The Moneychangers, Page 3

  An assistant operations officer, Miles Eastin, had now arrived. A young, handsome, well-groomed man, he was invariably cheerful—in pleasant contrast to Tottenhoe’s dependable glumness. Edwina liked Eastin. With him was a senior vault teller who would supervise transference of money in and out of the vault through the remainder of the day. In cash alone, nearly a million dollars in currency and coinage would be under his control through the next six operating hours.

  Checks passing through the big branch bank during the same period would represent another twenty million.

  As Edwina stood back, the senior teller and Miles Eastin together swung open the huge, precision-engineered vault door. It would remain open until the close of business tonight.

  “Just took a phone message,” Eastin informed the operations officer. “Scratch two more tellers for today.”

  Tottenhoe’s look of melancholy deepened.

  “Is it flu?” Edwina asked.

  An epidemic had swept the city for the past ten days, leaving the bank short of staff, especially tellers.

  “Yes, it is,” Miles Eastin answered.

  Tottenhoe complained, “If I could just catch it myself, I could go home to bed and leave someone else to worry about manning the counters.” He asked Edwina, “Do you insist we open today?”

  “It seems to be expected of us.”

  “Then we’ll empty an executive chair or two. You’re the first elected,” he said to Miles Eastin, “so get a cash box and be ready for the public. Do you remember how to count?”

  “Up to twenty,” Eastin said. “As long as I can work with my socks off.”

  Edwina smiled. She had no fears about young Eastin; everything he touched he did well. When Tottenhoe retired next year, Miles Eastin would almost certainly be her choice as operations officer.

  He returned the smile. “Not to worry, Mrs. D’Orsey. I’m a pretty good utility outfielder. Besides, I played handball for three hours last night and managed to keep score.”

  “But did you win?”

  “When I keep score? Of course.”

  Edwina was aware, too, of Eastin’s other hobby, one which had proved useful to the bank—the study and collection of currencies and coin. It was Miles Eastin who gave orientation talks to new employees at the branch, and he liked to toss in historical nuggets such as the fact that paper money and inflation were both invented in China. The first recorded instance of inflation, he would explain, was during the thirteenth century when the Mongol emperor, Kublai Khan, was unable to pay his soldiers in coin, so used a wood printing block to produce military money. Unfortunately so much was printed that it quickly became worthless. “Some people,” young Eastin would quip, “believe the dollar is being Mongolized right now.” Because of his studies, Eastin had also become the resident expert on counterfeit money, and doubtful bills which turned up were referred to him for his opinion.

  The three of them—Edwina, Eastin, Tottenhoe—ascended the stairs from the vault to the main banking area.

  Canvas sacks containing cash were being delivered from an armored truck outside, the money accompanied by two armed guards.

  Cash arriving in large volume always came early in the morning, having been transferred earlier still from the Federal Reserve to First Mercantile American’s own Central Cash Vault. From there it was distributed to branch banks in the FMA system. Reason for the same-day schedule was simple. Excess cash in vaults earned nothing; there were dangers, too, of loss or robbery.

  The trick, for any branch bank manager, was never to run short of cash, but not to hold too much.

  A large branch bank like FMA’s downtown kept a working cash float of half a million dollars. The money now arriving—another quarter million—was the difference required on an average banking day.

  Tottenhoe grumbled to the delivery guards, “I hope you’ve brought us some cleaner money than we’ve been getting lately.”

  “I told them guys over at Central Cash about your beef, Mr. Tottenhoe,” one guard said. He was youngish, with long black hair overflowing his uniform cap and collar. Edwina looked downward, wondering if he were wearing shoes. He was.

  “They said you’d phoned in, too,” the guard added. “Now me, I’ll take money clean or dirty.”

  “Unfortunately,” the operations officer said, “some of our customers won’t.”

