"Trying to connect you."

Another woman's voice. "Press Office." "Good afternoon," Laski said.