The Moneychangers

Arthur Hailey

The Moneychangers

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee.

Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

Poul-cank'ring rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold that's put to use more gold begets.

Venus and Adonis

1

Long afterward, many would remember those two days in the first week of October with vividness and anguish.

It was on Tuesday of that week that old Ben Rosselli, president of First Mercantile American Bank and grandson of the bank's founder, made an announcement startling and somber which reverberated through every segment of the bank and far beyond. And the next day, Wednesday, the bank's "flagship" downtown branch discovered the presence of a thief beginning a series of events which few could have foreseen, and ending in financial wreckage, human tragedy, and death.

The bank president's ann ouncement occurred without warni ng; remarkably, there were no advance leaks. Ben Rosselli had telephoned a few of his senior executives early in the morning, catching some at home at breakfast, others soon after their arrival at work. There were a few, too, who were not executives, simply longtime employees whom old Ben thought of as his friends.

To each, the message was the same: Please be in the Headquarters Tower boardroom at 11am

Now all except Ben were assembled in the boardroom, twenty or so, talking quietly in groups, waiting. All were standing; no one chose to be first to pull a chair back from the gleaming directors' table, longer than a squash court, which seated forty.

A voice cut sharply across the talk. "Who authorized that?"

Heads turned. Roscoe Heyward, executive vice-president and comptroller, had addressed a white-coated waiter from the senior officers' dining room. The man had come in with decanters of sherry which he was pouring into glasses.

Heyward, austere, o lympian in FMA Bank, was a zealous teetotaler. He glanced pointedly at his watch in a gesture which said clearly: Not only drinking, but this early. Several who had been reaching out for the sherry withdrew their hands.

"Mr. Rosselli's instructions, sir," the waiter stated. "And he especially ordered the best sherry."

A stocky figure, fashionably dressed in light gray, turned and said easily, "Whatever time it is, no sense passing up the best."

Alex Vandervoort, blue-eyed and fair-haired with a touch of gray at the temples, was also an executive vice - president. Genial and informal, his easygoing, "with-it" ways belied the tough decisiveness beneath. The two men Heyward and Vandervoort represented the second management echelon immediately below the presidency and, while each was seasoned and capable of co-operation, they were, in many ways, rivals. Their rivalry, and differing viewpoints, permeated the bank, giving each a retinue of supporters at lower levels.

Now Alex took two glasses of sherry, passing one to Edwina D'Orsey, brunette and statuesque, FMA's ranking woman executive.

Edwina saw Heyward glance toward her, disapproving. Well, it made little difference, she thought. Roscoe knew she was a loyalist in the Vandervoort camp. "Thank you, Alex," she said, and took the glass.

There was a moment's tension, then others followed the example.

Roscoe Heyward's face tightened angrily. He appeared about to say something more, then changed his mind.

At the boardroom doorway the vice-president for Security, Nolan Wainwright, a towering, Othello-like figure and one of two black executives present, raised his voice. "Mrs. D'Orsey and gentlemen Mr. Rosselli." The hum of conversation stopped. Ben Rosselli stood there, smiling slightly, as his eyes

passed over the group. As always, his appearance seemed to strike a median point between a benevolent father figure and the strong solidity of one to whom thousands of fellow citizens entrusted money for safekeeping. He looked both parts, and dressed them: in statesman-banker black, with the inevitable vest, across its front a thin gold cha in and fob. And it was striking how closely this m an resembled the first Rosselli, Giovanni who had founded the bank in the basement of a grocery store a century ago. It was Giovanni 's patrician head, with flowing silver hair and full mustache, which the bank reproduced on passbooks and travelers checks as a symbol of probity, and whose bust adorned Rosselli Plaza down below.

The here-and-now Rosselli had the silver hair and mustache, almost as luxuriant. Fashion across a century had revolved full circle. But what no reproduction showed was the family drive which all Rossellis had possessed and which, with ingenuity and boundless energy, raised First Mercantile American to its present eminence. Today, though, in Ben Rosselli the usual li veliness seemed missing. He was walking with the aid of a cane; no one present had seen him do so before.

Now he reached out, as if to pull one of the heavy directors' chairs toward him. But Nolan Wainwright, who - was nearest, moved more quickly. The security chief swung the chair-around, its high back to the boardroom table. With a murmur of thanks the president settled into it.

Ben Rosselli waved a hand to t he others. 'this is in formal. Won't take long. If you like, pull chairs around. Ah, thank you." The last-remark was to the waiter from whom he accepted a glass of sherry. The man went out, closing the boardroom doors behind him.

Someone moved a chair for Edwina D'Orsey, and a few others seated themselves, but most remained standing.

If was Alex Vandervoort who said, "We're obviously here to celebrate." He motioned with his sherry glass. 'The question is what?"

Ben Rosselli again smiled fleetingly. 'A wish this were a celebration, Alex. It's simply an occasion when I thought , a drink might help." He paused, and suddenly a new tension permeated the room. It was evident to everyone now that this was no ordinary meeting. Faces mirrored uncertainty, concern.

"I'm dying," Ben Rosselli said. "My doctors tell me I don't have long. I thought all of you should know." He raised his own glass, contemplated it, and took a sip of sherry.

Where the boardroom had been quiet before, now the silence was intense. No one moved or spoke. Exterior sounds intruded faintly; the muted tapping of a typewriter, an air-conditioning hum; somewhere outside a whining jet plane climbed above the city.

Old Ben leaned forward on his cane. "Come now, let's not be embarrassed. We're all old friends; it's why I called you here. And, oh yes, to save anyone asking, what I've told you is definite; if I thought there was a chance it wasn't, I'd have waited longer. The other thing you may be wondering the trouble is lung cancer, well advanced I'm told. It's probable I won't see Christmas." He paused and suddenly all the frailty and fatigue showed. More softly he added, "So now that you know, and as and when you choose, you can pass the word to others."

Edwina D'Orsey thought: there would be no choosing the time. The moment the boardroom emptied, what they had just heard would s pread through the bank, and be yond, like prairie fire. The news would affect many some emotionally, others more prosaically. But mostly she was dazed and sensed the reaction of others was the same.

"Mr. Ben," one of the older men volunteered. Pop Mon roe was a senior clerk in the-trust department, and his voice was wavering. "Mr. Ben, I guess you floored us good. I reckon nobody knows what the hell to say."

There was a murmur, almost a groan, of assent and sympathy.

Above it, Roscoe Heyward injected smoothly, "What we can say, and must" there was a hint of reproof in the comptroller's voice, as if others should have waited to allow him to speak first "is that while this terrible news has shocked and saddened us, we pray there may be leeway and hope in the matter of time. Doctors' opinions, as most of us know, are seldom exact. And medical science can achieve a great deal in halting, even curing…"

"Roscoe, I said I'd been over all that," Ben Rossell! said, betraying his first trace of testiness. "And as to doctors, I've had the best. Wouldn't you expect me to?"

"Yes, I would," Heyward said. "But we should remember there is a higher power than doctors an d it must be the duty of us all he glanced pointedly around the room "to pray to God for mercy, or at least more time than you believe."

The older man said wryly, "I get the impression God has already made up his mind."

Alex Vandenoort observed, "Ben, we're all upset. I'm especially sorry for something I said earlier."

"About celebrating? Forget it! you didn't know." The old man chuckled. "Besides, why not? I've had a good life; not everyone does, so surely that's a cause to celebrate." He patted his suit coat pockets, then looked around him. "Anybody have a cigarette? Those doctors cut me off."

Several packs appeared. Roscoe Heyward queried, "Are you sure you should?"

Ben Rosselli looked at him sardonically but failed to answer. It was no secret that while the older man respected Heyward's talents as a banker, the two had never achieved a personal closeness.

Alex Vandervoort lighted the cigarette which the bank president took. Alex's eyes, like others in the room, were moist.

"At- a time like this there are some things to be glad of," Ben said. "Being given a little warning is one, the chance to tie loose ends." Smoke from his cigarette curled around him. "Of course, on the other side, there're regrets for the way a few things went. You sit and think about those, too."

No one had to be told of one regret Ben Rosselli had n o heir. An only son had been killed in action in World War II; more recently a promising grandson had died amid the senseless waste of Vietnam.

A fit of coughing seized the old man. Nolan Wainwright, who was nearest, reached over, accepted the cigarette from shaking fingers and stubbed it out. Now it became evident how weakened Ben Rosselli really was, how much the effort of today had tired him.

Though no one knew it, it was the last time he would be present at the bank.

They went to him individually, shaking his hand gently, groping for words to say. When Edwina D'Orsey's turn came, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and he winked.

2

Roscoe Heyward was one of the first to leave the boardroom . The executive vice-president c omptroller had two urgent objectives, resulting from what he had just learned.

One was to ensure a smooth transition of authority after Ben Rosselli's death. The second objective was to ensure his own appointment as president and chief executive.

Heyward was already a strong candidate. So was Alex Vandervoort and possibly, within the bank itself, Alex had the larger following. However, on the board of directors, where it counted most, Heyward believed his own support was greater.

Wise in the ways of bank politics and with a disciplined, steely mind, Heyward had begun planning his campaign, even while this morning's boardroom session was in progress. Now he headed for his office suite, paneled rooms with deep beige broadloom and a breathtaking view of the city far below. Seated at his desk, he summoned the senior of his two secretaries, Mrs. Callaghan, and gave her rapid-fire instructions.

The first was to reach by telephone all outside directors, whom Roscoe Heyward would talk to, one by one. He had a list of directors on the desk before him. Apart from the special phone calls, he was not to be disturbed.

Another instruction was to close the outer office door as she left in itself un usual since FMA executives observ ed an open-door tradition, begun a century ago and stolidly upheld by Ben Rosselli. That was one traditi on which had to go. Privacy, at this moment, was essential.

Heyward had been quick to observ e at this morning's session that only two members of First Mercantile American's board, other than the senior management officers, were present. Both directors were personal friends of Ben Rosselli obviously the reason they had been called in. But it meant that fifteen members of the board were uninformed, so far, of the impending death. Heyward would make sure that all fifteen received the news personally from him.

He calculated two probabilities: First, the facts were so sudden and shattering that there would be an instinctive alliance between anyone receiving the news and whoever conveyed it. Second, some directors might resent not having been informed in advance, particularly before some of FMA's rank and file who heard the announcement in the boardroom. Roscoe Heyward intended to capitalize on this resentment.

A buzzer sounded. He took the first call and began to talk. Another call followed, and another. Several directors were out of the city but Dora Callaghan, an experienced, loyal aide, was tracking them down.