  New currency, arriving from the Bureau of Printing and Engraving via the Federal Reserve, was keenly competed for by banks. A surprising number of customers, referred to as “the carriage trade,” rejected dirty bills and demanded new, or at least clean notes which bankers called “fit.” Fortunately there were others who simply didn’t care and tellers had instructions to pass out the worst soiled money where they could get away with it, saving their fresh, crisp bills for those who asked for them.

  “Hear there’s lots of high-grade counterfeit stuff around. Maybe we could get you a bundle.” The second guard winked at his companion.

  Edwina told him, “That kind of help we can do without. We’ve been getting too much of it.”

  Only last week the bank had discovered nearly a thousand dollars in counterfeit bills—money paid in, though the source was unknown. More than likely it had come through numerous depositors—some who had been defrauded themselves and were passing their loss along to the bank; others who had no idea the bills were counterfeit, which was not surprising since the quality was remarkably high.

  Agents of the U. S. Secret Service, who had discussed the matter with Edwina and Miles Eastin, were frankly worried. “The counterfeit money we’re seeing has never been as good, and there’s never been as much in circulation,” one of them admitted. A conservative estimate was that thirty million dollars of bogus money had been produced the previous year. “And a lot more never gets detected.”

  England and Canada were major supply sources of spurious U.S. currency. The agents also reported that an incredible amount was circulating in Europe. “It’s not so easily detected there, so warn your friends who go to Europe never to accept American bills. There’s a strong chance they could be worthless.”

  The first armed guard shifted the sacks on his shoulders. “Don’t worry, folks! These are genuine greenbacks. All part of the service!”

  Both guards went down the stairway to the vault.

  Edwina walked to her desk on the platform. Throughout the bank, activity was increasing. The main front doors were open, early customers streaming in.

  The platform where, by tradition, the senior officers worked, was raised slightly above the main-floor level and carpeted in crimson. Edwina’s desk, the largest and most imposing, was flanked by two flags—behind her and to the right the Stars and Stripes, and on her left the state burgee. Sometimes, seated there, she felt as if she were on TV, ready to make a solemn announcement while cameras dollied in.

  The big downtown branch itself was modern. Rebuilt a year or two ago when FMA’s adjoining Headquarters Tower was erected, the structure had had design expertise and a fortune lavished on it. The result, in which crimson and mahogany predominated with an appropriate sprinkling of gold, was a combination of customer convenience, excellent working conditions and just plain opulence. Occasionally, Edwina admitted to herself, the opulence seemed to have an edge.

  As she settled down, her tall, lithe figure slipping familiarly into a high-backed swivel chair, she smoothed her short hair—needlessly, since as usual it was impeccably in place.

  Edwina reached for a group of files containing loan applications for amounts higher than other officers in the branch had authority to approve.

  Her own authorization to lend money extended to a million dollars in any single instance, providing two other officers in the branch concurred. They invariably did. Amounts in excess were referred to the bank’s credit policy unit over in Headquarters.

  In First Mercantile American, as in any banking system, an acknowledged status symbol was the size of a loan which a bank official had power to sanction. It also dete
rmined his—or her—position on the organization totem pole and was spoken of as “the quality of initial,” because an individual’s initial put final approval on any loan proposal.

  As a manager, the quality of Edwina’s initial was unusually high, though it reflected her responsibility in running FMA’s important downtown branch. A manager of a lesser branch might approve loans from ten thousand to half a million dollars, depending on the manager’s ability and seniority. It always amused Edwina that quality-of-initial supported a caste system with attendant perks and privileges. In the Headquarters credit policy unit, an assistant loan inspector, whose authority was limited to a mere fifty thousand dollars, worked at an unimpressive desk alongside others in a large open office. Next in the pecking order, a loan inspector whose initial was good for a quarter million dollars rated a larger desk in a glass-paneled cubicle.

