The Moneychangers

He increased the pressure on the shoulder. "Won't you turn around to look at me? Then we can sit together and talk."

The only response was a perceptible rigidity, a tightening of the position in which Celia was huddled.

Her skin texture, Alex saw, was mottled and her fair hair only roughly combed. Even now her gentle, fragile beauty had not entirely vanished, though clearly it would not be long before it did.

"Has she been like this long?" he asked the nurse quietIy.

"All of today and part of yesterday; some other days as well." The girl added matter-of-factly, "she feels more comfortable that way, so it's best if you take no notice, just sit down and talk."

Alex nodded. As he went to the single armchair and settled himself, the nurse tiptoed out, closing the door gently.

"I went to the ballet last week, Celia," Alex said. "It was Coppelia. Natalia Makarova danced the lead and Ivan Nagy was Frantz. They were magnificent together and, of course, the music was wonderful. It reminded me of how you loved Coppelia, that it was one of your favorites. Do you remember that night, soon after we were married, when you and I…"

He could call back in memory clearly, even now, the way Celia had looked that evening in a long, pale green chiffon gown, tiny sequins glittering with reflected light. As usual, she had been ethereally beautiful, slim and gossamer-like, as if a breeze might steal her if he looked away. In those days he seldom did. They had been married six months and she was still shy at meeting Alex's friends, so that sometimes in a group she clung tightly to his arm. Because she was ten years younger than himself, he hadn't minded. Celia's shyness, at the beginning, had been one of the reasons why he fell in love with her, and he was proud of her reliance on hind Only long after, when she continued to be diffident and unsure foolishly, it seemed to hire his impatience surfaced, and eventually anger.

How little, how tragically little, he had understood! With more perception he would have realized that Celia's background before they met was so totally different from his own that nothing had prepared her for the active social and domestic life he accepted matter-of-factly. It was all new and bewildering to Celia, at times alarming. She was the only child of reclusive parents of modest means, had attended convent schools, had never known the leavening propinquity of college living. Before Celia met Alex she had had no responsibilities, her social experience was nil. Marriage increased her natural nervousness; at the same time, self-doubts and tensions grew until eventually as psychiatrists explained it a burden of guilt at failing snapped something in her mind. With hindsight, Alex blamed himself. He could, he afterwards believed, have helped Celia so easily, could have given advice, eased tensions, offered reassurance. But when it mattered most he never had. He had been too thoughtless, busy, ambitious.

"… so last week's performance, Celia, made me sorry we weren't seeing it together…"

In fact, he had been to Coppelia with Margot, whom Alex had known now for a year and a half, and who zestfully filled a gap in his life which had been empty for so long. Margot, or someone else, had been necessary if Alex a flesh and blood man were not to become a mental case, too, he sometimes told himself. Or was that a self-delusion, conveniently assuaging guilt?

Either way, this was no time or place to introduce Margots name.

"Oh, yes, and not long ago, Celia, I saw the Harringtons. You remember John and Elise. Anyway, they told me they had been to Scandinavia to see Elise's parents." "Yes," Celia said tonelessly.

She had still not stirred from the huddled position, but evidently was listening, so he continued talking, using only half his mind while the other half asked: How did it happen? Why? - "We've been busy at the bank lately, Celia."

One reason, he assumed, had been his preoccupation with his work, the long bourn during which as their marriage deteriorated he had left Celia alone. That, as, he now saw it, was when she had needed him most. As it was, Celia accepted his absences without complaint but grew increasingly reserved and timid, burying herself in books or looking interminably at plants and powers, appearing to watch them grow, though occasionally in contrast and without apparent reason she became animated, talking incessantly and sometimes incoherently. Those were periods in which Celia seemed to have exceptional energy. Then, with equal suddenness, the energy would disappear, leaving her depressed and withdrawn once more. And all the while their communication and companionship diminished.

It was during that time the thought of it shamed him now he had suggested they divorce. Celia had seemed shattered and he let the subject drop, hoping things would get better, but they hadn't.

Only at length, when the thought occurred to him almost casually that Celia might need psychiatric help, and he had sought it, had the truth of her malady become clear. For a while, anguish and concern revived his love. But, by then, it was too late.

At times he speculated: Perhaps it had always been too late. Perhaps not even greater kindness, understanding, would have helped. But he would never know. He could never nurture the conviction he had done his best and, because of it, could never shed the guilt which haunted him.

"Everybody seems to be thinking about money spending it, borrowing it, lending it, though I guess that's not unusual and what banks are for. A sad thing happened yesterday, though. Ben Rosselli, our president, told us he was dying. He called a meeting and …"

Alex went on, describing the scene in the boardroom and reactions afterward, then abruptly stopped.

Celia had begun to tremble. Her body was rocking back and forth. A wail, half moan, escaped her.

Had his mention of the bank upset her? the bank into which he had thrown his energies, widening the gulf between them. It was another bank then, the Federal Reserve, but to Celia one bank was like another. Or was it his reference to Ben Rosselli?

Ben would die soon. How many years before Celia died? Many, perhaps.

Alex thought: she could easily outlive him, could live on like this. His pity evaporated. Anger seized him; the angry impatience which had marred their marriage. "For Christ's sake, Celia, control yourself!" Her trembling and the moans continued.

He hated her! She wam't human any more, yet she remained the barrier between himself and a full life.

Getting up, Alex savagely punched a bell push on the wall, knowing it would summon help. In the same motion he strode to the door to leave.

And looked back. At Celia his wife whom once he had loved; at what she had become; at the gulf between them they would never bridge. He paused, and wept.

Wept with pity, sadness, guilt, his momentary anger spent, the hatred washed away.

He returned to the studio couch and, on his knees before her, begged, "Celia, forgive met Oh, God, forgive me"

He fel a gentle hand on his shoulder, heard the young nurse's voice. "Mr. Vandervoort, I think you should go now." "Water or soda, Alex?" 'Soda."

Dr. McCartney took a bottle from the small refrigerator in his consulting room and used an opener to flip the top. He poured into a glass which already contained a generous slug of scotch and added ice. He brought the glass to Alex, then poured the rest of the soda, without liquor, for himself.

For a big man Tim McCartney was six feet five with a football player's chest and shoulders, and enormous hands his movements were remarkably deft. Though the clinic director was young, in his mid-thirties Alex guessed, his manner and voice seemed older and his brushed-back brown hair was graying at the temples. Probably because of a lot of sessions like this, Alex thought. He sipped the scotch gratefully.

The paneled room was softly lighted, its color tones more muted than the corridors and other rooms outside. Bookshelves and racks for journals filled one wall, the works of Freud, Adler, Jung, and Rogers prominent.

Alex was still shaken as the result of his meeting with Celia, yet in a way the horror of it seemed unreal

Dr. McCartney returned to a chair at his desk and swung it to face the sofa where Alex sat.

"I should report to you first that your wife's general diagnosis remains the same schizophrenia, catatonic type. You'll remember we've discussed this in the past." "I remember all the jargon, yes." "I'll try to spare you any more."

Alex swirled the ice in his glass and drank again; the scotch had warmed him. 'Tell me about Celia's condition now."

"You may find this hard to accept, but your wife, despite the way she seems, is relatively happy.'' "Yes," Alex said. "I find that hard to believe."

The psychiatrist insisted quietly, "Happiness is relative, for all of us. What Celia has is security of a kind; a total absence of responsibility or the need to relate to others She can withdraw into herself as much as she wants or needs to. The physical posture she's been taking lately, which you saw, is the classic fetal position. It comforts her to assume it, though for her physical good, we try to dissuade her when we can."

"Comforting or not," Alex said, "the essence is that after having had the best possible treatment for four years, my wife's condition is still deteriorating." He eyed the other man directly. "Is that right or wrong?" "Unfortunately it's right."

"Is there any reasonable chance of a recovery, ever, so that Celia could lead a normal or near-normal life? "In medicine there are always possibilities…" "I said reasonable chance." Dr. McCartney sighed and shook his head. "No."

"Thank you for a plain answer." Alex paused, then went on, "As I understand it, Celia has become, I believe the word is 'institutionalized.' She's withdrawn from the human race. She neither knows nor cares about anything outside herself."

"You're right about being institutionalized," the psychiatrist said, "but you're wrong about the rest. Your wife has not totally withdrawn, at least not yet. She still knows a little about what's going on outside. She also is aware she has a husband, and we've talked about you. But she believes you're entirely capable of taking care of yourself without her help." "So she doesn't worry about me?" "On the whole, no."

"How would she feel if she learned her husband had divorced her and remarried?"

Dr. McCartney hesitated, then said, "It would represent a total break from the little outside contact she has remaining. It might drive her over the brink into a totally demented state'

In the ensuing silence Alex leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. Then he removed them. His head came up; with a trace of irony, he said, "I guess if you ask for plain answers you're apt to get them."

The psychiatrist nodded, his expression serious. "I paid you a compliment, Alex, in assuming you meant what you said. I would not have been as frank with everyone. Also, I should add, I could be wrong." "Tim, what the hell does a man do?" 'Is that rhetoric or a question?" "It's a question. You can put it on my bill."

'There’ll be no bill tonight." The younger man smiled briefly, then considered. "You ask me: What does a man do in a circumstance like yours? Well, to begin, he finds out all he can just as you have done. Then he makes decisions based on what he thinks is fair and best for everyone, including himself. But while he's making up his mind he ought to remember two things. One is, if he's a decent man, his own guilt feelings are probably exaggerated because a well-developed conscience has a habit of punishing itself more harshly than it need. The other is that few people are qualified for sainthood; the majority of us aren't born with the equipment."

Alex asked, "And you won't go further? You won't be more specific?"

Dr. McCartney shook his head. "Only you can make the decision. Those last few paces each of us walls alone."

The psychiatrist glanced at his watch and got up from his chair. Moments later they shook hands and said good night.

