Paper Money

21

Evan Jones was drinking whiskey before lunch for the first time in his life. There was a reason. He had a Code, and he had broken it-also for the first time. He was explaining this to his friend, Arny Matthews, but he was not doing too well, for he was unused to whiskey, and the first double was already reaching his brain.

"It's my upbringing, see," he said in his musical Welsh accent. "Strict chapel. We lived by the Book. Now, a man can exchange one Code for another, but he can't shake the habit of obedience. See?"

"I see," said Arny, who did not see at all. Evan was manager of the London branch of the Cotton Bank of Jamaica, and Arny was a senior actuary at Fire and General Marine Insurance, and they lived in adjoining mock-Tudor houses in Woking, Surrey. Their friendship was shallow, but permanent.

"Bankers have a Code," Evan continued. "Do you know, it caused quite a stir when I told my parents I wanted to be a banker. In South Wales the grammar school boys are expected to become teachers, or ministers, or Coal Board clerks, or trade union officials-but not bankers."

"My mother didn't even know what an actuary was," said Arny sympathetically, missing the point.

"I'm not talking about the principles of good banking-the law of the least risk, the collateral to more-than-cover the loan, higher interest for longer term-I don't mean all that."

"No." Arny now had no idea what Evan did mean. But he sensed that Evan was going to be indiscreet, and like everyone in the City he enjoyed the indiscretions of others. "Have another?" He picked up the glasses.

Evan nodded assent, and watched Arny go to the bar. The two of them often met in the lounge of Pollard's before catching the train home together. Evan liked the plush seats, and the quiet, and the faintly servile barmen. He had no time for the newer kind of pub that was springing up in the Square Mile: trendy, crowded cellars with loud music for the longhaired whiz kids in their three-piece suits and gaudy ties, drinking lager in pints or Continental aperitifs.

"I'm talking about integrity," Evan resumed when Amy came back. "A banker can be a fool, and survive, if he's straight; but if he hasn't got integrity…"

"Absolutely."

"Now, take Felix Laski. There's a man totally without integrity."

"This is the man who's taken you over."

"To my everlasting regret, yes. Shall I tell you how he got control?"

Arny leaned forward in his seat, holding a cigarette halfway to his lips. "Okay."

"We had a customer called South Middlesex Properties. They were tied up with a discounting outfit we knew, and we wanted an outlet for a lot of long-term money. The loan was too big for the property company, really, but the collateral was vast. To cut a long story short, they defaulted on the loan."

"But you had the property," Arny said. "Surely the title deeds were in your vault."

"Worthless. What we had were copies-and so did several other creditors."

"Straightforward fraud."

"Indeed, although somehow they managed to make it look like mere incompetence. However, we were in a hole. Laski bailed us out in exchange for a majority holding."

"Shrewd."

"Shrewder than you think, Arny. Laski practically controlled South Middlesex Properties. Mind you, he wasn't a director. But he had shares, and he was employed by them as a consultant, and the management was weak…"

"So he bought into the Cotton Bank with the money he'd borrowed and defaulted on."

"Looks like it, doesn't it?"

Arny shook his head. "I find that very hard to credit."

"You wouldn't if you knew the bugger." Two men in solicitors' stripes sat at the next table with half-pints of beer, and Evan lowered his voice. "A man totally without integrity," he repeated.

"What a stroke to pull." There was a note of admiration in Arny's voice. "You could have gone to the newspapers-if it's true."

"Who the hell would publish it, other than Private Eye? But it's true, boy. There is no depth to which that man will not sink." He took a large swallow of whiskey. "You know what he's done today?"

"It couldn't be worse than the South Middlesex deal," Arny goaded him.

"Couldn't it? Ha!" Evans face was slightly flushed now, and the glass trembled in his hand. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "He has instructed me-instructed, mind you-to clear a rubber check for a million pounds." He set down his glass with a flourish.

"But what about Threadneedle Street?"

"My exact words to him!" The two solicitors looked around, and Evan realized he had shouted. He spoke more quietly. "My very words. You'll never believe what he said. He said: 'Who owns the Cotton Bank of Jamaica?' Then he put the phone down on me."

"So what did you do?"

Evan shrugged. "When the payee phoned up, I said the check was good."

Arny whistled. "What you say makes no difference. It's the Bank of England who have to make the transfer. And when they discover that you haven't got a million-"

"I told him all that." Evan realized he was close to tears, and felt ashamed. "I have never, in thirty years of banking, since I started behind the counter of Barclays Bank in Cardiff, passed a rubber check. Until today." He emptied his glass and stared at it gloomily. "Have another?"

"No. You shouldn't, either. Will you resign?"

"Must do." He shook his head from side to side. "Thirty years. Come on, have another."

"No," Arny said firmly. "You should go home." He stood up and took Evan's elbow.

"All right."

The two men walked out of the wine bar and into the street. The sun was high and hot. Lunch-hour lines were beginning to form at cafe's and sandwich shops. A couple of pretty secretaries walked by eating ice-cream cones.

Arny said: "Lovely weather, for the time of year."

"Beautiful," Evan said lugubriously.

Arny stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi. The black cab swerved across and pulled up with a squeal.

Evan said: "Where are you going?"

"Not me. You." Arny opened the door and said to the driver: "Waterloo Station."

Evan stumbled in and sat down on the backseat.

"Go home before you get too drunk to walk," Arny said. He shut the door.

Evan opened the window. "Thanks," he said.

"Home's the best place."

Evan nodded. "I wish I knew what I'm going to tell Myfanwy."

Arny watched the cab disappear, then walked toward his office, thinking about his friend. Evan was finished as a banker. A reputation for honesty was made slowly and lost quickly in the City. Evan would lose his as surely as if he had tried to pick the pocket of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He might get a decent pension out of it, but he would never get another job.

Arny was secure, if hard up: quite the opposite of Evan's plight. He earned a respectable salary, but he had borrowed money to build an extension to his lounge, and he was having difficulty with the payments. He could see a way to earn out of Evan's misfortune. It felt disloyal. However, he reasoned, Evan could suffer no more.

He went into a phone booth and dialed a number.

The pips went and he thumbed in a coin. "Evening Post?"

"Which department?"

"City Editor."

There was a pause; then a new voice said: "City desk."

"Mervyn?"

"Speaking."

"This is Arnold Matthews."

"Hello, Arny. What goes on?"

Arny took a deep breath. "The Cotton Bank of Jamaica is in trouble."