  An honest-to-goodness office with door and window was the perquisite of an assistant loan supervisor whose quality of initial extended higher, to a half million dollars. He also rated a capacious desk, an oil painting on the wall and printed memo pads with his name, a free daily copy of The Wall Street Journal and a complimentary shoe-shine every morning. He shared a secretary with another assistant supervisor.

  Finally, a loan officer-vice-president whose initial was good for a million dollars, worked in a corner office with two windows, two oil paintings, and a secretary of his own. His name memos were engraved. He, too, had a free shoeshine and newspaper, plus magazines and journals, the use of a company car when required for business, and access to the senior officers’ dining room for lunch.

  Edwina qualified for almost all the quality-of-initial perks. She had never used the shoeshine.

  This morning, she studied two loan requests, approved one and penciled some queries on another. A third proposal stopped her short.

  Startled, and conscious of a bizarre coincidence after yesterday’s experience, she read through the file again.

  The loan officer who had prepared the file answered Edwina’s intercom buzz.

  “Castleman here.”

  “Cliff, please come over.”

  “Sure.” The loan officer, only half a dozen desks away, looked directly at Edwina. “And I’ll bet I know why you want me.”

  Moments later, as he seated himself beside her desk, he glanced at the open file. “I was right. We get some lulus, don’t we?”

  Cliff Castleman was small and precise with a round pink face and soft smile. Borrowers liked him because he was a good listener and sympathetic. But he was also a seasoned loan man with sound judgment.

  “I was hoping,” Edwina said, “that this application is some kind of sick joke, even if a ghastly one.”

  “Ghoulish would be more apt, Mrs. D’Orsey. And while the whole thing may be sick, I assure you it’s real.” Castleman motioned to the file. “I included all the facts because I knew you’d want them. Obviously you’ve read the report. And my recommendation.”

  “Are you serious in proposing to lend this much money for this purpose?”

  “I’m deadly serious.” The loan officer stopped abruptly. “Sorry!—that wasn’t intended to be gallows humor. But I believe you should approve the loan.”

  It was all there in the file. A forty-three-year-old pharmaceutical salesman named Gosburne, locally employed, was applying for a loan of twenty-five thousand dollars. He was married—a first marriage which had lasted seventeen years, and the Gosburnes owned their suburban home except for a small mortgage. They had had a joint account with FMA for eight years—no problems. An earlier, though smaller, bank loan had been repaid. Gosburne’s employment record and other financial history were good.

  The intended purpose of the new loan was to buy a large stainless steel capsule in which would be placed the body of the Gosburnes’ child, Andrea. She had died six days ago, at age fifteen, from a kidney malignancy. At present Andrea’s body was at a funeral home, stored in dry ice. Her blood had been drawn off immediately after death and replaced with a blood-like “anti-freeze” solution called dimethylsulfoxide.

  The steel capsule was specially designed to contain liquid nitrogen at a subzero temperature. The body, wrapped in aluminum foil, would be immersed in this solution.

  A capsule of the type sought—a giant bottle, really, and known as a “cryo-crypt”—was available in Los Angeles and would be flown from there if the bank loan was approved. About a third of the intended loan was for prepayment of vault storage rent for the capsule, and replacement of the liquid nitrogen every four months.

  Castleman asked Edwina, “You’ve heard of cryonics societies?”

  “Vaguely. It’s pseudo-scientific. Not very reputable.”

  “Not very. And pseudo indeed. But the fact is, cryonics groups have a big following and they’ve convinced Gosburne and his wife that when medical science is more advanced—say fifty or a hundred years from now—Andrea can be thawed out, brought back to life and cured. Incidentally, the cryonics people have a motto: Freeze—wait—reanimate.”

  “Horrible,” Edwina said.

  The loan officer conceded, “Mostly I agree with you. But look at it their way. They believe. Also they’re adult, reasonably intelligent people, deeply religious. So who are we, as bankers, to be judge and jury? As I see it, the only question is: Can Gosburne repay the loan? I’ve gone over the figures, and I say he can and will. The guy may be a nut. But the record shows he’s a nut who pays his bills.”