Outside the Remedial Center, Alex's limousine and driver the car's motor running, its interior warm and comfortable were waiting. "Without doubt," Margot Bracken declared, "that is one crappy collection of chicanery and damn lies."

She was looking down, elbows aggressively out, hands on slender waist, her small but resolute head thrust forward. She was provocative physically, Alex Vandervoort thought a "slip of a girl" with pleasingly sharp features, chin jutting and aggressive, thinnish lips, though the mouth was sensual over-all. Margot's eyes were her strongest feature; they were large, green, flecked with gold, the lashes thick and long. At this moment those eyes were glaring. Her anger and forcefulness stirred him sexually.

The object of Margot's censure was the assortment of advertising proofs for Keycharge credit cards which Alex had brought home from FMA, and which now were spread out on the living-room rug of his apartment. Margot's presence and vitality were providing, also, a needed contrast to Alec's ordeal of several hours ago.

He told her, "I had an idea, Bracken, you might not like those advertising themes." "Not like them! I despise them." "Why?' She pushed back her long chestnut hair in a familiar though unconscious gesture. An hour ago Margot had kicked off her shoes and now stood, all five-foot-two of her, in stockinged feet.

"All right, look at thatl" She pointed to the announcement which began: WHY WAIT? YOU CAN AFFORD TOMORROW'S DREAM TODAY! "What it is, is dishonest bullshit high-powered, aggressive selling of debt concocted to entrap the gullible. Tomorrow's dream, for anyone, is sure to be expensive. That's why it's a dream. And no one can afford it unless they have the money now or are certain of it soon."

"Shouldn't people make their own judgments about that?"

"Not not the people who'll be influenced by that perverted advertising, the ones you're trying to influence. They're the unsophisticated, the easily persuadable, those who believe that what they see in print is true. I know. I get plenty of them as clients in my law practice. My unprofitable law practice." - "Maybe those aren't the kind of people who have our Keycharge cards.'

"Dammit, Alex, you know that isn't true! The most unlikely people nowadays have credit cards because you all have pushed them so hard.The only thing you haven't done is hand cards out at street corners, and it wouldn't surprise me if you started that soon."

Alex grinned. He edjoyed these debating sessions with Margot and liked to keep them fueled. "I'll tell our people to think about it, Bracken."

"What I wish other people would think about is that Shylocking eighteen percent interest all bank credit cards charge." "We've been over that before."

"Yes, we have. And I've never heard an explanation which satisfied me."

He countered sharply, "Maybe you don't listen." Enjoyable in debate or not, Margot had a knack of getting under his skin. Occasionally their debates developed into fights.

"I've told you that credit cards are a packaged commodity, offering a range of services," Alex insisted. "If you add those services together, our interest rate is not excessive." "It's as excessive as hell if you're the one who's paying.. "Nobody has to pay. Because nobody has to borrow." "I can hear you. You don't have to shout." "All right."

He took a breath, determined not to let this discussion get out of hand. Besides, while disputing some of Margot's views, which in economics, politics, and everything else were left of center, he found his own thinking aided by her forthrightness and keen lawyer's mind. Margot's practice, too, brought her contacts which he lacked directly among the city's poor and underprivileged for whom the bulk of her legal work was done. He awed, "Another cognac?" "Yes, please."

It was close to midnight. A log fire, blazing earlier, had burned low in the hearth of the snug room in the small, sumptuous bachelor suite.

An hour and a half ago they had had a late dinner here delivered from a service restaurant on the apartment block's main floor. An excellent Bordeaux, Alex's choice, Chateau Gruaud-Larose '66 accompanied the meal.

Apart from the area where the Keycharge advertising had been spread out, the apartment lights were low.

When he had replenished their brandy glasses, Alex returned to the argument. "If people pay their credit-card bills when they get them, there is no interest charge." "You mean pay their bills in full." "Right."

"But how many do? Don't most credit-card users pay that convenient 'minimum balance' that the statements show?" "A good many pay the minimum, yes."

"And carry the rest forward as debt which is what you bankers really want them to do. Isn't that so?"

Alex conceded, "Yes, it's true. But banks have to make a profit somewhere."

"I lie awake nights," Margot said, 'worrying if banks are making enough profit."

As he laughed, she went on seriously, "Look, Alex, thousands of people who shouldn't are piling up long-term debts by using credit cards. Often it's to buy trivia drugstore items, phonograph records, bits of hardware, books, meals, other minor things; and they do it partly through unawareness, partly because small amounts of credit are ridiculously easy to obtain. And those small amounts, which ought to be paid by cash, add up to crippling debts, burdening imprudent people for years ahead."

Alex cradled his brandy glass in both hands to warm it, sipped, then rose and tossed a fresh log on the fire. He protested, "You're worrying too much, and the problem isn't that big."

And yet, he admitted to himself, some of what Margot had said made sense. Where once as an old song put it miners "owed their souls to the company store," a new breed of chronic debtor had arisen, naively mortgaging future life and income to a "friendly neighborhood bank." One reason was that credit cards had replaced, to a large extent, small loans. Where individuals used to be dissuaded from excessive borrowing, now they made their own loan decisions often unwisely. Some observers, Alex knew, believed the system had downgraded American morality.

Of course, doing it the credit-card way was much cheaper for a bank; also, a small loan customer, borrowing through the credit-card route, paid substantially higher interest than on a conventional loan. The total interest the bank received, in fact, was often as high as twenty-four percent since merchants who honored credit cards paid their own additional bank levy, ranging from two to six percent.

These were reasons why banks such as First Mercantile American were relying on credit-card business to swell their profits, and they would increasingly in future years. True, initial losses with all credit-card schemes had been substantial; as bankers were apt to put it, "we took a bath." But the same bankers were convinced that a bonanza was close at hand which would outstrip-in profitability most other kinds of bank business.

Another thing bankers realized was that credit cards were a necessary way station on the route to EFTS the Electronic Funds Transfer System which, within a decade and a half, would replace the present avalanche of banking paper and make existing checks and passbooks as obsolete as the Model T.

''That's enough," Margot said. "The two of us are beginning to sound like a shareholders meeting." She came to him and kissed him fully on the lips.

The heat of their argument earlier had already aroused him, as skirmishes with Margot so often did. Their first encounter had begun that way. Sometimes, it seemed, the angrier both became, the larger their physical passion for each other grew. After a while he murmured, "I declare the shareholders meeting closed."

"Well…" Margot eased away and regarded him mischievously. "There is some unfinished business that advertising, darling. You're not really going to let it go out to the public the way it is?" "No," he said, "I don't believe I am."

The Keycharge advertising was a strong sell too strong and he would use his authority to exercise a veto in the morning. He realized he had intended to, anyway. Margot had merely confirmed his own opinion of this afternoon.

The fresh log he had added to the fire was alight and crackling. They sat on the rug before the fireplace, savoring its warmth, watching the rising tongues of flame.

Margot leaned her head against Alex's shoulder. She said softly, "For a stuffy old moneychanger, you're really not too bad." He put his arm around her. "I love you, too, Bracken." "Really and truly? Banker's honor?" "I swear by the prime rate."

"Then love me now." She began to take off her clothes. He whispered with amusement. "Here?" "Why not?" Alex sighed happily. "Why not indeed?"

Soon after, he had a sense of release and joy in contrast to the anguish of the day.

And later still, they held each other, sharing the warmth from their bodies and the fire. At last Margot stirred. 'I've said it before and I say it again: You're a delicious lover."

"And you're okay, Bracken." He asked her, "Will you stay the night'

She often did, just as Alex frequently stayed at Margot's apartment. At times it seemed foolish to maintain their two establishments, but he had delayed the step of merging them, wanting first to marry Margot if he could.

"I'll stay for a while," she said, "but not all night. Tomorrow I have to be in court early."

Margot's court appearances were frequent and in the aftermath of such a case they had met a year and a half ago. Shortly before that first encounter Margot had defended a half dozen demonstrators who clashed with police during a rally urging total amnesty for Vietnam deserters. Her spirited defense, not only of the demonstrators but of their cause, attracted wide attention. So did her victory dismissal of all charges at the trial's end.

A few days later, at a milling cocktail party given by Edwina D’orsey and her husband Lewis, Margot was surrounded by admirers and critics. She had come to the party alone. So had Alex, who had heard of Margot, though only later did he discover she was a first cousin to Edwina. Sipping the D'Orseys' excellent Schramsberg, he had listened for a while, then joined forces with the critics. Soon after, others stood back, leaving debate to Alex and Margot, squared off like-verbal gladiators. At one point Margot had demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

"An ordinary American who believes that, in the military, discipline is necessary." "Even in an immoral war like Vietnam?"

"A soldier can't decide morality. He operates under orders. The alternative is chaos."

"Whoever you are, you sound like a Nazi. After World War II, we executed Germans who offered that defense."

"The situation was entirely different."

"No different at all. At the Nuremberg trials the Allies insisted Germans should have heeded conscience and refused orders. That's exactly what Vietnam draft defectors and deserters did." 'The American Army wasn't exterminating Jews." "No, just villagers. As in My Lai and elsewhere." "No war is clean."

"But Vietnam was dirtier than most. From the Commander-in-Chief down. Which is why so many young Americans, with a special courage, obeyed their consciences and refused to take part in it." "They won't get a unconditional amnesty."

"They should. In time, when decency wins out, they will."

They were still arguing fiercely when Edwina separated them and performed introductions. Later they resumed the argument, and continued it while Alex drove Margot home to her apartment. There, at one point, they came close to blows but instead found suddenly that physical desire eclipsed all else and they made love excitedly, heatedly, until exhausted, knowing already that something new and vital had entered both their lives.

As a footnote to that occasion, Alex later reversed his once-strong views, observing, as other disillusioned moderates did, the hollow mockery of Nixon's "peace with honor." And later still, while Watergate and related infamies unfolded, it became clear that those at the highest level of government who had decreed: "No amnesty" were guilty of more villainy by far than any Vietnam deserter.