A half hour after he began phoning, Roscoe Heyward was informing the Honorable Harold Austin earnestly, "Here at the bank, of course, we're overwhelmingly emotional and distressed. What Ben told us simply does not seem possible or real."

"Dear God!" The other voice on the telephone still reflected the dismay expressed moments earlier. "And to have to let people know personally!" Harold Austin was one of the city's pillars, third generation old family, and long ago he served a sin gle term in Congress hence the title "honorable," a usage he encouraged. Now he owned the state's largest advertising agency and was a veteran director of the bank with strong influence on the board.

The comment about a personal announcement gave Heyward the opening he needed. "I understand exactly what you mean about the method of letting this be known, and frankly it did seem unusual. What concerned me most is that the directors were not informed first. I felt they should have been. But since they weren't, I considered it my duty to advise you and the others immediately." Heyward's aquiline, austere face showed concentration; behind rimless glasses his gray eyes were cool.

"I agree with you, Roscoe," the voice on the telephone said. "I believe we should have been told, and I appreciate your thinking."

"Thank you, Harold. At a time like this, one is never sure exactly what is best. The only thing certain is that someone must exercise leadership."

The use of first names came easily to Heyward. He was ol d family himself, knew his way around most of the power bases in the state, and was a member in good standing o f what the British call the old boy network. His personal connections extended far beyond state boundaries, to Washington and elsewhere. Heyward was proud of his social status and friendships in high places. He also liked to remind people of his own direct descent from one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.

Now he suggested, "Another reason for keeping board members informed is that this sad news about Ben is going to have tremendous impact. And it will travel quickly."

"No doubt of it," the Honorable Harold concurred. "Chances are, by tomorrow, the press will have heard and will be asking questions."

"Exactly. And the wrong kind of publicity could make depositors uneasy as well as depress the price of our stock." "Um."

Roscoe Heyward could sense wheels turning in his fellow director's mind. The Austin Family Trust, which the Honorable Harold represented, held a big block of FMA shares.

Heyward prompted, "Of course, if the board takes energetic action to reassure shareholders and depositors, also the public generally, the entire effect could be negligible."

"Except for the friends of Ben Rosselli," Harold Austin reminded him drily.

"I was speaking entirely outside the framework of personal loss. My grief, I assure you, is as profound as anyone's." "Just what do you have in mind, Roscoe?"

"In general, Harold a continuity of authority. Specifically, there should be no vacancy in the office of chief executive, even for a day." Heyward continued, "With th e greatest of respect to Ben, an d notwithstanding all our deep affection for him, this bank has been re garded for too long as a one-man , institution. Of course, it hasn't been that way for many years; no bank can achieve a place among the nation's top twenty and still be individually run. But there are those, outside, who think it is. That's why, sad as this time is, the directors have an opportunity to act to dissipate that legend."

Heyward sensed the other man thinking cagily before answe ring. He could visualize Austin too , a handsome, aging playboy type, flamboyant dresser and with styled and flowing iron-gray hair. Probably, as usual, he was smoking a large cigar. Yet the Honorable Harold was nobody's fool and had a reputation as a shrewd, successful businessman. At length he declared, "I think your point about continuity is valid. And I agree with you that Ben Rosselli's successor needs to be decided on, and probably his name announced before Ben's death." Heyward listened intently as the other went on.

"I happen to think you are that man, Roscoe. I have for a long time. You've the qualities, experience, the toughness, too. So I'm willing to pledge you my support and there are others on the board whom I can persuade to go the same route with me. I assume you'd wish that."

"I'm certainly grateful…"

"Of course, in return I may as k an occasional quid pro quo." "That's reasonable." "Good! Then we understand each other."

The conversation, Roscoe Heyward decided as he hung up the phone, had been eminently satisfactory. Harold Austin was a man of consistent loyalties who kept his word. The preceding phone calls had been equally successful.

Speaking with another director soon after Philip Johannsen, president of MidContinent Rubber another opportunity arose. Johannsen volunteered that frankly he didn't get along with Alex Vandervoort whose ideas he found unorthodox.

"Alex is unorthodox," Heyward said. "Of course he has some personal problems. I'm not sure how much the two things go together." "What kind of problems?" "It's women actually. One doesn't like to…"

"This is important, Roscoe. It's also confidential. Go ahead."

"Well, first, Alex has marital difficulties. Second, he's involved with another woman, as well. Third, she's a left - wing activist, frequently in the news, and not in the kind of context which would be helpful to the bank. I sometimes wonder how much influence she has on Alex. As I said, one doesn't like to

…"

"You were right to tell me, Roscoe," Johannson said. "It's something the directors ought to know. Left-wing, eh?" "Yes. Her name is Margot Bracken."

"I think I've heard of her. And what I've heard I haven't liked." Heyward smiled.

He was less pleased, however, two telephone calls later, when he reached an out-of-town director, Leonard L. Kingswood, chairman of the board of Northam Steel.

Kingswood, who began his working life as a furnace molder in a steel plant, said, "Don't hand me that line of bullshit, Roscoe," when Heyward suggested that the bank's directors should have had advance warning of Ben Rosselli's statement. "The way Ben handled it is the way I'd have done myself. Tell the people you're closest to first, directors and other stuffed shirts later."

As to the possibility of a price decline in First Mercantile American stock, Len Kingswood's reaction was, "So what?"

"Sure," he added, "FMA will dip a point or two on the Big Board when this news gets out. It'll happen because most stock transactions are on behalf of nervous nellies who can't distinguish between hysteria and fact. But just as surely the stock will go back up within a week because the value's there, the bank is sound, and all of us on the inside know it."

And later in the conversation: "Roscoe, this lobbying job of yours is as transparent as a fresh washed window, so I'll make my position just as plain, which should save us both some time.

"You're a top - flight comptroller, the best numbers and money man I know anywhere. And any day you get an urge to move over here with Northam, with a fatter paycheck and a stock option, I'll shuffle my own people and put you at the top of our financial pile. That's an offer and a promise. I mean it."

The steel company chairman brushed aside Heyward's murmured thanks as he went on.

"But good as you are, Roscoe, the point I'm making is you're not an over-all leader. At least, that's the way I see it, also the way I'll call it when the board convenes to decide on who's to follow Ben. The other thing I may as well tell you is that my choice is Vandervoort. I think you ought to know that."

Heyward answered evenly, "I'm grateful for your frankness, Leonard."

"Right. And if ever you think seriously about that other, call me anytime."

Roscoe Heyward had no intention of working for Northam Steel. Though money was important to him, his pride would not permit it after Leonard Kingswood biting verdict of a moment earlier. Besides, he was still fully confident of obtaining the top role at FMA.

Again the telephone buzzed. When he answered, Dora Callaghan announced that one more director was on the line. "It's Mr. Floyd LeBerre."

"Floyd," Heyward began, his voice pitched low and serious, "I'm deeply sorry to be the one to convey some sad and tragic news."

3

Not all who had been at the momentous boardroom session left as speedily as Roscoe Heyward. A few lingered outside, still with a sense of shock, conversing quietly.

The old-timer from the trust-department, Pop Monroe, said softly to Edwina D'Orsey, "This is a sad, sad day."

Edwina nodded, not ready yet to speak. Ben Rosselli had been important to her as a friend and he had taken pride in her rise to authority in the bank.

Alex Vandervoort stopped beside Edwina, then motioned to his office several doors away. "Do you want to take a few minutes out?" She said gratefully, "Yes, please."

The offices of the bank's top echelon executives were on the same floor as the boardroom the 36th, high in FMA Headquarters Tower. Alex Vandervoort's suite, like others here, had an informal conference area and there Edwina poured herself coffee from a Silex. Vandervoort produced a pipe and lit it. She observed his fingers moving efficiently, with no waste motion. His hands were like his body, short and broad, the fingers ending abruptly with stub-by but well-manicured nails.

The camaraderie between the two was of long standing. Although Edwina, who managed First Mercantile American's main downtown branch, was several levels lower than Alex in the bank's hierarchy, he had always treated her as an equal and often, in matters affecting her branch, dealt with her directly, bypassing the layers of organization between them.

"Alex," Edwina said, "I meant to tell you you're looking like a skeleton."

A warm smile lit up his smooth, round face. "Shows, eh?"

Alex Vandervoort was a committed partygoer, and loved gourmet food and wine. Unfortunately he put on weight easily. Periodically, as now, he went on diets.

By unspoken consent they avoided, for the moment, the subject closest to their minds. He asked, "How's business at the branch this month?" "Quite good. And I'm optimistic about next year."

"Speaking of next year, how does Lewis view it?" Lewis D'Orsey, Edwina's husband, was owner-publisher of a widely read investors newsletter.

"Gloomily. He foresees a temporary rise in the value of the dollar, then another big drop, much as happened with the British pound. Also Lewis says that those in Washington who claim the U.S. recession has 'bottomed out' are just wishful thinkers the same false prophets who saw 'light at the end of the tunnel' in Vietnam."

"I agree with him," Alex mused, "especially about the dollar. You know, Edwina, one of the failures of American banking is that we've never encouraged our clients to hold accounts in foreign currencies Swiss francs, Deutsche marks, others as European bankers do. Oh, we accommodate the big corporations because they know enough to insist; and American banks make generous profits from other currencies for themselves. But rarely, if ever, for the small or medium depositors. If we'd promoted European currency accounts ten or even five years ago, some of our customers would have gained from dollar devaluations instead of lost." "Wouldn't the U S. Treasury object?"

"Probably. But they'd back down under public pressure. They always do."

Edwina asked, "Have you ever broached the idea of more people having foreign currency accounts?"

"I tried once. I was shot down. Among us American bankers the dollar no matter how weak is sacred. It's a head-in-sand concept we've forced upon the public and it's cost them money. Only a sophisticated few had the sense to open Swiss bank accounts before the dollar devaluations cone."

"I've often thought about that," Edwina said. "Each time it happened, bankers knew in advance that devaluation was inevitable. Yet we gave our customers except for a favored few no warning, no suggestion to sell dollars." "It was supposed to be unpatriotic. Even Ben…"

Alex stopped. They see for several moments without speaking.

Through the wall of windows which made up the east side of Alex's office suite they could see the robust Midwest city spread before them. Closest to hand were the business canyons of downtown, the larger buildings only a little lower than First Mercantile American's Headquarters Tower. Beyond the downtown district, coiled in a double-S, was the wide, traffic-crowded river, its color today as usual pollution gray. A tangled latticework of river bridges, rail lines, and freeways ran outward like unspooled ribbons to industrial complexes and suburbs in the distance, the latter sensed rather than seen in an all - pervading haze. But nearer than the industry and suburbs, though beyond the river, was the inner residential city, a labyrinth of predominantly substandard housing, labeled by some the city's shame.