  Reluctantly Edwina studied the income and expenses figures. “It will be a terrible financial strain.”

  “The guy knows that but insists he can handle it. He’s taking on some spare-time work. And bis wife is looking for a job.”

  Edwina said, “They have four younger children.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has anyone pointed out that the other children—the living—will need money soon for college, other things, and that twenty-five thousand dollars could be put to better use for them?”

  “I did,” Castleman said. “I’ve had two long interviews with Gosburne. But according to him, the whole family talked that over and they made their decision. They believe the sacrifices they’ll have to make will be worth the chance of bringing Andrea back to life some day. The children also say that when they’re older they’ll take over responsibility for her body.”

  “Oh God!” Again Edwina’s thoughts went back to yesterday. Ben Rosselli’s death, whenever it came, would be dignified. This made death ugly and a mockery. Should the bank’s money—in part, Ben’s—be used for such a purpose?

  “Mrs. D’Orsey,” the loan officer said, “I’ve had this on my desk for two days. My first feeling was the same as yours—the whole thing’s sick. But I’ve thought about it and I’ve come around. In my opinion, it’s an acceptable risk.”

  Acceptable risk. Essentially, Edwina realized, Cliff Castleman was right because acceptable risks were what banking was all about. He was also right in asserting that in most personal matters a bank should not be judge and jury.

  Of course, this particular risk might not work out, though even if it failed to, Castleman would not be blamed. His record was good, his “wins” far greater than his losses. In fact, a perfect win record was frowned on, a busy retail loan officer expected, almost obligated, to have a few of his loans turn sour. If he didn’t, he could be in trouble in reverse when a computer printout warned management he was losing business through excessive caution.

  “All right,” Edwina said. “The idea appalls me but I’ll back your judgment.”

  She scribbled an initial. Castleman returned to his desk.

  Thus—apart from a loan for a frozen daughter—this day had begun like any other.

  It stayed that way until early afternoon.

  On days when she lunched alone, Edwina used the basement cafeteria over at FMA Headquarters. The cafeteria was noisy, the food only so-so, but service was brisk and she could be in and out in fifteen minutes.

  Today, however, she had a c
lient as a guest and exercised her vice-president’s privilege by taking him to the senior officers’ private dining room, high in the executive tower. He was the treasurer of the city’s largest department store and needed a three million dollar short-term loan to cover a cash deficit resulting from light fall sales plus costlier-than-usual purchases of Christmas merchandise.

  “This goddamned inflation!” the treasurer complained over a spinach soufflé. Then, licking his lips, he added, “But we’ll get our money back this next two months, and then some. Santa Claus is always good to us.”

  The department store account was an important one; nevertheless Edwina drove a tough bargain, with terms favorable to the bank. After some grumbling by the customer, these were agreed by the time they reached Peach Melba for dessert. The three million dollars exceeded Edwina’s personal authority, though she anticipated no trouble getting approval from Headquarters. If necessary, for speed’s sake, she would talk with Alex Vandervoort who had backed up her judgments in the past.

  It was while they were having coffee that a waitress brought a message to their table.

  “Mrs. D’Orsey,” the girl said, “a Mr. Tottenhoe is on the phone for you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Edwina excused herself and went to a telephone in an annex.

  The voice of her branch operations officer complained, “I’ve been trying to locate you.”

  “Now you have. What is it?”

  “We have a serious cash shortage.” He went on to explain: A teller had reported the loss a half hour ago. Checking had been going on continuously since. Edwina sensed panic as well as gloom in Tottenhoe’s voice and asked how much money was involved.

  She heard him swallow. “Six thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll be down right away.”

  Within less than a minute, after apologizing to her guest, she was in the express elevator en route to the main floor.

  5

  “As far as I can see,” Tottenhoe said morosely, “the only thing all of us know for certain is that six thousand dollars in cash is not where it should be.”