There had been other occasions, since that first one, when Margot's arguments had changed or widened his ideas.

Now, in the apartment's single bedroom, she selected a nightgown from a drawer which Alex left for her exclusive use. When she had it on, Margot turned out the lights.

They lay silently, in comforting companionship in the darkened room. Then Margot said, "You saw Celia today, didn't you?" Surprised, he turned to her. "How did you know?"

"It always shows. It's hard on you." She asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" "Yes," he said, "I think so. "You still blame yourself, don't you?"

"Yes." He told her about his meeting with Celia, the conversation afterward with Dr. McCartney, and the psychiatrist's opinion about the probable effect on Celia of a divorce and his own remarriage.

Margot said emphatically, "Then you mustn't divorce her."

"If I don't," Alex said, "there can be nothing permanent for you and me."

"Of course there cam I told you long ago, it can be as permanent as we both want to make it. Marriage isn't permanent any more. Who really believes in marriage nowadays, except a few old bishops?" "I believe," Alex said. "Enough to want it for us."

'When let's have it on our terms. What I don't need, darling, is a piece of legal stationery saying I'm married, because I'm too used to legal papers for them to impress me overmuch. I've already said I'll live with you gladly and lovingly. But what I won't have on my conscience, or burden you with either, is shoving what’s left of Celia's sanity into a bottomless pit."

"I know, I know. Everything you say makes sense." His answer lacked conviction.

She assured him softly, "I'm happier with what we have than I've ever been before in all my life. It's you, not me, who wants more." Alex sighed and, soon after, was asleep.

When she was sure that he was sleeping soundly, Margot dressed, kissed Alex lightly, and let herself out of the apartment. While Alex Vandervoort slept part of that night alone, Roscoe Heyward would sleep in solitude the whole night through. Though not yet.

Heyward was at home, in his rambling, three-story house in the suburb of Shaker Heights. He was seated at a leather-topped desk, with papers spread out before him, in the small, sedately furnished room he used as a study.

His wife Beatrice had gone upstairs to bed almost two hours ago, locking her bedroom door as she had for the past twelve years since by mutual consent they moved into separate sleeping quarters.

Beatrice's locking of her door, though characteristically imperious, had never offended Heyward. Long before the separate arrangement, their sexual exercises had grown fewer and fewer, then tapered into nothingness.

Mostly, Heyward supposed, when occasionally he thought about it, their sexual shutdown had been Beatrice's choice. Even in the early years of marriage she made plain her mental distaste for their gropings and heavings, though her body at times demanded them. Sooner or later, she implied, her strong mind would conquer that rather disgusting need, and eventually it had.

Once or twice, in rare whimsical moments, it had occurred to Heyward that their only son, Elmer, mirrored Beatrice's attitude to the method of his conception and birth an offending, unwarranted invasion of her bodily privacy. Elmer, now nearing thirty, and a certified public accountant, radiated disapproval about almost everything, stalking through life as with a thumb and finger over his nose to protect him from the stench. Even Roscoe Heyward at times found Elmer a bit much

As to Heyward himself, he had accepted sexual deprivation uncomplainingly, partly because twelve years ago he was at a point where sex was something he could take or leave; partly because ambition at the bank had, by then, become his central driving force. So, like a machine which slips into disuse, his sexual urgings dwindled. Nowadays they revived only rarely even then, mildly to remind him with a certain sadness of a portion of his life on which the curtain fell too soon.

But in other ways, Heyward admitted, Beatrice had been good for him. She was descended from an impeccable Boston family and, in her youth, had "come out" properly as a debutante. It was at the debutante ball, with young Roscoe in tails and white gloves, and standing yardstick straight, that they were formally introduced. Later they had dates on which chaperones accompanied them and, following a suitable period of engagement, were married two years after meeting. The wedding, which Heyward still remembered with pride, was attended by a Who's Who of Boston society.

Then, as now, Beatrice shared Roscoe's notions about the importance of social position and respectability. She had followed through on both by long service to the Daughters of the American Revolution and was now National Recording Secretary General. Roscoe was proud of this and delighted with the prestigious social contacts which it brought. There had been only one thing Beatrice and her illustrious family lacked money. At this moment, as he had many times before, Roscoe Heyward wished fervently that his wife had been an heiress.

Roscoe's and Beatrice's biggest problem was, and always had been, managing to live on his bank salary.

This year, as the figures he had been working on tonight showed, the Heywards' expenses would substantially exceed their income. Next April he would have to borrow to pay the income tax he owed, as had been necessary last year and the year before. There would have been other years, too, except that during some he had been lucky with investments.

Many people with much smaller incomes would have scoffed at the idea that an executive vice-president's S65,000 a year salary was not ample to live on, and perhaps to save. In fact, for the Heywards, it was not.

To begin with, Income taxes cut the gross amount by more than a third After that, first and second mortgages on the house required payments of another $16,000 yearly, while municipal tax ate up a further $2,500. That left $23,000 or roughly $450 a week for all other expenses including repairs, insurance, food, clothes, a car for Beatrice (the bank supplied Roscoe with a chauffeur-driven pool car when he needed it), a housekeeper-cook, charitable donations, and an Incredible array of smaller items adding up to a depressingly large sum.

The house, Heyward always realized at times like this, was a serious extravagance. From the begining it had proved larger than they needed, even when Elmer lived at loose, which now he didn't. Vandervoort, whose salary was identical, was wiser by far to live in an apartment and pay rent, but Beatrice, who loved their house for its size and prestige, would never hear of that, nor would Roscoe favor it.

As a result they had to scrimp elsewhere, a process which Beatrice sometimes refused to acknowledge, taking the view she ought to have money; therefore to worry about it herself was lese majeste. Her attitude was reflected in countless ways around the house. She would never we a linen napkin twice; soiled or not, it must be laundered after every use The same applied to towels, so that linen and laundry bills were high She made long-distance phone calls casually and rarely deigned to turn off switches. Moments earlier, Heyward had gone to the kitchen for a glass of milk and, though Beatrice had been in bed for two hours, every downstairs light was on. He had irritatedly snapped them off.

Yet, for all Beatrice's attitude, fact was fact and there were things they simply could not afford. An example was holidays the Heywards had had none for the past two years. Last summer Roscoe told colleagues at the bank, "We considered a Mediterranean cruise, but decided after all we'd prefer to stay home."

Another uncomfortable reality was that they had virtually no savings only a few shares of FMA stock which might have to be sold soon, though the proceeds would not be enough to offset this year's deficit.

Tonight, the only conclusion Heyward had reached was that after borrowing they must hold the line on expenses as best they could, hoping for a financial upturn before too long.

And there would be one satisfyingly generous if he became president of FMA.

In First Mercantile American, as with most banks, a wide salary gap existed between the presidency and the next rank downward. As president, Ben Rosselli had been paid $130,000 annually. It was a virtual certainly his successor would receive the same.

If it happened to Roscoe Heyward, it would mean immediate doubling of his present salary. Even with higher taxes; what was left would eliminate every present problem.

Putting his papers away, he began to dream about it, a dream which extended through the night.

12

Friday morning

In their penthouse atop fashionable Cayman Manor, a residential high-rise a mile or so outside the city, Edwina and Lewis D'Orsey were at breakfast. It was three days since Ben Rosselli's dramatic announcement of his impending death, and two days since discovery of the heavy cash loss at First Mercantile American's main downtown branch. Of the two events, the cash loss at this moment weighed more heavily on Edwina.

Since Wednesday afternoon, nothing new had been discovered. Through all of yesterday, with low-key thoroughness, two FBI special agents had intensively questioned members of the branch staff, but without tangible result. The teller directly involved, Juanita Nunez, remained the prime suspect, but she would admit nothing, continued to insist that she was innocent, and refused to submit to a lie detector test.

Although her refusal increased the general suspicion of her guilt, as one of the FBI men put it to Edwina, "We can suspect her strongly, and we do, but there isn't a pinhead of proof. As to the money, even if it's hidden where she lives, we need some solid evidence before we can get a search warrant. And we don't have any. Naturally, well keep an eye on her, though it isn't the kind of case where the Bureau can maintain a full surveillance."

The FBI agents would be in the branch again today, yet there seemed little more that they could do.

But what the bank could do, and would, was end Juanita Ndnez's employment. Edwina knew she must dismiss the girl today. But it would be a frustrating, unsatisfactory ending.

Edwina returned her attention to breakfast lightly scrambled eggs and toasted English muffins which their maid had served a moment earlier.

Across the table, Lewis, hidden behind The Wall Street Journal, was growling as usual over the latest lunacy from Washington where an Under Secretary of the Treasury had declared before a Senate committee that the U.S. would never again return to a gold standard. The secretary used a Keynesian quotation in describing gold as "this barbarous yellow relic." Gold, he claimed, was finished as an international exchange medium.

"My God! That leprous ignoramus!" Glaring over his steel-rimmed half-moon glasses, Lewis D'Orsey flung his newspaper to the floor to join The New York Time,, Chicago Tribune, and a day-old Financial Times from London, all of which he had skimmed through already. He stormed on about the Treasury official, "Five centuries after dimwits like him have rotted into dust, gold will still be the world's only sound basis for money and value. With the morons we have in power, there's no hope for us, absolutely nonel"

Lewis seized a coffee cup, raised it to his lean, grim face and gulped, then wiped his lips with a linen napkin.

Edwina had been leafing through The Christian Science Monitor. She looked up. "What a pity you won't be around five centuries from now to say, 'I told you so.' "

Lewis was a small man with a body like a twig, making him seem frail and half starved, though in fact he was neither. His face matched his body and was lean, almost cadaverous. His movements were quick, his voice more often than not impatient. Occasionally Lewis would joke about his unimpressive physique. Tapping his forehead he asserted, "What nature omitted on the bodywork it made up behind here."

And it was true, even those who detested him conceded, he had a remarkably agile brain, particularly when applied to money and finance.