In the center of this last area, a new large building and the steelwork of a second stood out against the skyline.

Edwina pointed to the building and high steel. "If I were the way Ben is now," she said, "and wanted to be remembered by something,: I think I'd like it to be Forum East." "I suppose so." Alex's gaze swung to follow Edwina's.

"For sure, without him it would have stayed an idea, and not much more."

Forum East was an ambitious local urban development, its obj ective to rehabilitate the city’ s core. Ben Rosselli had committed First Mercantile American financially to the project and Alex Vandervoort was directly in charge of the bank's involvement. The big main downtown branch, run by Edwina, handled construction loans and mortgage details.

"I was thinking," Edwina said, "about changes which will happen here." S he was going to add, after Ben i s dead…

"There'll be changes, of course perhaps big ones. I hope none will affect Forum East." She sighed. "It isn't an hour since Ben told us…"

"And we're discussing future bank business before his grave is dug. Well, we have to, Edwina. Ben would expect it. Some important decisions must be made soon." "Including wh o's to succeed as president." 'T hat's one."

"A good many of us in the bank have been hoping it would be you." "Frankly, so was I."

What both left unsaid was that Alex Vandervoort had been viewed, until today, as Ben Rosselli's chosen heir. But not this soon. Alex had been at First Mercantile American only two years. Before that he was an officer of the Federal Reserve and Ben Rosselli had personally persuaded him to move over, holding out-the prospect of eventual advancement to the top.

"Five years or so from now," old Ben had told Alex at the time, "I want to hand over to someone who can cope efficiently with big numbers, and show a profitable bottom line, because that's the only way a banker deals from strength. But he must be more than just a top technician. The kind of man I want to run this bank won't ever forget that small depositors , individuals have always been our strong foundation. The trouble with bankers nowadays is that they get too remote." He was making no firm promise, Ben Rosselli made clear, but added, "My impression, Alex, is you are the kind of man we need. Let’ s work together for a while and see."

So Alex moved in, bringing his experience and a flair for new technology, and with both had quickly made his mark. As to philosophy, he found he shared many of Ben's views.

Long before, Alex had also gained insights into banking from his father a Dutch immigrant who became a Minnesota farmer.

Pieter Vandervoort, Sr. had burdened himself with a bank loan and, to pay interest on it, labored from predawn until after darkness, usually seven days a week. In the end he died of overwork, impoverished, after which the bank sold his land, recovering not only arrears of interest but its original investment. His father's experience showed Alex through his grief that the other side of a bank counter was the place to be.

Eventually the route to banking for young Alex was a Harvard scholarship and an honors degree in economics.

"Everything may still wo rk out," Edwina D'Orsey said. 'I presume the board will make the choice of president."

"Yes," Alex answered almost absently. He had been thinking of Ben Rosselli and his father; his memories of the two were strangely intertwined. "Length of service isn't everything." "It counts."

Mentally, Alex weighed the probabilities. He knew he had the talent and experience to head First Mercantile American but chances were, the directors would favor someone who had been around here longer. Roscoe Heyward, for example, had worked for the bank for almost twenty years and despite his occasional lack of rapport with Ben Rosselli, Heyward had a significant following on the board.

Yesterday the odds favored Alex. Today, they had been switched.

He stood up and knocked out his pipe. "I must get back to work." "Me, too."

But Alex, when he was alone, sat silent, thoughtful.

Edwina took an express elevator from the directors' floor to the main floor foyer of FMA Headquarters Tower an architectural mix of Lincoln Center and the Sistine Chapel. The foyer surged with people hurrying bank staff, messengers, visitors, sightseers. She acknowledged a security guard's friendly salute.

Through the curving glass front Edwina could see Rosselli Plaza outside with its trees, benches, a sculpture court, and gushing fountain. In summer the plaza was a meeting place and downtown office workers ate their lunches there, but now it appeared bleak and inhospitable. A raw fall wind swirled leaves and dust in small tornadoes and sent pedestrians scurrying for indoor warmth.

It was the time of year, Edwina thought, she liked least of all. It spoke of melancholy, winter soon to come, and death. involuntarily she shuddered, then headed for the "tunnel," carpeted and softly lighted, which connected the bank's headquarters with the main downtown branch a palatial, single-story structure. This was her domain.

4

Wednesday, at the main downtown branch, began routinely.

Edwina D'Orsey was branch duty officer for the week and arrived promptly at 8: 30, a half hour before the bank's ponderous bronze doors would swing open to the public. As manager of FMA's flagship branch, as well as a corporate vice-president, she really didn't have to do the duty officer chore. But Edwina preferred to take her turn. Also it demonstrated that she expected no special privileges because of being a woman something she had always been careful about during her fifteen years at First Mercantile American. Besides, the duty only came around once in ten weeks.

At the building's side door she fumbled in her brown Gucci handbag for her key; she found it beneath an assortment of lipstick, wallet, credit cards, compact, comb, a shopping list, and other items her handbag was always uncharacteristically disorganized. Then, before using the key, she checked for a "no ambush" signal. The signal was where it should be a small yellow card, placed inconspicuously in a window. The card would have been put there, minutes earlier, by a porter whose job was to be first in the big branch each day. If all was in order inside, he placed the signal where arriving staff would see it. But if robbers had broken in during the night and wer e waiting to seize hostages, no signal would be placed, so its absence became a warning. Then, later arriving staff not only would not enter, but instantly would summon aid.

Because of increasing robberies of all types, most banks used a "no ambush" signal nowadays, its type and location changing frequently.

On entering, Edwina went immediately to a hinged panel in the wall and swung it open. In sight was a bell push which she pressed in code two long, three short, one long. The Central Security operations room over in Headquarters Tower now knew that the door alarm, which Edwina's entry had triggered a moment ago, wou ld be ignored and that an authorized officer was in the bank. The porter, also on entering, would have tapped out his own code.

The ops room, receiving similar signals from other FMA branch banks, would s witch the building's alarm sys tem from "alert" to "stand by."

Had either Edwina, as duty officer, or the porter failed to t ap out their correct code, the o ps room would have alerted police. Minutes later the branch bank would have been surrounded. As with other systems, codes were changed often.

Banks everywhere were finding security in positive signals when all was well, an absence of signals if trouble erupted. That way, a bank employee held hostage could convey a warning by merely doing nothing.

By now other officers and staff were comi ng in, checked by the uniformed porter who had taken command at the side door.

"Good morning, Mrs. D'Orsey." A white-haired bank veteran named Tottenhoe joined Edwina. He was operations officer, in charge of staff and routine running of the branch, and his long, lugubrious face made him seem like an ancient kangaroo. His normal moodiness and pessimism had increased as compulsory retirement neared; he resented his age and seemed to blame others for it. Edwina and Tottenhoe walked together across the bank's main floor, then down a wide, carpeted stairway to the vault. Supervising the vault's opening and closing was the duty officer's responsibility.

While they waited by the vault door for the time lock to switch off, Tottenhoe said gloomily, "There's a rumor that Mr. Rosselli's dying. Is it true?"

"I'm afraid it is." She told him briefly of the meeting yesterday.

Last night at home Edwina had thought of little else, but this morning she was determined to concentrate on bank business. Ben would expect it.

Tottenhoe mumbled something dismal which she didn't catch.

Edwina checked her watch. 8:40. Seconds later, a faint click within the massive chrome steel door announced that the overnight time lock, set before the bank closed the night before, had switched itself off. Now the vault combination locks could be actuated. Until this moment they could not.

Using another concealed pushbutton, Edwina signaled Central Security ops room that the vault was about to be opened a normal opening, not under duress.

Standing side by side at the door, Edwina and Tottenhoe spun separate combinations. Neither knew the combination setting of the Other; thus neither could open the vault alone.

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 of ricer. "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 counter"." 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 retire d 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 E dwina, 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 sameday 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 workin g 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 Centr al Cash about your beef, Mr. Tot tenhoe," 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.

'Whey 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 Reserv e, 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 Sevic e, 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, folksl These are genuine greenbacks. All part of the servicer" Both guards went down the stairway to the vault.

E dwina walked to her desk on the platfonn. Th roughout the bank, activity was increasing. The main front doors were open, early customer’s 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 burger. 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 conditi ons and just plain opulence. Oc casionally, 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 usua l 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 determined 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 an d seniority. It always amused Edwina that quality of initial supported a caste system with attendant perks and privileges. In the Headquar ters credit policy unit, an as sistant 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 dail y copy of The Wall Street Journ al and a complimentary shoeshine 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 for lunch.

Edwina qualified for almost all the quality-of-initia l 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. Bo rrowers liked him because he w as a good listener and sympathetic. But he was al so a seasoned loan man with soun d 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 yo u it's real." Cas tleman 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 o fficer 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 repai d. 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 p repayment of vault storage rent for the capsule, and replacement of th e 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 of ficer 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 man knows that but insists he can handle it. He's taking on some spare time work. And his wife is looking for a job." Eldwina 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 Godl" Again E dwina?s thoughts went back to yesterday. Ben Rosselli's death, whenever it ca me, would be dignified. This mad e 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 j ury.

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 sou r. 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 client 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 souffle. 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 wer e having coffee that a waitress brought a message to their table.

"Mrs. D'Orsey," t he girl said, "a Mr. Tottenhoe 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."

The operations officer was one of four people seated around Edwina D'Orsey's desk. The others were Edwina; young Miles Eastin, Tottenhoe's assistant; and a teller named Juanita Nutiez.

It was from Juanita Ntinez's cash drawer that the money was missing.

A half hour had elapsed since Edwina's return to the main branch. Now, as the other -faced her across the desk, Edw ina answered Tottenhoe. "What you say is true, but we can do better. I want us to go over everything again, slowly and carefully."

The time was shortly after 3 P.M. Customers had gone. The outer doors were closed.

Activity, as usual, was continuing in the branch, though Edwina was conscious of covert glances toward the platform from other employees who knew by now that something serious was wrong.

She reminded herself that it was essential to remain calm, analytical, to consider every fragment of information. She wanted to listen carefully to nuances of speech and attitude, particularly those of Mrs. Nunez.

Edwina was aware, too, that very soon she must notify head office of the apparent heavy cash loss, after which Headquarters Security would become involved, and probably the FBI. But while there was still a chance of finding a solution quietly, without bringing up the heavy artillery, she intended to try.

"If you like, Mrs. D'Orsey," Miles Eastin said, "I'll start because I was the first one Juanita reported to." He had shed his usual breeziness. Edwina nodded approval.

The possibility of a cash shortage, Eastin informed the group, first came to his attention a few minutes before 2 P.M. At that time Juanita Nunez approached him and stated her belief that six thousand dollars was missing from her cash drawer.

Miles Eastin was working a teller's position himself, filling in as he had through most of the day because of the shortage of tellers. In fact, Eastin was only tw o stations away from Juanita Nun ez, and she reported to him there, locking her cash box before she did so.

Eastin had then locked his own cash box and gone to Tottenhoe. Gloomier than usual, Tottenhoe took up the story.

He had gone to Mrs. Nu nez at once and talked with her. At first he hadn't believed that as much as six thousand dollars could be missing because even if she suspected some money had gone, it was virtually impossible at that point to know how much.

The operations officer pointed out: Juanita Nunez had been working all day, having started with slightly more than ten thousand dollars cash from-vault in the morning, and she had been taking in and paying out money since 9 A.M. when the bank opened. That meant she had been working for almost five hours, except for a forty-five-minute lunch break, and during that time the bank was crowded, with all tellers busy. Furthermore, cash deposits today had been heavier than usual; therefore the amount of money in her drawer not including checks could have increased to twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars. So how, Tottenhoe reasoned, could Mrs. Nunez be certain not only that money was missing but know the amount so specifically?

Edwina nodded. The same question had already occurred to her.

Without being obvious, Edwina studied the young woman. She was small, slight, dark, not really pretty but provocative in an elfin way. She looked Puerto Rican, which she was, and had a pronounced accent. She had said little so far, responding only briefly when spoken to.

It was hard to be sure just what Juanita Nunez's attitude was. It was certainly not co-operative, at least outwardly, Edwina thought, and the girl had volunteered no information other than her original statement. Since they started, the teller's facial expression had seemed either sulky or hostile. Occasionally her attention wandered, as if she were bored and regarded the proceedings as a waste of time. But she was nervous? too, and betrayed it by her clasped hands and continuous turning of a thin gold wedding band.

Edwina D'Orsey knew, because she had glanced at an employment record on her desk, that Juanita Nunez was twenty-five, married but separated, with a three-year-old child. She had worked for First Mercantile American for alm ost two years, all of that time in her present job. What wasn't in the employment record, but Edwina remem bered hearing, was that the Nun ez girl supported her child alone and had been, perhaps still was, in financial difficulties because of debts left by the husband who deserted her.

Despite his doubts that Mrs. Nunez could possibly know how much money was missing, Tottenhoe continued, he had relieved her from duty at the counter, after which she was immediately "locked up with her cash."

Being "locked up" was actually a protection for the employee concerned and was also standard procedure in a problem of this kind. It simply meant that the teller was placed alone in a small, closed office, along with her cash box and a ca lculator, and told to balance all transactions for the day. Tottenhoe waited outside.

Soon afterward she carted the operations officer in. Her cash did not balance, she informed him. It was six thousand dollars short.

Tottenhoe summoned Miles Eastin and together they ran a second check while Juanita Nunez watched. They found her report to be correct. Without doubt there was cash missing; and precisely the amount she had stated all along. It was then that Tottenhoe had telephoned Edwina.

"That brings us back," Ed wina said, "to where we started . Have any fresh ideas occurred to anyone?"

Miles Eastin volunteered, "I'd like to ask Juanita some more questions if she doesn't mind." Edwina nodded.

"Think carefully about this, Juanita," Eastin said. "At any time today did you make a TX with any other teller?"

As a ll of them knew, a TX was a tell er's exchange. A teller on duty would often run short of bills or coins of one denomination and if it happened at a busy time, rather than make a trip to the cash vault, tellers helped each other by "buying" or "selling" cash. A TX form was used to keep a record. But occasionally, through haste or carelessness, mistakes were made, so that at the end of the business day one teller would be short on cash, the other long. It would be hard to believe, though, that such a difference could be as large as six thousand dollars. "No," the teller said. "No exchanges. Not today." Miles Eastin persisted, "Were you aware of anyone els e on the staff, at any time today, being near your cash so they could have taken some?" "No."

"When you first came to me, Juanita," Eastin said, "and told me you thought there was some money gone, how long before that had you known about it?" "A few minutes."

Edwina interjected, "How long was that after your lunch break, Mrs. Nu nez?"

The girl hesitated, seeming less sure of herself. "Maybe twenty minutes."

"Let's talk about before you went to lunch," Edwina said. "Do you think the mon ey was missing then?" Juanita Nunez shook her head negatively. "How can you be sure?" "I know."

The unhelpful, monosyllabic answers were becoming irritating to Edwina. And the sulky hostility which she sensed earlier seemed more pronounced.

Tottenhoe repeated the crucial question. "After lunch, why were you certain not only that money was missing, but exactly how much?" The young woman's small face set defiantly. "I knew" There was a disbelieving silence.

"Do you think that some time during the day you could have paid six thousand dollars out to a customer in error?" "No."

Miles Eastin asked, "When you left your teller's position before you went to lunch, Juanita, you took your cash drawer to the cash vault, dosed the combination lock and left it there. Right?" "Yes." "Are you sure you locked it?" The girl nodded positively. "Was the operations officer's lock closed?" "No, left open."

That, too, was normal . Once the operations officer's combination had been set to "open" each morning, it was usual to leave it that way through the re mainder of the day.

"But when you came back from lunch your cash drawer was still in the vault, still locked?" `'Yes."

"Does anyone else know your combination? Have you ever given it to anyone?" "No."

For a moment the questioning stopped. The others around the desk, Edwina suspected, were reviewing mentally the branch's cash vault procedures.

The cash drawer which Miles Eastin had referred to was actually a portable strongbox on an elevated stand with wheels, light enough to be pushed around easily. Some banks called it a cash truck. Every teller had one assigned and the same cash drawer or truck, conspicuously numbered, was used normally by the same individual. A few spares were available for special use. Miles Eastin had been using one today.

All tellers' cash trucks were checked in and out of the cash vault by a senior vault teller who kept a record of their removal and return. It was impossible to take a cash unit in or out without the vault teller's scrutiny or to remove someone else's, deliberately or in error. During nights-and weekends the massive cash vault was sealed tighter than a Pharaoh's tomb.

Each cash truck had two tamperproof combination locks. One of these was set by the teller personally, the other by the operations officer or assistant. Thus, when a cash unit was opened each morning it was in the presence of two people the te ller and an operations officer.

Tellers were told to memorize their combinations ant not to confide them to anyone else, though a combination could be changed any time a teller wished. The only written record of a teller's combination was in a sealed and double-signed envelope which was kept with others again in double custody in a safe deposit box. The seal on the envelope was only broken in event of a teller's death, illness, or leaving the ba n k's employ.

By all these means, only the active user of any cash drawer knew the combination which would open it and tellers, as well as the bank, were protected against theft.

A further feature of the sophi sticated cash drawer was a built-in alarm system. When rolled into place at any teller's position at a counter, an electrical connection linked each cash unit with an interbank communications network. A warning trigger was hidden within the drawer beneath an innocuous appearing pile of bills, known as "bait money."

Tellers had instructions never to use the bait money for normal transactions, but in event of a holdup to hand over this money first. Simply removing the bills released a silent plunger switch. This, in turn, alerted bank security staff and police, who were usually on the scene in minutes; it also activated hidden cameras overhead. Serial numbers of the bait money were on record for use as evidence later.

Edwina asked Tottenhoe, "Was the bait money among the missing six thousand dollars?"

"No," the operations officer said. "The bait money was intact. I checked."

She reflected: So there was no hope of tracing anything that way.

Once more Miles Eastin addressed the teller. "Juanita, is there any way you can think of that anyone, anyone at all, could have taken the money out of your cash drawerT' "No," Juanita Nunez said.

Watching closely as the girl answered, Edwina thought she detected fear. Well, if so, there was good reason because no bank would give up easily where a loss of this magnitude was involved.

Edwina no longer had doubts about what had happened to the missing money. The Nunez girl had stolen it. No other explanation was possible. The difficulty was to find out how?

One likely way was for Juanita Nunez to have passed it over the counter to an accomplice. No one would have noticed. During an ordinarily busy day it would have seemed like any routine cash withdrawal. Alternatively, the girl could have concealed the money and carried it from the bank during her lunch break, though in that case the risk would have been greater.

One thing Nunez must have been aware of was that she would lose her job, whether it was proven she had stolen the money or not. True, bank tellers were allowed occasional cash discrepancies; such errors were normal and expected. I n the course of a year, eight "o vers" or "unders" was average for most tellers and, provided each error was no larger than twenty-five dollars, usually nothing was said. But no one who experienced a major cash shortage kept her job, and tellers knew it.

Of course, Juanita Nu nez could have taken this into account, deciding that an immediate six thousand dollars was worth the loss of her job, even though she might have difficulty getting another. Either way, Edwina was sorry for the girl. Obviously she must have been desperate. Perhaps her need had to do with her child.

"I don't believe there's any more we can do at this point," Edwina told the group. "I'll have to advise head office. They'll take over the investigation."

As the three got up, she added, "Mrs. Nunez, please stay." The girl resumed her seat.

When the others were out of hearing, Edw ina said with deliberate informality, "Juanita, I thought this might be a moment for us to talk frankly to each other, perhaps as friends." Edwina had banished her earlier impatience. She was aware of the girl's dark eyes fixed intently on her own.

"I'm sure that two things must have occurred to you. First, there's going to be a thoro ugh investigation into this and the FBI will be involved because we're a federally insured bank. Second, there is no way that suspicion cannot fall on you." Edwina paused. "I'm being open with yo u about this. You understand?" "I understand. But I did not take any money."

Edwina observed that the young woman was still turning her wedding ring nervously.

Now Edwina chose her words carefully, aware she must be cautious in avoiding a direct accusation whi ch might rebound in legal trouble for the bank later.

"However long the investigation takes, Juanita, it's almost certain the truth will come out, if for no other reason than that it usually does. Investigators are thorough. They're also experienced. They do not give up."

The girl repeated, more emphatically, "I did not take the money."

"I haven't said you did. But I do want to say that if by any chance you know something more than you have said already, now is the time to speak out, to tell me while we're talking quietly here. After this there will be no other chances. It will be too late."

Juanita Nunez seemed about to speak again. Edwina raised a hand. "No, hear me out. I'll make this promise. If the money were returned to the bank, let's say no later than tomorrow, there would be no l egal action, no prosecution. In fairness, I'll have to say that whoever took the money could no longer work here. But nothing else would happen. I guarantee it. Juanita, do you have anything to tell me?"

"No, no, no! I lo jure For mi hija!" The girl's eyes blazed, her face came alive in anger. "I tell you I did not take any money, now or ever." Edwina sighed.