His morning tantrums seldom bothered Edwina. For one thing, over their fourteen years of marriage she had learned they were rarely directed at herself; and for another, she realized Lewis was girding himself for a morning session at his typewriter where he would roar like the righteously angry Jeremiah that readers of his twice-a month financial newsletter expected him to be.

The high-priced, private newsletter containing Lewis D'Orsey's investment advice to an exclusive list of international subscribers provided him with both a rich livelihood and a personal spear on which to impale governments, presidents, prime ministers, and assorted politicians when any of their fiscal acts displeased him. Most did.

Many financial men attuned to modern theories, including some at First Mercantile American Bank, abhorred Lewis D'Orsey's independent, acidly biting, ultraconservative newsletter. Not so, however, most of Lewis's subscribers who regarded him as a combination of Moses and Midas in a generation of financial fools.

And with good reason, Edwina admitted. If making money was your objective in life, Lewis was a sound man to follow. He had proved it many times, uncannily, with advice which paid off handsomely for those who followed it.

Gold was one example. Long before it happened, and while others scoffed, Lewis D'Orsey predicted a dramatic upsurge in the free market price. He also urged heavy buying of South African gold mining shares, at that time low-priced. Since then, several subscribers to The D'OrseyNewsletter had written to say they were millionaires, solely as a result of taking this advice.

With equal prescience he had foreseen the series of U.S. dollar devaluations and advised his readers to put all the cash they could raise into other currencies, notably Swiss francs and Deutsche marks, which-many did to their great profit.

In the most recent edition of The D'Orsey Newsletter he had written:

The U.S. dollar, a once-proud and honest currency, is moribund, like the nation it represents. Financially, America has passed the point of no return. Thanks to insane fiscal policies, misconceived by incompetent and corrupt politicians who care solely about themselves and reselection, we are living amid financial disaster which can only worsen.

Since our rulers are knaves and imbeciles and the docile public stands vacuously indifferent, it's time for the financial lifeboats" Every man (or woman) for himself"

If you have dollars, keep only enough for cab fare, food, and postage stamps. Plus sufficient for an airline ticket to some happier land.

For the wise investor is the investor who is departing these United States, living abroad and shedding U.S. nationality. Officially, Internal Revenue Code section 877 says that if U.S. citizens renounce their citizenship to avoid income taxes, and the IRS can prove it, their tax liability remains. But for those who know, there are legal ways to thwart the IRS. (See The D'Orsey Newsletter of July last year on how to become an ex-American citizen. Single copies available for $16 or Swiss fcs.40 each.

The reason for a change of allegiance and scene: lithe value of the U.S. dollar will continue to diminish, along with Americans' fiscal freedom.

And even if you can't leave personally, send your money overseas. Convert your U.S. dollars while you can (it may not be for long) into Deutsche marks, Swiss francs, Dutch Guilders, Austrian schillings, Krugerrands.

Then place them, out of reach of U.S. bureaucrats, in a European bank, preferably Swiss…

Lewis D'Orsey had trumpeted variations on that theme for several years. His latest newsletter continued with more of the same and concluded with specific advice on recommended investments. Naturally, all were in non-U.S. currencies.

Another subject arousing Lewis's rage had been the U.S. Treasury's gold auctions. "In a generation from now," he had written, "when Americans wake up and realize their national patrimony was sold at fire sale prices to titillate the schoolboy vanity of Washington theorists, those responsible will be branded traitors and cursed down history's years."

Lewis's observation had been quoted widely in Europe, but ignored in Washington and by the U.S. press.

Now, at the breakfast table, Edwina continued to read the Monitor. There was a report of a House of Representatives bill proposing tax law changes which would reduce depreciation allowances on real property. It could affect mortgage lending at the bank and she asked Lewis his opinion about the likelihood of the bill becoming law.

He answered crisply, "Nil. Even if it gets through the House, it will never pass the Senate. I phoned a couple of senators yesterday. They don't take it seriously."

Lewis had an extraordinary range of friends and contacts one of several reasons for his success. He kept abreast, too, of anything affecting taxes, advising his newsletter readers on situations they could exploit to their advantage.

Lewis himself paid only a token amount of income tax each year never more than a few hundred dollars, he boasted proudly, yet his real income was in seven figures. He achieved this by utilizing tax shelters of all kinds oil investments, real estate, timber exploitation, farming, limited partnerships, and tax-free bonds. Such devices enabled him to spend freely, live splendidly, yet on paper sustain a personal loss each year.

Yet all these tax devices were totally legal. "Only a fool conceals income, or cheats on taxes in some other way," Edwina had heard Lewis declare often. "Why take that risk when there are more legitimate escape hatches from taxes than holes in a Swiss cheese? All that's needed is the work to understand, and enterprise to use them."

So far, Lewis had not taken his own advice to live overseas and shed his U.S. citizenship. However, he detested New York where he had once lived and worked and now called it "a decaying, complacent, bankrupt bandit lair existing on solipsism and with bad breath." It was also an illusion, he maintained, "fostered by arrogant New Yorkers, that the best brains are to be found in that city. They aren't." He preferred the Midwest where he had moves, and met Edwina a decade and a half ago.

Despite her husband's example in avoiding taxes, Edwina went her own way on that subject, filing her individual return and paying far more than Lewis, even on her more modest income. But it was Lewis who took care of their bills for this penthouse and staff, their twin Mercedes cars, and other luxuries.

Edwina admitted honestly to herself that the high style of living, which she enjoyed, had been a factor in her decision to marry Lewis and her adaptation to their marriage. And the arrangement, as well as their independence and dual careers, worked well.

"I wish," she said, "your insight extended to knowing where all that cash of ours went on Wednesday."

Lewis looked up from his breakfast which he had attacked fiercely, as if the eggs were enemies. "The bank's cash is still missing? Once more the gallant, fumble-fisted FBI has discovered nothing?"

"I suppose you could put it that way." She told him of the impasse they had reached, and of her own decision that the teller would have to be let go today. "And after that, no one else will employ her, I suppose." "Certainly no other bank." "She has a child, I think you said." "Unfortunately, yes."

Lewis said gloomily, "Two more recruits for the already swollen welfare rolls." "Oh, really! Save all that Birchism for your readers."

Her husband's face cracked into one of his rare smiles. "Forgive me. But I'm not used to your needing advice. It's not often that you do."

It was a compliment, Edwina realized. One of the things she appreciated about their marriage was that Lewis treated her, and always had, as an intellectual equal. And although he had never said so directly, she knew he was proud of her senior management status at FMA unusual even nowadays for a woman in the male chauvinist world of banking.

"Naturally I can't tell you where the missing money is," Lewis said; he appeared to have been thinking "But I'll give you a piece of advice I've found useful sometimes in conundrum situations." "Yes, go on." it's this: Mistrust the obvious."

Edwina felt disappointed. Illogically, she supposed, she had expected some kind of miracle solution. Instead, Lewis had delivered a hoary old bromide.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost eight o'clock. "Thank you," she said. "I must go."

"Oh, by the way, I'm leaving for Europe tonight," he informed her. "I'll be back Wednesday."

"Have a good trip." Edwina kissed him as she left. The sudden announcement did not surprise her. Lewis had offices in Zurich and London, and his comings and goings were casual.

She went down in the private elevator which connected their penthouse with an indoor parking garage.

As she drove to the bank, and despite her dismissal of Lewis's advice, the words mistrust the obvious stayed annoyingly, persistently in her mind.

A discussion at midmorning with the two FBI agents was brief and inconclusive.

The meeting took place in the conference room at the rear of the bank where, over the preceding two days, the FBI men had interviewed members of the staff. Edwina was present. So was Nolan Wainwright.

The senior of the two agents, whose name was Innes and who spoke with a New England twang, told Edwina and the bank's security chief, "We've gone as far as we can with our investigation here. The case will stay open and we'll be in touch if new facts come to light. Of course, if anything more develops here you'll inform the Bureau at once." "Of course," Edwina said.

"Oh, there is an item of negative news." The FBI man consulted a notebook. "The Nunez girl's husband Carlos. One of your people thought they saw him in the bank the day the money was missing'"

Wainwright said, "Miles Eastin. He reported it to me. I passed the information on."

"Yes, we questioned Eastin about that; he admitted he could have been mistaken. Well, we've traced Carlos Nunez. He's in Phoenix, Arizona; has a job there as a motor mechanic. Our Bureau agents in Phoenix have interviewed him. They're satisfied he was at work on Wednesday, in fact every day this week, which rules him out as an accomplice."

Nolan Wainwright escorted the FBI agents out. Edwina returned to her desk on the platform. She had reported the cash loss as she was required to do to her immediate superior in Headquarters Administration and word, it seemed, had filtered upward to Alex Vandervoort. Late yesterday, Alex had telephoned, sympathetic, and asking if there was anything he could do to help. She had thanked him, but said no, realizing that she was responsible anal must do whatever had to be done herself. This morning, nothing had changed.

Shortly before noon Edwina instructed Tottenhoe to advise the payroll department that Juanita Nunez's employment would be terminated at the end of the day, and to have her severance paycheck sent down to the branch. The check, delivered by messenger, was on Edwina's desk when she returned from lunch.

Uneasy, hesitating, Edwina turned the check over in her hand.

At this moment Juanita Nunez was still working. Edwina's decision about that yesterday had brought grouchy objections from Tottenhoe who protested, "The sooner we're rid of her, the surer we'll be of no repetition." Even Miles Eastin, back at his regular operations assistant's desk, had raised his eyebrows, but Edwina overruled them both. - She wondered why on earth she was worrying so much, when obviously the time had come to end the incident and put it out of mind.

Obviously out of mind. The obvious solution. Again Lewis's phrase occurred to her mistrust the obvious. But how? In what way?

Edwina told herself: Think just once more. Go back to the beginning.