"All right, that's all for now. But please do not leave the bank without checking with me first."

Juanita Nunez appeared on the verge of another heated reply. Instead, with a slight shrug, she rose and turned away.

From her elevated desk, Edwina surveyed the activity around her; it was her own small world, her personal responsibility. The day's bra nch transactions were still be ing balanced and recorded, though a preliminary check had shown that no teller as was originally hoped had a six-thousand-dollar overage.

Sounds were muted in the modern building: in low key, voices buzzed, papers rustled, coinage jingled, calculators clicked. She watched it all briefly, reminding herself that for two reasons this was a week she would remember. Then, knowing what must be done, she lifted a telephone and dialed an internal number. A woman's voice answered. "Security department." "Mr. Wainwright, please," Edwina said.

6

Nolan Wainwright had found it hard, since yesterday, to concentrate on normal work within the bank.

The chief of security had been deeply affected by Tuesday morning's session in the boardroom, not least because, over a decade, he and Ben Rosselli had achieved both friendship and mutual respect. It had not always been that way.

Yesterday, returning from the tower executive floor to his own more modest office which looked out onto a light well, Wainwright-had told his secretary not to disturb him for a while. Then he had sat at his desk, sad, brooding, reaching back in memory to the time of ho own first dash with Ben Rosselli's will.

It was ten years earlier. Nolan Wainwright was the newly appointed police chief of a small upstate town. Before that he had been a lieutenant of detectives on a big city force, with an outstanding record. He had the ability for a chief's job and, in the climate of the times, it probably helped his candidacy that he was black.

Soon after the new chief's appointment, Ben Rosselli drove through the outskirts of the littl e town and was clocked at 80 mph A police patrolman of the local force handed him a ticket with a summons to traffic court.

Perhaps because his life was conservative in other ways, Ben Rosselli always loved fast cars and drove them as their designers intended with his right foot near the floor.

A speeding summons was routine. Back at First Mercantile American Headquarters he sent it, as usual, to the bank's security department with instructions to have it fixed. For the state's most powerful man of money, many things could be fil ed and often were.

The summons was dispatched by courier next day to the FMA branch manager in the town where it was issued. It so happened that the branch manager was also a local councilman and he had been influential in Nolan Wainwright's appointment as chief of police.

The bank manager-councilman dropped over to police headquarters to have the traffic summons withdrawn. He was amiable. Nolan Wainwright was adamant.

Less amiably, the councilman pointed out to Wainwright that he was new to the community, needed friends, and that non-co-operation was not the way to recruit them. Wainwright still declined to do anything about the summons.

The councilman put on his banker's hat and reminded the police chief of his personal application to First Mercantile American Bank for a home mortgage loan which would make it possible to bring Wainwright's wife and family to the town. Mr. Rosselli, the branch manager added somewhat needlessly, was president of FMA.

Nolan Wainwright said he could see no relationship between a loan application and a traffic summons.

In due course Mr. Rosselli for whom counsel appeared in court, was fined heavily for reckless driving and awarded three demerit points, to be recorded on his license. He was exceedingly angry.

Also in due course the mortgage application of Nolan Wainwright was turned down by First Mercantile American Bank.

Less than a week later Wainwright presented himself in Rosselli's office on the 36th floor of FMA Headquarters Tower, taking advantage of the accessibility on which the bank president prided himself.

When he learned who his visitor was, Ben Rosselli was surprised that he was black. No one had mentioned that. Not that it made any difference to the banker's still simmering wrath at the ignominious notation on his driving record the first of a lifetime. Wainwright spoke coolly. To his credit, Ben Rosselli

had known nothing of the police chief's mortgage loan application or its rejection; such matters were conducted at a lower level than his own. But he smelled the odor of injustice and sent, there and then, for the loan file which he reviewed while Nolan Wainwright waited.

"As a matter of interest," Ben Rosselli said when he had finished reading, "if we don't make this loan what do you intend to do?"

Wainwright's answer now was cold. "fight. I'll hire a lawyer and we'll go to the Civil Rights Commission for a start. If we don't succeed there, whatever else can be done to cause you trouble, that I'll do."

It was obvious he meant it and the banker snapped, "I don't respond to threats."

"I'm not making threats. You asked me a question and I answered it."

Ben Rosselli hesitated, then scribbled a signature in the file. He said, unsmiling, "The application is approved."

Before Wainwright left, the banker asked him, "What happens now if I get caught speeding in your town?"

"We'll throw the book at you. If it's another reckless driving charge, you'll probably be in jail."

Watching the policeman:go, Ben Rosselli had the thought, which he would confide to Wainwright years later: You self-righteous s.o.b.! One day I'll get you. He never had in that sense. But in another, he did.

Two years later when the bank was seeking a top security executive who would be as the head of Personnel expressed it "tenaciousl y strong and totally incorruptibl e," Ben Rosselli stated, "I know of such a man."

Soon after, an offer was made to Nolan Wainwright, a contract signed, a nd Wainwright came to work for F MA.

Prom then on, Ben Rosselli and Wainwright had never clashed. The new head of Security did his job efficiently and added to his understanding of it by taking night school courses in banking theory. Rosselli, for his part, never asked Wainwright to breach his rigid code of ethics and the banker got his speeding tickets fixed elsewhere rather than through Secur ity, believing Wainwright never k new, though usually he did. All the while the friendship between the two grew until, after the death of Ben Rosselli's wife, Wainwright frequently would eat dinner with the old man and afterwards they would play chess into the night.

In a way it had been a consolation for Wainwright, too; for his own marriage had ended in divorce soon after he went to work for FMA. His new responsibilities, and the sessions with old Ben, helped fill the gap.

They talked at such times about personal beliefs, influencing each other in ways they realized and in others of which neither was aware. And it was Wainwright though only the two of them ever knew it who helped persuade the bank pr esident to employ his personal prestige and FMA's money in helping the Forum East development in that neglected city area where Wainwright had been born and spent his adolescent years.

Thus, like many others in the bank, Nolan Wainwright had his private memories of Ben Rosselli and his private sorrow.

Today, his mood of depression had persisted, and after a morning during which he had stayed mostly at his desk, avoiding people whom he did not need to see, Wainwright left for lunch alone. He went to a small cafe on the other side of town which he favored sometimes when he wanted to feel briefly free from FMA and its affairs. He returned in time to keep an appointment with Vandervoort.

The locale of their meeting was the bank's Keycharge credit-card division, housed in the Headquarters Tower.

The Keycharge bank card system had been pioneered by First Mercantile American and now was operated jointly with a strong group of other banks in the U.S., Canada, and overseas. In size, Keycharge ranked immediately after BankAmericard and MasterCharge. Alex Vandervoort, within FMA, had over-all responsibility for the division.

Vandervoort was early and, when Nolan Wainwright arrived, was already in the Keycharge authorization center watching operations. The bank security chief joined him.

"I always like to see this," Alex said. "Best free show in town."

In a large, auditorium-like room, dimly lighted and with acoustic walls and ceilings to deaden sound, some fifty operators predominantly women were seated at a battery of consoles. Each console comprised a cathode ray tube, similar to a TV screen, with a keyboard beneath.

It was here that Keycharge cardholders were given or refused credit.

When a Keycharge card was presented anywhere in payment for goods or services, the place of business could accept the card without question if the amount involved was below an agreed floor limit. The limit varied, but was usuall y between twenty-five and fifty dollars. For a larger purchase, authorization was needed, though it took only seconds to obtain.

Call s poured into the authorization center twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They came from every U.S. state and Canadian province, while a row of chattering Telex machines brought queries from thirty foreign countries including some in the Russian-Communist orbit. Whereas builders of the British Empire once cheered proudly for the "red, white, and blue," creators of the Keycharge economic empire rooted with equal fervor for the "blue, green, and gold" international colors of the Keycharge card. The approval procedures moved at jet speed.

Wherever they were, merchants and others dialed directly through WATS lines to the Keycharge nerve center in PMA Headquarters Tower. Automatically, each call was routed to a free operator whose first words were, "What is your merchant number?"

As the answer was given, the operator typed the figures, which appeared simultaneously on the cathode ray screen; Next was the card number and amount of credit being sought, this too typed and displayed.

The operator pressed a key, feeding the information to a computer which instantly signaled "ACCEPTED" or "DECLINED." The first meant that credit was good and the purchase approved, the second that the cardholder was delinquent and credit had been cut off. Since credit rules were lenient, with banks in the system wanting to lend money, acceptances by far outnumbered turndowns. The operator informed the merchant, the computer meanwhile recording the transaction. On a normal day fifteen thousand calls came in.

Both Alex Vandervoort and Nolan Wainwright had accepted headsets so they could listen to exchanges between callers and operators.

The security chief touched Alex's arm and pointed, then changed headset plugs for both of them. The console Wainwright indicated was carrying a flashi ng message from the computer "STOLE N CARD."

The operator, speaking calmly and as trained, answered, "The card presented to you has been reported as stolen. If possible, detain the person presenting it and call your local police. Retain the card. Keycharge will pay you thirty dollars reward for its return."

They could hear a whispered colloquy, then a voice announced, "The bastard just ran out of my store. But I grabbed the mother's plastic. I'll mail it in."

The storekeeper sounded pleased at the prospect of an easy thirty dollars. For the Keycharge system it was also a good deal since the card, left in circulation, could h ave been used fraudulently for a much greater total amount.

Wainwright removed his headset; so did Alex Vandervoort. "It works well," Wainwright said, "when we get the information and can program the computer. Unfortunately most of the defrauding happens before a missing card's reported." "But we still get a warning of excessive purchasing?"

"Right. Ten purchases in a day and the computer alerts us."

Few cardholders, as both men were aware, ever made more than six or eight purchases during a single day. Thus a card could be listed as "PROBABLY FRAUDULENT' even though the true owner might be unaware of its loss.

Despite all warning systems, however, a lost or stolen Keycharge card, if used cagily, was still good for twenty thousand dollars' worth of fraudulent purchasing in the week or so during whic h most stolen cards stayed un reported. Airline tickets for long-distance flights were favorite buys by credit-card thieves; so were cases of liquor. Both were then resold at bargain prices. Another ploy was to rent a car preferably an expensive one Using a stolen or counterfeit credit card. The car was driven to another city where it received new license plates and forged registration papers, and was then sold or exported. The rental agency never saw car or customer again. One more gimmick was to buy jewelry in Europe on a fraudulent credit card backed up by a forged passport, then smuggle the jewelry into the U.S. for resale. In all such instances the credit-card company bore the eventual loss.