What were the obvious facets of the incident as they occurred? The first obvious thing was that money was missing. No room for dispute there. The second obvious thing was that the amount was six thousand dollars. That had been agreed by four people: Juanita Nunez herself, Tottenhoe, Miles Eastin, and, eventually, the vault teller. No argument. The third obvious feature concerned the Nunez girl's

after almost five hours of busy transactions at the counter, and before she had balanced out her cash. All others in the branch who knew about the loss, including Edwina, agreed that was obviously impossible; from the start, the knowledge had been a cornerstone of their joint belief that Juanita Nunez was a thief.

Knowledge… obvious knowledge. .. obviously impossible.

And yet was it impossible?… An idea occurred to Edwina

A wall clock showed 2:10 P.M. She noted that the operations officer was at his desk nearby, Edwina got up. "Mr. Tottenhoe, will you come with me, please?"

With Tottenhoe glumly trailing, she crossed the floor, briefly greeting several customers en route. The branch was crowded and busy, as usual in the closing hours of business before a weekend. Juanita Nunez was accepting a deposit.

Edwina said quietly, "Mrs. Nunez, when you've dealt with this customer, please put up your position closed sign and lock your cash box."

Juanita Nunez made no response, nor did she speak when she had completed the transaction, or while transferring a small metal plaque to the counter as instructed. When she turned to close the cash box, Edwina saw why. The girl was crying silently, tears coursing down her cheeks.

The reason was not hard to guess. She had expected to be fired today and Edwina's sudden appearance confirmed that belief.

Edwina ignored the tears. "Mr. Tottenhoe,' she said, "I believe Mrs. Nunez has been working on cash since we opened this morning. Is that correct?" He acknowledged, "Yes."

The time period was roughly the same as on Wednesday, Edwina thought, though the branch had been busier today.

She pointed to the cash box. "Mrs. Nunez, you've been insisting that you always know the amount of cash you have. Do you know how much is in there now?"

The young woman hesitated. Then she nodded, still unable to speak through tears.

Edwina took a slip of paper from the counter and held it out. "Write down The amount."

Again, visible hesitation. Then Juanita Nunez took a pencil and scribbled 123,765.

Edwina passed the slip to Tottenhoe. "Please go with Mrs. Nunez and stay with her while she balances out today's cash. Check the result. Compare it with this figure."

Tottenhoe looked at the paper skeptically. "I'm busy, and if I stayed with every teller…"

"Stay with this one," Edwina said. Recrossing the bank floor, she returned to her desk. Three quarters of an hour later Tottenhoe reappeared.

He looked nervous. Edwina saw his hand was shaking. He had the slip of paper and put it on her desk. The figure which Juanita Nunez had written had a single penciled tick beside it.

"If I hadn't seen it myself," the operations officer said, I might not have believed." For once his gloom was gone, surprise replacing it. "The figure was right?" "Exactly right."

Edwina sat tensely, marshaling her thoughts. Abruptly and dramatically, she knew, almost everything concerning the investigation had changed. Until this moment, all assumptions had been based upon the Nunez girl's inanity to do what she had now demonstrated conclusively that she could.

"I remembered something while I was walking over just now," Tottenhoe said. "I did know somebody once; it was in a little country branch upstate must be twenty years or more ago who had that knack of keeping track of cash. And I remember, then, hearing there are other people like that. It's as if they had a calculating machine right inside their heads."

Edwina snapped, "I wish your memory had been working better on Wednesday."

As Tottenhoe returned to his own desk, she drew a notepad toward her and scribbled summations of her thoughts.

Nunez not yet cleared, but more believable. Possibly innocent victim? If not Nunez, who?

Someone who knows procedures, could somehow watch for opportunity. Staff? Inside job? But how? "How" later. Find motive first, then person. Motive? Someone who needs money badly?

She repeated in capitals, NEEDS MONEY. And added: Examine personal checking/savings accounts, all branch personnel TONIGHT!

Eldwina began looking quickly through an FMA Headquarters phone book, looking for "Chief of Audit Service."

13

On Friday afternoons all branches of First Mercantile American Bank stayed open an extra three hours.

Thus, at the main downtown branch this Friday, the Outer street doors were closed and locked by a security guard at 6 P.M. A few customers, still in the bank at closing time, were let out by the same guard, one by one, through a single plate-glass door.

At 6:05 precisely, a series of sharp, peremptory taps sounded on the outside of the glass door. When the guard turned his head in response, he observed a young male figure dressed in a dark topcoat and business suit, carrying a briefcase. To attract attention inside, the figure had tapped with a fifty-cent piece wrapped in a handkerchief.

As the guard approached, the man with the briefcase held an identity document flat against the glass. The guard inspected it, unlocked the door, and the young man stepped inside. Then, before the guard could close the door; a proliferation occurred, as unexpected and remarkable as a magician's trick. Where there had been one individual with briefcase and proffered credentials, suddenly there were six, behind them six more, with still another phalanx at the rear. Swiftly, like an inundation, they streamed into the bank.

A man, older than most of the others and emanating authority, announced curtly, "Headquarters Audit Staff."

"Yessir," the security guard said; he was a veteran at the bank who had been through this before, and he continued checking the other credentials holders in. There were twenty, mostly men, four women. All went irnmediately to various locations in the bank.

The older man who had made the announcement headed for the platform and Edwina's desk. As she rose to greet him, she regarded the continuing influx into the bank with unconcealed surprise. "Mr. Burnside, is this a full-dress audit?"

"It certainly is, Mrs. D'Orsey." The audit department head removed his overcoat and hung it near the platform.

Elsewhere in the bank other staff members wore disconcerted expressions, while some groaned and voiced aggrieved comments. "Oh, geez! A Friday, of all times to pick" . "Dammit, I had a dinner date”. "Who says auditors are human?"

Most were aware of what the visit by a headquarters audit group entailed. Tellers knew there would be an extra counting of their cash before they left tonight, and vault reserve cash would be checked out too. Accountants would be required to stay until their records were listed and balanced. Senior management staff would be lucky to be away by midnight.

The newcomers had already, quickly and politely, taken over all ledgers. From this moment any additions or changes would be under scrutiny.

Edwina said, "When I asked for an examination of staff accounts I didn't expect this." Normally a branch bank audit took place every eighteen months to two years and tonight's was doubly unexpected since a full audit of the main downtown branch had occurred only eight months earlier.

"We decide the how, where, and when of audit, Mrs. D'Orsey." As always, Hal Burnside maintained a cool aloofness, the hallmark of a bank-examiner. Within any major bank an audit department was an independent, watchdog unit with authority and prerogatives like the Inspectorate General of an army. Its members were never intimidated by rank, and even senior managers were candidates for reproof about irregularities which a thoroughgoing inspection of a branch revealed and there were invariably some.

"I know about that," Edwina acknowledged. "I'm just surprised you could arrange all this so quickly."

The audit chief smiled a trifle smugly. "We have our methods and resources."

What he did not reveal was that a surprise audit of another FMA branch had been planned for this evening. Following Edwina's phone call three hours ago, the earlier plan was canceled, arrangements hastily revised, and additional staff called in for the present expedition.

Such cloak-and-dagger tactics were not unusual. An essential part of the audit function was to descend, irregularly and without warning, on any, of the bank's branches. Elaborate precautions were taken to preserve secrecy and any audit staff member who violated it was in serious trouble. Few did, even inadvertently.

For today's maneuver, the score of auditors involved had assembled an hour ago in a salon of a downtown hotel, though even that destination had not been revealed until the latest possible moment. There they were briefed, duties allocated, then inconspicuously, in twos and threes, they had walked toward the main downtown branch of FMA. Until the last few crucial minutes they loitered in lobbies of nearby buildings, strolled casually, or browsed store windows. Then, traditionally, the most junior member of the group had rapped on the bank door to demand admission. As soon as it was gained, the others, like an assembling regiment, fell in behind him.

Now, within the bank, audit team members were at every key position.

A convicted bank embezzler of the 1970s, who successfully concealed his massive defalcations for some twenty years, observed while eventually en route to prison, "The auditors used to come in and do nothing but shoot the breeze for forty minutes. Give me half of that time and I can cover up anything."

The audit department of First Mercantile American, and other large North American banks, took no such chance. Not even five minutes passed after the surprise of the auditors' arrival until they were all in pre-assigned positions, observing everything.

Resigned, regular staff members of the branch went on to complete their day's work, then to assist the auditors as needed.

Once started, the process would continue through the following week and part of the next. But the most critical portion of the examination would take place within the next few hours.

"Let's you and me get to work, Mrs. D'Orsey," Burnside said. "We'll start with the deposit accounts, both time and demand." He opened his briefcase on Edwina's desk.

By 8 P.M. the initial surprise attending the audit team's arrival had worn off, a notable amount of work had been accomplished, and ranks of the regular branch staff were thinning. All tellers had left; so had some of the accountants. Cash had been counted, inspection of other records was well advanced. The visitors had been courteous and, in some cases, helpful in pointing out mild errors, all of which was part of their job.

Among the senior management staff still remaining were Edwina, Tottenhoe, and Miles Eastin. The two men had been kept busy locating information and responding to queries. Now, however, Tottenhoe appeared tired. But young Eastin, who had responded helpfully and cheerfully to every demand so far, was as fresh and energetic as when the evening had begun. It was Miles Eastin who arranged for sandwiches and coffee to be sent in for auditors and staff.

Of the several audit task forces, a small group was concentrating on savings and checking accounts and, from time to time, one among their number would bring a written note to the Chief of Audit Service at Edwina's desk. In every case he glanced over the information, nodded, and added the note to other papers in his briefcase.

At ten minutes to nine he received what appeared to be a lengthier note with several other papers clipped to it. This Burnside studied carefully, then announced, "I think Mrs. D'Orsey and I will take a break. Well go out for our coffee and supper."

A few minutes later he escorted Edwina through the same street door by which the auditors had entered nearly three hours earlier.

Outside the building the audit chief apologized. "I'm sorry, but that was a small theatrical performance. I'm afraid our supper, if any, will have to wait." As Edwina looked puzzled he added, "You and I are on our way to a meeting, but I didn't want it known."

With Burnside leading, they turned right, walking half a block from the still brightly lighted bank, then used a pedestrian mall to double back to Rosselli Plaza and the FMA Headquarters Tower. The night was cold and Edwina pulled her coat tightly around her, reflecting that the tunnel route would have been both shorter and warmer. Why all the mystery?

Inside the bank headquarters building, Hal Burnside signed a night visitors book, after which a guard accompanied them in an elevator to the eleventh floor. A sign and arrow indicated SECURITY DEPARTMENT. Nolan Wainwright and the two FBI men who had dealt with the cash loss were waiting for them there.

Almost at once they were joined by another member of the audit team who clearly had followed Edwina and Burnside from the bank.

Introductions were accomplished quickly. The latest arrival was a youngish man named Gayne, with cool alert eyes behind heavy-rimmed glasses which made him look severe. It was Gayne who had delivered the several notes and documents to Burnside while the latter worked at Edwina's desk.

Now, at Nolan Wainwright's suggestion, they moved into a conference room and seated themselves around a circular table.

Hal Burnside told the FBI agents, "I hope what we've discovered will justify calling you gentlemen out at this time of night."

This meeting, Edwina realized, must have been planned several hours ago. She asked, "Then you have discovered something?"

"Unfortunately, a good deal more than anyone expected, Mrs. D'Orsey."

At a nod from Burnside, the audit assistant, Gayne, began to spread out papers.

"As the result of your suggestion," Burnside stated in a lecturer's tone, "an examination has been made of personal bank accounts savings and checking of all personnel employed at the main downtown branch. What we were seeking was some evidence of individual financial difficulty. Fairly conclusively, we found it."

He sounds like a pompous schoolmaster, Edwina thought. But she continued listening intently.

"I should perhaps explain," the audit chief told the two FBI men, "that most bank employees maintain their personal accounts at the branch where they work. One reason is that the accounts are 'free' that is, without service charges. Another reason the more important is that employees recently a special low interest rate on loans, usually one percent below prime rate."

Innes, the senior FBI agent, nodded. "Yes, we knew that."

"You'll also realize, then, that an employee who has taken advantage of his or her special bank credit has borrowed to the limit, in fact and then borrows other sums from an outside source such as a finance company, where interest rates are notoriously high, has placed himself or herself in a tenuous financial position." Innes, with a trace of impatience, said, "Of course."

"It appears we have a bank employee to whom exactly that has happened." He motioned to the assistant, Gayne, who turned over several canceled checks which until now had been face down.

"As you'll observe, these checks are made out to three separate finance companies. Incidentally, we've already been in touch by telephone with two of the companies, and notwithstanding the payments that you see, both accounts are seriously delinquent. It's a reasonable guess that, in the morning, the third company will tell us the same story."

Gayne interjected, "And these checks are for the current month only. Tomorrow we'll look at microfilm records for several months back."

"One other fact is relevant," the audit chief proceeded. 'The individual concerned could not possibly have made these payments" he gestured toward the canceled checks "on the basis of a bank salary, the amount of which we know. Therefore during the past several hours we have searched for evidence of theft from the bank, and this has now been found."

Once again the assistant, Gayne, began placing papers on the conference table.

… evidence of theft from the bank

… this has now been found. Edwina, scarcely listening any more, had her eyes riveted - on the signature on each of the canceled checks a signature she saw each day, familiar to her, bold and clear. The sight of it, here and now, appalled and saddened her. ..

The signature was Eastin's young Miles whom she liked so well, who was so efficient as assistant operations officer, so helpful and tireless, even tonight, and whom only this week she had decided to promote when Tottenhoe retired.

The Chief of Audit Service had now moved on. 'What our sneak thief has been doing is milking dormant accounts. Once we detected a single fraudulent pattern earlier this evening, others were not hard to find."

Still in his lecturer's manner, and for the benefit of the PBI men, he defined a dormant account. It was an account savings or checking, Burnside explained which had little or no activity. All banks had customers who for varied reasons left such accounts untouched over long periods, sometimes for many years, and with surprisingly large sums remaining in them. Modest interest did accumulate in savings accounts, of course, and some people undoubtedly had that in mind, though others incredible but true abandoned their accounts entirely.

When a checking account was observed to be inactive, with no deposits or withdrawals, banks ceased mailing monthly statements and substituted an annual one. Even those, at times, were returned marked: "Moved address unknown."

Standard precautions were taken to prevent fraudulent use of dormant accounts, the audit chief continued. The account records were segregated; then, if a transaction suddenly occurred it was scrutinized by an operations officer to make sure it was legitimate. Normally such precautions were effective. As assistant operations officer; Miles Eastin had authority to scrutinize and approve dormant account transactions. He had used the authority to cover up his own dishonesty the fact that he had been stealing from such accounts himself.

"Eastin has been rather clever, selecting those accounts least likely to cause trouble. We have here a series of forged withdrawal slips, though not forged very skillfully because there are obvious traces of his handwriting, after which the amounts have been transferred into what ape appears to be a dummy account of his own under an assumed name. There's an obvious similarity of handwriting there also, though naturally experts will be needed to give evidence."

One by one they examined the withdrawal slips, comparing the handwriting with the checks they had looked at earlier. Although an attempt had been made at disguise, a resemblance was unmistakable.

The second FBI agent, Dalrymple, had been writing careful notes. Looking up, he asked, "Is there a total figure on the money involved?"

Gayne answered, "So far we've pinpointed close to eight thousand dollars. Tomorrow, though, well have access to older records through microfilm and the computer, which may show more."

Burnside added, "When we confront Eastin with what we know already; it could be he'll decide to make things easier by admitting the rest. That's sometimes a pattern when we catch embezzlers."

He's enjoying this, Edwina thought; really enjoying it. She felt irrationally defensive about Miles llastin, then asked, "Have you any idea how long this has been going on?"

"From what's been uncovered so far," Gayne informed them, "it looks like at least a year, possibly longer."

Edwina turned to face Hal Burnside. "So you missed it completely at the last audit. Isn't an inspection of dormant accounts part of your job?"

It was like pricking a bubble. The audit chief flushed crimson as he admitted, "Yes, it is. But even we miss things occasionally when a thief has covered his tracks well."

"Obviously. Though you did say a moment ago the handwriting was a giveaway." Burnside said sourly, "Well, we've caught it now." She reminded him, "After I called you in."

The FBI agent Innes broke the ensuing silence. "None of this puts us any further ahead so far as Wednesday's missing cash goes."

"Except it makes Eastin the prime suspect," Burnside said. He seemed relieved to redirect the conversation. "And he may admit that, too."

"He won't," Nolan Wainwright growled. "That cat is too damn smart. Besides, why should he? We still don't know how he did it."

Until now the bank security head had said little, though he had shown surprise, then his face had hardened as the auditors produced their succession of documents and the evidence of guilt. Edwina wondered if Wainwright was remembering how both of them had put pressure on the teller, Juanita Nunez, disbelieving the girl's protested innocence. Even now, Edwina supposed, there was a possibility the Nunez girl had been in league with Eastin, but it seemed unlikely.

Hal Burnside stood up to go, refastening his briefcase. "Here's where Audit leaves off and the law takes over."

"We'll require these papers and a signed statement," Innes said. "Mr. Gayne will stay, and be at your disposal."

"One more question. Do you think that Eastin has any idea he's been found out?"

"I doubt it." Burnside glanced toward his assistant who shook his head.

"I'm certain he doesn't. We were careful not to show what we were looking for and, to cover up, we asked for many things we didn't need."

"I don't think so either," Edwina said. She remembered sadly how busy and cheerful Miles Eastin had been immediately before she had left the branch with Burnside. Why had he done it? Why, oh why?

Innes nodded his approval. 'When let's keep it that way. We'll pick Eastin up for questioning as soon as we've finished here, but he mustn't be warned. He's still at the bank?"

"Yes," Edwina said. "He'll stay at least until we get back, and normally he'd be among the last to leave."

Nolan Wainwright cut in, his voice unusually harsh, "Amend those instructions. Keep him there as late as possible. After that, let him go home thinking he hasn't been found out." The others glanced at the bank security chief, puzzled iand startled. In particular the eyes of the two FBI men searched Wainwright's face. A message seemed to pss between them.

Innes hesitated, then conceded, "All right. Do it that way."

A few minutes later, Edwina and Burnside took the elevator down.

Innes said politely to the remaining auditor, "Before we take your statement, I wonder if you'd leave us alone a moment." "Certainly." Gayne left the conference room.

The second FBI agent closed his notebook and put down his pencil.

Innes faced Nolan Wainwright. "You've something in mind?"

"I have." Wainwright hesitated, wrestling mentally with choices and his conscience. Experience told him that the evidence against Eastin had gaps which needed to be filled. Yet to fill them the law would have to be bent in a way running counter to his own beliefs. He asked the FBI man, "Are you sure you want to know?"

The two eyed each other. They had known each other for years and shared a mutual respect.

"Getting evidence nowadays is sensitive," Innes said. "We can't take some of the liberties we used to, and if we do it's liable to bounce back."

There was a silence, then the second FBI agent said, "Tell us as much as you think you should."

Wainwright interlaced his fingers and considered them. His body transmitted tension, as his voice had earlier. "Okay, we've enough to nail Eastin on a larceny rap. Let's say the amount stolen is eight thousand dollars, more or less. What do you think a judge will give him?"

"For a first offense he'll draw a suspended sentence," Innes said. "The court won't worry about the money value. They'll figure banks have lots and it's insured anyway."

"Check!" Wainwright's fingers tightened visibly. "But if we can prove he took that other cash the six thousand last Wednesday; if we can show he aimed to throw the blame on the girl, and damn near did.. ."