As both Vandervoort and Wainwright knew, there were devices used by criminals to decide whether a credit card in their possession could be used again, or if it was "hot." A favorite was to pay a headwaiter twenty-five dollars to check a card out. He could get the answer easily by consulting a weekly confidential "warning list" issued by the credit-card company to merchants and restaurants. If the card was unreported as hot, it was used for a further round of buying.

"We've been losing a helluva lot of money through fraud lately," Nolan Wainwright said. "Much more than usual. It's one of the reasons I wanted to talk."

They moved into a Keycharge security office which Wainwright had arranged to use this afternoon. He closed the door. The two men were much in contrast physically

Vandervoort, fair, chunky, non-athletic, with a touch of flab; Wainwright, black, tall, trim, hard, and muscular. Their personalities differed, too, though their relationship was good.

"This is a contest without a prize," Nolan Wainwright told the executive vice-president. He placed on the office desk eight plastic Keycharge credit cards, snapping them down like a poker dealer, one by one.

"Four of those credit cards are counterfeit," the security chief announced. "Can you separate the good ones from the bad?" "Certainly. It's easy. The counterfeits always use different typefaces for embossing the cardholder's name and…" Vandervoort stopped, peering down at the group of cards. "By God! These don't. The typeface is the same on every card."

"Almost the same. If you know what to look for, you can detect slight divergences with a magnifier." Wainwright produced one. Dividing the cards into two groups, he pointed to variations between the embossing on the four genuine cards and the others.

Vandervoort said, "I see the difference, though I wouldn't have without the glass. How do the counterfeits look under ultraviolet?" "Exactly the same as real ones." "That's bad."

Several months earlier, following an example set by American Express, a hidden insignia had been imprinted on the face of all authentic Keycharge credit cards. It became visible only under ultraviolet light. The intention was to provide a quick, simple check of any card's genuineness. Now that safeguard, too, had been outflanked.

"It's bad, all right," Nolan Wainwright agreed. "And these are only samples. I've four dozen more, intercepted after they'd been used successfully in retail outlets, restaurants, for airline tickets, liquor, other things. And all of them are the best counterfeits which have ever shown up." "Arrests?"

"None so far. When people sense a phony card is being queried they walk out of a store, away from an airline counter, or whatever, just as happened a few minutes ago." He motioned toward the authorization room. "Besides, even when we do arrest some users it doesn't follow we'll be near the source of the cards; usually they're sold and resold carefully enough to cover a trail."

Alex V andervoort picked up one of the fraudulent blue, green, and gold cards and turned it over. "The plastic seems an exact match too."

"They're made from authentic plastic blanks that are stolen. They have to be, to be that good." The security chief went on, "We think we've traced the source of the cards themselves. Four months ago one of our suppliers had a break-in. The thieves got into the strong room where finished plastic sheets are stored. Three hundred sheets were missing."

Vandervoort whistled softly. A single plastic sheet would produce sixty-six Keycharge credit cards. That meant, potentially, almost twenty thousand fraudulent cards.

Wainwright said, "I did the arithmetic too." He motioned to the counterfeits on the desk. "This is the tip of an iceberg. Okay, so the phony cards we know about, or think we do, can mean ten million dollars' loss in charges before we pull them out of circulation. But what about others we haven't heard of yet? There could be ten times as many more." "I get the picture."

Alex Vandervoort paced the small office as his thoughts took shape.

He reflected: Ever since bank credit cards were introduced, all banks issuing them had been plagued by heavy loss through fraud. At first, entire mailbags of cards were stolen, their contents used for spending sprees by thieves at bank expense. Some mail shipments were hijacked and held for ransom. Banks paid the ransom money, knowing the cost would be far greater if cards were distributed through the underworld, and used. Ironically, in 1974 Pan American Airways was castigated by press and public after admitting it paid money to criminals for the return of large quantities of stolen ticket blanks. The airline's objective was to avoid enormous losses through misuse of the tickets. Yet unknown to Pan Am's critics, some of the nation's biggest banks had quietly been d oing the same thing for years.

Eventually, mail theft of credit cards was reduced, but by then criminals had moved on to other, more ingenious schemes. Counterfeiting was one. The early counterfeit cards were crude and easily recognizable, but quality improved until now as Wainwright had shown it took an expert to detect the difference.

As fast as any credit card security measure was devised, criminal cleverness would circumvent it or attack a vulnerability elsewhere. As an example, a new type credit card now being marketed used a "scrambled" photograph of the cardholder. To ordinary eyes the photo was an indistinguishable blur, but placed in a descrambling device it could be viewed clearly and the cardholder identified. At the moment the scheme looked promis sing, but Alex had not the least doubt that organized crime would soon find a way to duplicate the scrambled photos.

Periodically, arrests and convictions of those using stolen or bogus credit cards were made, but these represented a small portion only of the total traffic. The main so far as banks were concerned, was a lack of investigative and enforcement people. There simply were not enough. Alex ceased his pacing.

"These latest counterfeits," he queried, "is it likely that there's some kind of ring behind them?"

"It's not only likely, it's a certainty. For the end product to be this good there has to be an organization. And it's got money behind it, machinery, specialist knowhow, a distribution system. Besides, there are other signs pointing the same way." "Such as?"

"As you know," Wainwright said, "I keep in touch with law agencies. Recently there's been a big increase through the whole Midwest in counterfeit currency, travelers checks, credit cards other cards as well as our own. There's also a lot more traffic than usual in stolen and counterfeit securities, stolen and forged checks."

"And you believe all this, and our Keycharge fraud losses, are linked?" "Let's say it's possible." "What's Security doing?"

"As much as we can. Every lost or missing Keycharge card that turns fraudulent is being checked out and, where possible, tracked down. Recovered cards and fraud prosecutions have increased every month this year; you've had the figures in reports. But something like this needs a full-scale investigation and I don't have either staff or budget to handle it."

Alex Vandervoort smiled ruefully. "I thought we'd get around to budget."

He surmised what was coming next. He knew of the problems under which Nolan Wainwright labored.

Wainwright, as a vice-president of First Mercantile American, was in charge of all security matters in the Headquarters Tower and at branches. lithe credit-card security division was only one of his responsibilities. In recent years the status of Security within the bank had been advanced, its operating funds increased, though the amount of money allotted was still inadequate. Everyone in management knew it. Yet because Security was a nonrevenue produ cing function, its. position on the priority list for additional funds was low.

"You've g ot proposals and figures, I presume. You always have, Nolan."

Wainwright produced a manila folder which he had brought with him. '1t's all there. The most urgent need is two more full-time investigators for the credit-card division. I'm also asking for funds for an undercover agent whose assignment would be to locate the source of these counterfeit cards, also to find out where the leakage is occurring inside the bank."

Vandervoort looked surprised. "You think you can get someone!"

This time Wainwright smiled. "Well, you don't begin by advertising in 'help wanted' columns. But I'm willing to try."

"I'll look carefully at what you've suggested and do my best. That's all I can promise. May I keep these cards?" The security chief nodded. "Anything else on your mind?"

"Only this: I don't think anyone around here, including you, Alex, is taking this whole credit card fraud problem seriously. Okay, so we congratulate ourselves that we've held losses down to three quarters of one percent of total business, but business has grown enormously while the percentage has stayed steady, even increased. As I understand it, Keycharge billings next year are expected to be three billion dollars." "That's what we're hoping for."

"Then at the same percentage fraud losses could be more than twenty-two million."

Vandervoort said drily, "We prefer to speak of it in percentages. That way it doesn't sound as much, and the directors don't get alarmed." "That's pretty cynical." "Yes, I suppose it is."

And yet, Alex reasoned, it was an attitude which banks all banks took. They played down, deliberately, credit - card crime, accepting such losses as a cost of doing business. If any other bank department showed a seven and-a-half million dollar loss in a single year, all hell would erupt before the board. But where credit cards were concerned' "three quarters of one percent" for criminality was accepted or conveniently ignored. The alternative an all-out fight against crime would be more costly by far. It could be said, of course, that the bankers' attitude was indefensible because in the end it was customers credit-card holders who paid for fraud through increased charges. But, from a financial point of view, the attitude made business sense.

"There are times," Alex said, "when the credit-card system sticks in my gullet, or rather parts of it do. But I live within the limits of what I think I can accomplish in the way of change, and what I know I can't. The same goes for budget priorities." He touched the manila folder which Wainwright had put down. "Leave it with me. I've already promised I'll do what I can." "If I don't hear, I'll be along to pound the desk."

Alex Vandervoort left but Nolan Wainwright was delayed by a message. It asked the security chief to contact Mrs. D'Orsey, manager of the main downtown branch, at once. I 've spoken to the FBI, " Nolan Wainwright informed Edw ina D'Orsey. "They'll have two special agents here tomorrow." "Why not today?"

He grinned. "We've no dead body; there wasn't even any shooting. Besides, they have a problem over there. A thing called manpower shortage." "Don't we all?" "Then can I let the staff go home?" asked Miles Mastic.

Wainwrigh t answered, "All except the girl I'd like to talk with her again."

It was early evening, two hours since Wainwright had responded to Edwina's summons and taken over investigation of the cash loss. In the meantime he had covered the same ground the branch officers had gone over earlier, interviewi ng the teller, Juanita Nunez, E dwina D'Orsey, Tottenhoe, the operations officer, and young Miles Eastin, the operations assistant.

He had also spoken with other tellers who had been working near the Nunez girl.

Not wanting to be a focus of attention on the platform, Wainwright had taken over a conference room at the rear of the bank. He was there now with Edwina D'Orsey and Miles Eastin.

Nothing new had emerged except that theft appeared likely; therefore, under federal law the FBI must be called in. The law, on such occasions, was not always applied painstakingly, as Wainwright was well aware. First Mercantile American and other banks often labeled thefts of money as "mysterious disappearances" and, that way, such incidents could be handled internally, avoiding prosecution and publicity. Thus a member of the bank's staff suspected of theft might suffer dismissal only ostensibly for some other reason. And since the guilty individuals were not inclined to talk, a surprisingly large number of theft cases were kept secret, even within the bank itself.

But the present loss assuming it to be theft w as too large and flagrant to be concealed.

Nor was it a good idea to wait, hoping for more information. Wainwright knew the FBI would be angry if called in several days after the event to investigate a cold trail. Until the Bureau agents arrived, he intended to do what he could himself.

As Edwina and Miles Eastin left the small office, the operations assistant said helpfully, "I'll send Mrs. Nunez in."

A moment later the small, slight figure of Juanita Nunez appeared at the office doorway. "Come in," Nolan Wainwright instructed. "Shut the door. Sit down."