Innes grunted understanding. "If you could show that, any reasonable judge would send him straight to jail. But can you?"

"I intend to. Because I personally want that son of a bitch behind bars."

"I know what you mean," the FBI man said thoughtfully. "I'd like to see it happen too."

"In that case do it my way. Don't pick up Eastin tonight. Give me until morning." "I'm not sure," Innes mused. "I'm not sure I can."

The three of them waited, conscious of knowledge, duty, and a pull and tug within themselves. The other two guessed roughly what Wainwright had in mind. But when, and to what extent, did an end justify the means? Equally to the point: How much liberty nowadays could a law-enforcement officer take and get away with?

Yet the FBI men had become involved in the case and shared Wainwright's view about objectives.

"If we do wait till morning," the second agent cautioned, "we don't want Eastin to run. That could cause everybody trouble." "And I don't want a bruised potato either," Innes said. "He won't run. He won't be bruised. I guarantee it." Innes glanced toward his colleague who shrugged.

"Okay, then," Innes said. "Until morning. But understand one thing, Nolan this conversation never took place." He crossed ~ to the conference room door and opened it. "You can come in, Mr. Gayne. Mr. Wainwright's leaving and we'll take your statement now."

14

A list of branch bank officers, maintained in the security department for emergency, revealed Miles Eastin's home address and telephone number. Nolan Wainwright copied down both. ~

He recognized the address. A medium income residential area about two miles from downtown. It included the information "Apartment 2G."

Leaving FMA Headquarters Building, the security chief used a pay phone on Rosselli Plaza to dial the telephone number and heard the ringing continue unanswered. He already knew Miles Eastin was a bachelor. Wainwright was hoping he also lived alone.

If the phone had been answered, Wainwright would have made an excuse about a wrong number and revised his plans. As it was, he now headed for his car, parked in the headquarters basement garage.

Before leaving the garage he opened the trunk of the car and removed a slim chamois case, placing it in an inside pocket. He then drove across town.

He walked toward the apartment building casually but taking in details. A three-story structure, probably forty years old and showing signs of disrepair. He guessed it contained two dozen or so apartments. No doorman was visible. Inside a vestibule Nolan Wainwright could see an array of mail boxes and call buttons. Dual glass doors opened-from the street to the vestibule; beyond them was a more solid door, undoubtedly locked. The time was 10:30. Traffic on the street was light. No

other pedestrians were near the apartment house. He went in.

Next to the mail boxes were three rows of buzzers and a speaker-phone. Wainwright saw the name EASTIN and depressed the button beside it. As he expected, there was no response.

(guessing that 2G indicated the second floor, he chose a bell button at random with the prefix 3 and pressed it. A man's voice on the speaker-phone rasped, "Yeah, who is it?" The name beside the button was Appleby.

"Western Union," Wainwright said. "Telegram for Appleby." "Okay, bring it up."

Behind the heavy interior door a buzzer sounded and a lock clicked open. Wainwright opened the door and went in quickly.

Immediately ahead was an elevator which he ignored. He saw a stairway to the right and went up it, two stairs at a time, to the second floor. On his way Wainwright reflected on the astounding innocence of people generally. He hoped that Appleby, whoever he was, would not wait too long for his telegram. This night Mr. Appleby would suffer no harm beyond minor puzzlement, perhaps frustration, though he might have fared far worse. Yet apartment tenants everywhere, despite repeated warnings, continued to do exactly the same. Of course, Appleby might grow suspicious and alert the police, though Wainwright doubted it. In any case, a few minutes from now it would make no difference.

Apartment 2G was near the end of the second-floor corridor and the lock proved uncomplicated. Wainwright tried a succession of slim blades from the chamois case he had pocketed, and on the fourth attempt the lock cylinder turned. The door swung open and he went in, dosing the door behind him.

He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, then crossed to a window and drew drapes. He found a light switch and turned it on. The apartment was small, designed for use by one person; it was a single room divided into areas. A living-dining space contained a sofa, armchair, portable TV, and meal table. A bed was located behind a partition; the kitchenette had folding louvered doors. Two other doors which Wainwright checked revealed a bathroom and a storage closet. The place was orderly and clean. Several shelves of books and a few framed prints added a touch of personality.

Without wasting time, Wainwright began a systematic, thorough search.

He tried to suppress, as he worked, gnawing self-criticism for the illegal acts he was committing tonight. He did not wholly succeed. Nolan Wainwright was aware that everything he had done so far represented a reversal of his moral standards, a negation of his belief in law and order. Yet anger drove him. Anger and the knowledge of failure, four days ago, within himself.

He remembered with excruciating clarity, even now, the mute appeal in the eyes of the young Puerto Rican girl, Juanita Nunez, when he encountered her for the first time last Wednesday and began the interrogation. It was an appeal which said unmistakably: You and I. .. you are black, I am brown. Therefore you, of all people, should realize I am alone here, at a disadvantage, and desperately need help and fairness. But while recognizing the appeal, he had brushed it aside harshly, so that afterwards contempt replaced it, and he remembered that in the girl's eyes too.

This memory, coupled with chagrin at having been duped by Miles Eastin, made Wainwright determined to beat Eastin at his game, no matter if the law was bent in doing it.

Therefore, methodically, as his police training had taught him, Wainwright went on searching, determined that if evidence existed he would find it.

Half an hour later he knew that few places remained where anything could be hidden. He had examined cupboards, drawers and contents, had probed furniture, opened suitcases, inspected pictures on the walls, and removed the back of the TV. He also riffled through books, noting that an entire shelf was devoted to what someone had told him was Eastin's hobby the study of money through the ages. Along with the books, a portfolio contained sketches and photographs of ancient coins and banknotes. But of anything incriminating there was no trace. Finally he piled furniture in one corner and rolled up the living area rug. Then, with a flashlight, he went over every inch of floorboard.

Without the flashlight's aid he would have missed the carefully sawn board, but two lines, lighter colored than the wood elsewhere, betrayed where cuts had been made. He gently pried up the foot or so of board between the lines and in the space beneath were a small black ledger and cash in twenty-dollar bills.

Working quickly, he replaced the board, the rug, the furniture.

He counted the cash; it totaled six thousand dollars. Then he studied the small black ledger briefly, realized it was a betting record and he whistled softly at the size and number of amounts involved.

He put the book down it could be examined in detail later on an occasional table in front of the sofa, with the money beside it.

Finding the money surprised him. He had no doubt it was the six thousand dollars missing from the bank on Wednesday, but he would have expected Eastin to have exchanged it by now, or have deposited it elsewhere. Police work had taught him that criminals did foolish, unexpected things, and this was one.

What still had to be learned was how Eastin had taken the money and brought it here.

Wainwright glanced around the apartment, after which he turned out the lights. He reopened the drapes and, settling comfortably on the sofa, waited.

In the semidarkness, with the small apartment lighted by reflections from the street outside, his thoughts drifted. He thought again of Juanita Nunez and wished somehow he could make amends. Then he remembered the FBI report about her missing husband, Carlos, who had been traced to Phoenix, Arizona, and it occurred to Wainwright that this information might be used to help the girl .. ,

Of course, Miles Eastin's story about having seen Carlos Nunez in the bank the same day as the cash loss was a fabrication intended to throw even more suspicion on Juanita.

That despicable bastard! What kind of man was he, first to direct blame toward the girl, and later to add to it? The security chief felt his fists tighten, then warned himself not to allow his feelings to become too strong.

The warning was necessary, and he knew why. It was because of an incident long buried in his mind and which he seldom disinterred. Without really wanting to, he began remembering it.

Nolan Wainwright, now nearly fifty, had been spawned in the city's slums and, from birth, had found life's odds stacked against him. He grew up with survival as a daily challenge and with crime petty and otherwise a surrounding norm. In his teens he had run with a ghetto gang to whom brushes with the law were proof of manhood.

Like others, before and since, from the same slum background, he was driven by an urge to be somebody, to be noticed in whatever way, to release an inner rage against obscurity. He had no experience or philosophy to weigh alternatives, so participation in street crime appeared the only, the inevitable route. It seemed likely he would graduate, as many of his contemporaries did, to a police and prison record.

That he did not was due, in part, to chance; in part, to Bufflehead Kelly.

Bufflehead was a not-too-bright, lazy, amiable elderly neighborhood cop who had learned that a policeman's survival in the ghetto could be lengthened by adroitly being somewhere else when trouble erupted, and by taking action only when a problem loomed directly under his nose. Superiors complained that his arrest record was the worst in the precinct, but against this in Bufflehead's view his retirement and pension moved satisfyingly closer every year.

But the teenage Nolan Wainwright had loomed under Bufflehead's nose the night of an attempted gang-bust into a warehouse which the beat cop unwittingly disturbed, so everyone had run, escaping, except Wainwright who tripped and fell at Bufflehead's feet.

"Y' stupid, clumsy monkey," Bufflehead complained. "Now it's all kinds of paper and court work you'll be causin' me this night."

Kelly detested paperwork and court appearances which cut annoyingly into a policeman's off-duty time.

In the end he compromised. Instead of arresting and charging Wainwright he took him, the same night, to the police gym and, in Bufflehead's own words, "beat the b'jesus out of him" in a boxing ring.

Nolan Wainwright, bruised, sore, and with one eye badly swollen though still with no arrest record reacted with hatred. As soon as possible he would smash Bufflehead Kelly to a pulp, an objective which brought him back to the police gym and Bufflehead for lessons in how to do it. It was, Wainwright realized long afterward, the needed outlet for his rage. He learned quickly. When the time arrived to reduce the slightly stupid, lazy cop to a punished punching bag, he found the desire to do so had evaporated. Instead he had become fond of the old man, an emotion surprising to the youth himself.