He made his tone official and businesslike. Instinct told him that phony friendliness would not deceive this girl.

"I want to hear your whole story again. We'll take it step by step."

Juanita Nunez looked sulky and defiant, as she had earlier, but now there were traces of fatigue. With a sudden flash of spirit, though, she objected, "Three times I have already done that. Everything!" "Perhaps you forgot something the other times." "I forgot nothing!"

"Then this time will make a fourth, and when the FBI arrive there'll be a fifth, and maybe after that a sixth." He held her eyes with his own and kept authority in his voice but didn't raise it. If he were a police officer, Wainwright thought, he'd have had to caution her about her rights. But he wasn't, and wouldn't. Sometimes, in a situation like this, private security forces had advantages which police were not allowed.

"I know what you are thinking," the girl said. "You think I will say something different this time, so you can prove that I w as lying." "Are you lying?" "No " "Then why worry about that?"

Her voice quavered. "Because I am tired. I would like to go."

"I would, too. And if it wasn't for a missing six thousand dollars which you admit you had in your possession earlier I'd be finished work for the day and driving home. But the money is gone and we'd like to find it. So tell me about th is afternoon again when you say you first saw something wrong." "It was like I told you twenty minutes after lunch"

He read contempt in her eyes. E arlier, when he began asking questions, he had sensed the girl's attitude as being easier toward him than the others. No doubt because he was black and she was Puerto Rican, she assumed they might be allies or, if not that, that he would be a softer touch. What she didn't know was that where investigative work was concerned he was color-blind. Nor could he concern himself about any personal problems the girl might have. Eldwina D'Orsey had mentioned these, but no personal circumstance, in Wainwright's view, ever justified stealing or dishonesty.

The Nu nez girl had been right, of course, about h is wanting to catch her out in some variation of her story. And it could happen, despite her obvious caution. She had complained of being tired. As an experienced investigator, Wainwright knew that guilty people, when tired, were apt to make mistakes during interrogation, a small one first, then another and another, until they became trapped in a web of lies and inconsistency. Wondering if it would happen now, he pressed on.

It took three quarters of an hour, during which Juanita Nunez's version of events remained identical with what she had stated earlier. While disappointed at having uncovered nothing new, Wainwright was not overly impressed with the girl's consistency. His police background made him realize that such exactitude could have two interpretations: Either she was speaking the truth or she had rehearsed her story so carefully that she was perfect in it. The latter seemed a probability because innocent people usually had a few slight variations between one recounting and the next. It was a symptom which detectives learned to look for.

At the end, Wainwright said, "All right, that's everything for now. Tomorrow you can take a lie detector test. The bank will arrange it."

He made the announcement casually,-though watching for a reaction. What he had not expected was one as sudden or as fierce.

The girl's small dark face flushed red. She shot upright n her chair. "NO, I will n ot! I will not take such a test! " "Why not?" "Because it is an insult "

"It's no insult. Lots of people take the test. If you're innocent, the machine will prove it.'?

"I do not trust such a machine. Or you. Basta con mi palabra!"

He ignored the Spanish, suspecting it was abusive. "You've no reason not to trust me. All I'm interested in is getting to the truth."

"You have heard truth! You do not recognize it! You, like the others, believe I took the money. It is useless to tell you I did not."

Wainwright stood up. He opened the door of the tiny office for the girl to go. "Between now and tomorrow," he advised, "I suggest you reconsider your attitude about that test. If you refuse to take it, it will look bad for you."

She looked him fully in the face. "I do not have to take such a test, do I?" "No." "Then I will not."

She marched from the office with short, quick steps. After a moment, unhurriedly, Wainwright followed.

Within the bank's main working area, though a few people were still at desks, the majority of staff had gone and overhead lights were dimmed. Outside, darkness had descended on the raw fall day.

Juanita Nunez went to a locker room for her street clothes, and returned. She ignored Wainwright. Miles Eastin, who had been waiting with a key, let her out through the main street door.

"Juanita," Eastin said, "is there anything I can do? Shall I drive you home?" She shook her head without speaking and went out.

Nolan Wainwright, watching from a window, saw her walk to a bus stop across the street. If he had had a larger security force, he thought, he might have had her followed, though he doubted it would do any good. Mrs. Nunez was clever and she would not give herself away, either by handing the money to someone else in public or even storing it in a predictable place.

He was convinced the girl did not have the money on her. She was too astute to run that risk; also, the amount of cash would be too bulky to conceal. He had looked at her closely during their talk and afterward, observing that her clothes clung tightly to her small body and there were no suspicious bulges. The purse she carried from the bank was tiny. She had no packages.

Wainwright felt certain that an accomplice was involved.

He had little remaining doubt, if any, that Juanita Nunez was guilty. Her refusal to submit to a lie detector test, considered with all other facts and indications, had convinced him. Remembering her Emotional outburst of a few minutes ago, he suspected it wins planned, perhaps rehearsed. Bank employees were well aware that in cases of suspected theft a lie detector was employed; the Nunez girl was likely to have known that, too. Therefore she could have guessed the subject would come up and been ready for it.

Remembering how she had looked at him with contempt and, before that, her unspoken assumption of alliance, Wainwright felt a surge of anger. With an unusual intensity he found himself hoping that tomorrow the FBI team would give her a hard time and shake her down. But it would not be easy. She was tough.

Miles Eastin had relocked the main street door and now returned.

"Well," he said cheerfully, "time to head for the showers."

The security chief nodded. "It's been quite a day."

Eastin seemed about to say something else, then apparently decided otherwise. Wainwright asked him, "Something on your mind?"

Again E astin hesitated, then admitted, "Well, yes, there is. It's a thing I haven't mentioned to anyone because it could be just a wild pitch." "Does it relate in any way to the missing money?" "I suppose it could."

Wainwright said sternly, "Then whether you're sure or not, you have to tell me." The assistant operations officer nodded. "All right." Wainwright waited.

"It was mentioned to you by Mrs. D 'Orsey, I think that Juanita Nun ez is married. Her husband deserted her. He left her with their child." "I remember."

"When the husband was living with Juanita he used to come in here occasionally. To meet her, I guess. I spoke to him a couple of times. I'm pretty sure his name is Carlos." "What about him?" "I believe he was in the bank today." Wainwright asked sharply, "Are you sure?"

"Fairly sure, though not enough so I could swear to it in court. I just noticed someone, thought it was him, then put it out of mind. I was busy. There was no reason for me to think about it at least not until a long time later." "What time of day was it when you saw him?" "About midmorning."

"This man you thought was the Nu nez girl's husband did you see him go to the counter where she was workin g "?" "No, I didn't." Eastin' s handsome young face was trou bled. "As I say, I didn't think about it much. The only thing is, if I saw him, he couldn't have been far away from Juanita." "And that's everything?"

"That's it." Miles Eastin added apologetica lly, "I'm sor ry it isn't more." "You were right to tell me. It could be important."

If Eastin were right, Wainwright reasoned, the presence of the husband could tie in with Wainwrightis own theory of an outside accomplice. Possibly the girl and her husband were together again or, if not, had some arrangement. Perhaps she had passed the money over the counter to him, and he had taken it from the bank, to divide it with her later. The possibility was certainly something for the FBI to work on.

"Quite apart from the missing money," Mastic said, "everybody in the bank is talking about Mr. Rosselli we heard about the announcement yesterday, his illness. Most of us are pretty sad."

It was a sudden, painful reminder as Wainwright regarded the younger man, usually so full of banter and joviality. At this moment, the security chief saw, there was distress in Eastin's eyes.

Wainwright realized that the investigation had driven all thought of Ben Rosselli from his mind. Now, remembering, he experienced new anger that thievery should leave i t’ s ugly mark at such a time.

With a murmured acknowledgment and a good night to East n, he walked through the tunnel from the branch bank, using his passkey to re-enter the FMA Headquarters T ower.

8

Across the street, Juanita Nunez a tiny figure against the soaring city block complex of First American Bank and Rosselli Plaza was still waiting for her bus.

She had seen the security offi cer's face watching her from a window of the bank, and had a sense of relief when the face disappeared, though commonsense told her the relief was only temporary, and the wretchedness of today would resume and be as bad, or even worse, tomorrow.

A cold wind, knifing through downtown streets, penetrated the thin coat she had on, and she shivered as she waited. Her regular bus had gone. She hoped another would come soon.

The shivering, Juanita knew, was par tly from fear because, at this moment, she was more frightened, more terror-stricken, than ever before in all her life. Frightened and perplexed.

Perplexed because she had no idea how the money had been lost.

Juanita knew that she had neither stolen the money, nor handed it across the counter in error, or disposed of it in any other way. The trouble was: no one would believe her.

In other circumstances, she realized, she might not have believed herself.

How could six thousand dollars have vanished? It was impossible, impossible. And yet it had.

Time after time this afternoon she had searched her recollection of every single moment of the day to find some explanation. There w as none. She had thought back over cash transactions at the counter during the morning and early afternoon, using the remarkable memory she knew she had, but no solution came to her. Not even the wildest possibility made any sense.

She was positive, too, that she had locked her cash drawer securely before taking it to the vault while she had lunch, and it was still locked when she returned. As to the combination, which Juanita had chosen and set herself, she had never discussed it with anyone else or even written it down, relying as usual on her memory.

In one way it was her memory which had added to her troubles.

Juanita knew she had not been believed, either by Mrs. D'Orsey, Mr. Tottenhoe, or Miles, who at least had been friendlier than the others, when she claimed to know, at two o'clock, the exact amount of money which was gone. They said it was impossible she could know.

But she had known. Just as she always knew how much cash she had when she was working as a teller, although she found it impossible to explain to others how or why.

She was not even sure herself how she kept the running tally in her head. It was simply there. It happened without effort, so that she was scarcely aware of the arithmetic involved. For almost as long as Juanita could remember, adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing seemed as easy as breathing, and as natural.

She did it automatically at the bank counter as she took money in from customers or paid it out. And she had learned to glance at her cash drawer, checking that the cash she had on hand was what it should be, that venous denominations of notes were in their right order, and in sufficient numbers. Even with coins, while not knowing the total so precisely, she could estimate the amount closely at any time. Occasionally, at the end of a busy day when she balanced her cash, her mental figure might prove to be in error by a few dollars, but never more. Where had the ability come from? She had no idea.

She had never excelled in school During her sketchy high school education in New York, she seldom achieved more than a low average in most subjects. Even in mathe matic s she had no real grasp of principles, merely an ability to calculate with lightning speed and carry figures in her head.

At last the bus arrived with a n uneven roar and diesel stink. With others who were waiting, Juanita climbed aboard. No seats were available and standing space was crowded. She managed to grab a handhold and continued thinking, straining to remember as the bus swayed through the city streets.

What would happen tom orrow? Miles had told her that F BI men were coming. The thought filled her with fresh dread and her face set tensely in a bleakness of anxiety the same expression which Edwina D'Orsey and Nolan Wainwright had mistaken for hostility.

She would say as little as possible, just as she had done today after she found that no one was believing.

As to the machine, the lie detector, she would refuse. She knew nothing of how such a machine worked, but when no one else would understand, believe, or help her, why would a machine the bank's machine be different?

It was a three-block walk from the bus to the nursery school where she had left Estela this morning on her way to work. Juanita hurried, knowing she was late.

The little girl ran toward her as she entered the small school playroom in the basement of a private house. Though the house, like others in the area, was old and dilapidated, the school rooms were dean and cheerful the reason Juanita had chosen the school in preference to others, though the cost was higher and a strain for her to pay. Estela was excited, as full of joy as always,

"Mommy Mommyl See my painting. It's a train.. She pointed with a paint-covered finger. "There's a bagoose. That's a man inside."

She was a small child, even for three, dark like Juanita, with large liquid eyes reflecting her wonder at each new interest, at the fresh discoveries she made every day.

Juanita hugged her and corrected her gently. "Caboose, amorcito."

It was obvious from the stillness that the other children were all gone.

Miss Ferroe, who owned and ran the school, came in primly, frowning. She looked pointedly at her watch.

"Ms . Nunez, as a special favor I agreed that E stela could stay after the others , but this is far too late…"

"I really am sorry, Miss Ferroe. Something happened at the bank."

"I have private responsibilities also. And other parents observe the school's closing time." "It won't happen again. I promise."

"Very well. But since you are here, Ms . Nunez, may I remind you that last month's bill for Estela has not been paid." "It will be on Friday. I'll have my paycheck then."

"I'm sorry to have to mention it, you understand. Estela is a sweet little girl and we're glad to have her. But I have bills to pay…" "I do understand. It will b e Friday for sure. I pr omise." "That's two promises, Ms . Nunez." "Yes, I know." "Good night then. Good night, Estela dear."

Despite her starchiness, the F erroe woman ran an excellent nursery school and Estela was happy there. The money owing to the school, Juanita decided, would have to come out of her pay this week, as she had said, and somehow she must manage until the payday after that. She wasn't sure how. Her wage as a teller was $98 weekly; after taxes and Social Security deductions, her take-home pay was $83. Out of that there was food to buy for the two of them, Estela's school fees, plus rent of the tiny walk-up fla t they lived in at Forum East; also the finance company would demand a payment since she had missed the last.

Before Carlos left her, simply walking out and disappearing a year ago, Juanita had been naive enough to sign finance papers jointly with her husband. He had bought suits, a used car, a color TV, all of which he took with him. Juanita, however, was still paying, the installments seeming to stretch on into a limitless future

She would have to visit the finance company office, she thought, and offer them less. They would undoubtedly be nasty, as they were before, but it would have to be endured.

On the way home, Estela skipped happily along, one small hand in Juanita's. In her other hand Juanita carried Estela's painting, carefully rolled up. In a little while, in the apartment, they would have their evening meal and afterward they usually played and laughed together. But Juanita would find it difficult to laugh tonight.

Her earlier terror deepened as she considered for the first time what might happen if she lost her job. The probability, she realized, was strong.

She knew, too, that it would be hard to find work elsewhere. No other bank would hire her and other employers would want to know where she had worked before, then would find out about the missing money and reject her.

Without a job, what would she do? How could she support Estela?

Abruptly, stopping on the street, Juanita reached down and clasped her daughter to her.

She prayed that tomorrow someone would believe her, would recognize the truth. Someone, someone. But who?

9

Alex Vandenoort, also, was abroad in the city.

Earl ier in the afternoon, returning from the session with Nolan Wainwright, Alex had paced his office suite, seeking to place recent events in true perspective. Yesterday's announcement by Ben Rosselli was a major cause for reflection. So was the resultant situation in the bank. So, too, were developments, within recent months, in Alexis personal life.

Pacing back and forth twelve strides one way, twelve the other was an.old established habit. Once or twice he had stopped, re-examining the counterfeit Keycharge credit cards which the security chief had allowed Alex to bring away. Credit and credit cards were additionally a part of his preoccupation not only fraudulent cards, but genuine ones, too.

The genuine variety was represented by a series of advertising proofs, also on the desk, and now spread out. They had been prepared by the Austin Advertising Agency and the purpose was to encourage Keycharge holders to use their credit and their cards increasingly. One announcement urged:

WHY WORRY ABOUT MONEY?

USE YOUR KEYCHARGE CARD

AND

LET US WORRY FOR YOUI

Another claimed:

BILLS ARE PAINLESS

WHEN YOU SAY

"PUT IT ON MY KEYCHARGE "

A third advised:

WHY WAIT?

YOU CAN AFFORD TOMORROW'S DREAM

TODAY!

USE YOUR KEYCHARGE

A half dozen others were on similar themes. Alex Vandervoort was uneasy about them all. His unease did not have t o be translated into action. The advertising, already approved by the bank's Keycharge division, had merely been sent to Alex for general information. Also, the over-all approach had been agreed on several weeks ago by the bank's board of directors as a means to increase the profitability of Keycharge which like all credit-card programs sustained losses in its Intel, launching years.

But Alex wondered: Had the board envisaged a promotional campaign quite so blatantly aggressive?

He shuffled the advertising proofs together and returned them to the folder they had arrived in. At home tonight he would reconsider them and he would hear a second opinion, h e realized probably a strong one from Margot. Margot.

The thought of her melded with the memory of Ben Rosselli's disclosure yesterday. What had been said then was a reminder to Alex of life's fragility, the brevity of time remaining, the inevitability of endings, a pointer to the unexpected always close at hand. He had been moved and saddened for Ben himself; but also, without intending to, the old man had revived once more an oft-recurring question: Should Alex make a fresh life for himself and Margot? Or should he wait? And wait for what? For Celia?

That question, too, he had asked himself a thousand times.

Alex looked out across the city toward where he knew Celia to be. He wondered what she was doing, how she was. There was a simple way to find out.

He returned to his desk and dialed a number which he knew by heart. A woman's voice answered, "Remedial Center."

He identified himself and said, "I'd like to talk with Dr. McCartney."

After a moment or two a male voice, quietly firm, inquired, "Where are you, Alex?'

"In my office. I was sitting here wondering about my wife."

"I asked because I intended to can you today and suggest you come in to visit Celia."

"The last time we talked you said you didn't want me to."

The psychiatrist corrected him gently. "I said I thought any more visits inadvisable for a while. The previous few, you'll remember, seemed to unsettle your wife rather than help."

"I remember." Alex hesitated, then asked, "There's been some change?"

"Yes, there is a change. I wish I could say it was for the better."

There had been so many changes, he had become dulled to them. "What kind of change?"

"Your wife is becoming even more withdrawn. Her escape from reality is almost total. It's why I think a visit from you might do some good." The psychiatrist corrected himself, "At least it should do no harm." "All right. I'll come this evening."

"Any time, Alex; and drop in to see me when you do. As you know, we've no set visiting hours here and a minimum of rules." "Yes, I know."

The absence of formality, he reflected, as he replaced the telephone, was a reason he had chosen the Remedial Center when faced with his despairing decision about Celia nearly four years ago. The atmosphere was deliberately non-institutional. The nurse s did not wear uniforms. As far as was practical, patients moved around freely and were encouraged to make decisions of their own. With occasional exceptions, friends and families were welcome at any time. Even the name Remedial Center had been chosen intentionally in preference to the more forbidding "mental hospital." Another reason was that Dr. Timothy McCartney, young, brilliant, and innovative, headed a specialist team which achieved cures of mental illnesses where more conventional treatments failed.

The Center was small. Patients never exceeded a hundred and fifty though, by comparison, the staff was large. In a way, it was like a school with small classes where students received personal attention they could not have gained elsewhere.

A modern building and spacious gardens were as pleas ing as money and imagination could make them.

The clinic was private. It was also horrendously expensive but Alex had been determined, and still was, that whatever else happened, Celia would have the best of care. It was, he reasoned, the very least that he could do.

Through the remainder of the afternoon he occupied himself with bank business. Soon after 6 P.M. he left FMA Headquarters, giving his driver the Remedial Center address, and read the evening paper while they crawled through traffic. A limousine and chauffeur, available at any time from the bank's pool of cars, were perquisites of the executive vice-president's job and Alex enjoyed them.

Typically, the Remedial Center had the facade of a large private home with nothing outside, other than a street number, to identify it.

An attractive blonde, weari ng a colorful print dress, let h im in. He recognized her as a nurse from a small insignia pin near her left shoulder. It was the only permitted dress disti nction between staff and patients .

"Doctor told us you'd be coming, Mr. Vandervoort. I'll take you to your wife."

He walked with her along a pleasant corri dor. Yellows and greens predomin ated. Fresh flowers were in niches along the walls.

"I understand," he said, "that my wife has been no better."

"Not really, I'm afraid." The nurse shot him a sideways glance; he sensed pity in her eyes. But for whom? As always, when he came here, he felt his natural ebullience desert him.

They were in a wing, one of three running outward from the central reception area. The nurse stopped at a door.

"Your wife is in her room, Mr. Vandervoort. She had a bad day today. Try to remember that, if she shouldn't…" She left the sentence unfinished, touched his arm lightly, then preceded him in.

The Rem edial Center placed patients in shared or single rooms according to the effect which the company of others had on their condition. When Celia first came she was in a double room, but it hadn't worked; now she was in a private one. Though small, Celia's room was cozily comfortable and individual. It contained a studio couch, a deep armchair and ottoman, a games table and bookshelves. Impressionist prints adorned the walls.

"Mrs. Vandervoort," the nurse said gently, "your husband is here to visit you."

There was no acknowledgment, neither movement nor spoken response, from the figure in the room.

It had been a month and a half since Alex had seen Celia and, though he had been expecting some deterioration, her present appearance chilled him.

She was seated if her posture could be called that on the studio couch. She had positioned herself sideways, facing away from the outer door. Her shoulders were hunched down, her head lowered, arms crossed in front, with each hand clasping the opposite shoulder. Her body, too, was curled upon itself and her legs drawn up with knees together. She was absolutely still.

He went to her and put a hand gently on one shoulder. "Hullo, Celia. It's me Alex. I've been thinking about you, so I came to see you."

She said, low voiced, without expression, "Yes." She did not move.