A year went by during which Wainwright continued boxing, stayed in school and managed to keep out of trouble. Then one night Bufflehead, while on duty, accidentally interrupted a holdup of a grocery store. Undoubtedly the cop was more startled than the two small-time hoodlums involved and would certainly not have impeded, them since both were armed. As investigation afterward brought out, Bufflehead did not even try to draw his gun.

But one robber panicked and, before running, fired a sawed-off shotgun into Bufflehead's gut.

News of the shooting spread quickly and a crowd gathered. It included young Nolan Wainwright.

He would always remember as he did now the sight and sound of harmless, lazy Bufflehead, conscious, writhing, wailing, screaming in demented agony as blood and entrails gushed from his capacious, mortal wound

An ambulance was a long time coming. Moments before it arrived, Bufflehead, still screaming, died.

The incident left its mark forever on Nolan Wainwright, though it was not Bufflehead's death itself which affected him most. Nor did the arrest and later execution of the thief who fired the shot, and his companion, seem more than anticlimactic.

What shocked and influenced him above all else was the appalling, senseless waste. The original crime was mean, foolish, foredoomed to failure; yet, in failing, its devastation was outrageously immense. Within young Wainwright's mind that single thought, that reasoning, persisted. It proved a catharsis through which he came to see all crime as equally negative, equally destructive and, later still, as an evil to be fought. Perhaps, from the beginning, a streak of puritanism had been latent, deep inside him. If so, it surfaced.

He progressed from youth to manhood as an individual with uncompromising standards and, because of this, became something of a loner, among his friends and eventually when he became a cop. But he was an efficient cop who learned and rose fast, and was incorruptible, as Ben Rosselli and his aides once learned.

And later still, within First Mercantile American Bank, Wainwright's strong feelings stayed with him.

It was possible that the security chief dozed off, but a key inserted in the apartment lock alerted him. Cautiously he sat up. His illuminated watch dial showed it was shortly after midnight.

A shadowy figure came in; a shaft of outside light revealed it as Eastin. Then the door closed and Wainwright heard Eastin fumble for a switch. The light came on.

Eastin saw Wainwright at once and his surprise was total. His mouth dropped open, blood drained from his face. He tried to speak, but gulped, and no words came.

Wainwright stood up, glaring. His voice cut like a knife. "How much did you steal today?"

Before Eastin could answer or recover, Wainwright seized him by the coat lapels, turned him and pushed. He fell sprawling on the sofa. As surprise turned to indignation, the young man spluttered, "Who let you in? What the hell do you…" His eyes moved to the money and the small black ledger, and he stopped.

"That's right," Wainwright said harshly, "I came for the bank's money, or what little is left." He motioned to the bills stacked on the table. "We know what's there, is what you took on Wednesday. And in case you're wondering, we know about the milked accounts and all the rest."

Miles Eastin stared, his expression frozen, stupefied. A convulsive shudder went through him. In fresh shock his head came down, his hands went to his face.

"Cut that outl" Wainwright reached over, pulled Eastin's hands free and pushed his head up, though not roughly, remembering his promise to the FBI man. No bruised potato.

He added, "You've got some talking to do, so let's start."

"Hey, time out, huh?" Eastin pleaded. "Give me a minute to think."

"Forget it!" The last thing Wainwright wanted was to give Eastin time to reflect. He was a bright young maw who might reason, correctly, that his wisest course was silence. The security chief knew that at this: moment he had two advantages. One was having Miles Eastin off balance, the other being unrestricted by rules.

If the FBI agents were here they would have to inform Eastin of his legal rights the right not to answer questions, and to have a lawyer present. Wainwright, not a policeman any more, had no such obligation.

What the security chief wanted was hard evidence pinning the six-thousand-dollar cash theft on Miles Eastin. A signed confession would do it.

He sat down facing Eastin, his eyes impaling the younger man. "We can do this the long, hard way or we can move fast."

When there was no response, Wainwright picked up the small black ledger and opened it. "Let's start with this." He put his finger on the list of sums and dates; besides each entry were other figures in a code. "These are: bets. Right?"

Through a muddled dullness Eastin nodded. "Explain this one."

It was a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bet, Miles Eastin mumbled, on the outcome of a football game between Texas and Notre Dame. He explained the odds. The bet had been on Notre Dame, Texas had won. "And this?"

Another mumbled answer: Another football game. Another loss.

"Go on;" Wainwright persisted, keeping his finger on the page, maintaining pressure.

Responses came slowly. Some of the entries covered basketball games. A few bets were on the winning side, though losses outnumbered them. The minimum bet was one hundred dollars, the highest three hundred. "Did you bet alone or with a group?" "A group." "Who was in it?" "Four other guys. Working. Like me." "Working at the bank?" - Eastin shook his head. "other places." "Did they lose, too?" "Some. But their batting average was better than mine.. "What are the names of the other four?" No answer. Wainwright let it go. "You made no bets on horses. Why?"

"We got together. Everybody knows horse racing is crooked, races fixed. Football and basketball are on the level. We worked out a system. With honest games, we figured we could beat the odds."

The total of losses showed how wrong that figuring had been. "Did you bet with one bookie, or more' "One." "His name?" Eastin stayed mute.

"The rest of the money you've been stealing from the bank where is it?"

The young man's mouth turned down. He answered miserably, "Gone." "And more besides?" An affirmative, dismal nod.

"We'll get to that later. Right now let's talk about this money." Wainwright touched the six thousand dollars which lay between them. "We know you took it on Wednesday. How?"

Eastin hesitated, then shrugged. "I guess you may as well know."

Wainwright said sharply, "You're guessing right but wasting time."

"Last Wednesday," Eastin said, "we had people away with flu. That day I filled in as a teller." "I know that. Get to what happened."

"Before the bank opened for business I went to the vault to get a cash truck one of the spares. Juanita Nunez was there. She unlocked her regular cash truck. I was right alongside. Without Juanita knowing, I watched to see her combination." "And?" "I memorized it. As soon as I could, I wrote it down..

With Wainwright prompting, the damning facts multiplied.

The main downtown branch vault was large. During daytime a vault teller worked in a cage-like enclosure just inside, near the heavy, timelock controlled door. The vault teller was invariably busy, counting currency, handing out packages of bills or receiving them, checking tellers and cash trucks in or out. While no one could pass the vault teller without being seen, once they were inside he took little notice of them.

That morning, while outwardly cheerful, Miles Eastin was desperate for cash. There had been betting losses the week before and he was being pressed for payment of accumulated debts.

Wainwright interrupted, "You already had an employee bank loan. You owed finance companies. Also the bookie. Right?" "Right." "Did you owe anyone else?" Eastin nodded affirmatively. .

"A loan shark?" The younger man hesitated, then admitted, "Yes." "Was the loan shark threatening you?"

Miles Eastin moistened his lips. "Yes; so was the bookie. They both are, still." His eyes went to the six thousand dollars.

The jigsaw was fitting together. Wainwright motioned to the money. "You promised to pay the shark and the bookie that?" "Yes." "How much to each?" "Three thousand." "When?"

"Tomorrow." Eastin looked nervously at a wall clock and-corrected himself. "Today."

Wainwright prompted, "Go back to Wednesday. So you knew the combination of the Nunez girl's cash box. How did you use it?"

As Miles Eastin revealed the details now, it was all incredibly simple. After working through the morning, he took his lunch break at the same time as Juanita Nunez. Before going to lunch they wheeled their cash trucks into the vault. The two cash units were left side by side, both locked.

Eastin returned from lunch early and went into the vault. The vault teller checked Eastin in, then went on working. No one else was in the vault.

Miles Eastin went directly to Juanita Nunez's cash truck and opened it, using the combination he had written down. It took seconds only to remove three packages of bills totaling six thousand dollars, then close and retook the box. He slipped the currency packages into inside pockets; the bulges scarcely showed. He then checked out his own cash truck from the vault and returned to work.

There was a silence, then Wainwright said, "So while questioning was going on Wednesday afternoon some of it by you, and while you and I were talking later that same day an that time you had the money on you?"

"Yes," Miles Eastin said. As he remembered how easy it had been, a faint smile creased his face.

Wainwright saw the smile. Without hesitating, and in a single movement, he leaned forward and hit Eastin hard on both sides of the face. He used his open palm for the first blow, the back of his hand for the second. The double blow was so forceful that Wainwright's hand stung. Miles Eastin's face showed two bright weals. He shrunk backward on the sofa and blinked as tears formed in his eyes.

The security chief said grimly, "That's to let you know I see nothing funny in what you did to the bank or to Mrs. Nunez. Nothing at all." Something else he had just learned was that Miles Eastin was afraid of physical violence. He observed that it was 1 A.M.

"The next order of business," Nolan Wainwright announced, "is a written statement. In your own handwriting and with everything in it that you've told me." "Nol I won't do thatl" Eastin was wary now.

Wainwright shrugged. "In that case there's no point in my staying longer." He reached for the six thousand dollars and began stowing it in his pockets. "You can't do thatl"

"Can't I? Try stopping me. I'm taking it back to the bank the night depository."

"Listen! you can't prove…" The younger man hesitated. He was thinking now, remembering too late that the serial numbers of the bins had never been recorded.

"Maybe I can prove it's the same money that was taken Wednesday; maybe not. If not, you can always try suing the bank to get it back." Eastin pleaded, "I need it nowl Todayl"

"Oh, sure, some for the bookie and some for the loan shark. Or the strong-arm guys they'll send. Well, you can try explaining how you lost it, though I doubt if they'll listen." The security chief eyed Eastin for the first time with sardonic amusement. "You really are in' trouble. Maybe they'll both come together, then they'll break one of your arms and one leg each. They're apt to do that sort of thing. Or didn't you know"

Fear, real fear, showed in Eastin's eyes. "Yes, I do know. You've got to help met Please!"

From the apartment doorway Wainwright said coldly, "I’ll consider it. After you've written that statement."

The bank security chief dictated while Eastin wrote the words down obediently.

1, Miles Broderick Eastin, make this statement voluntarily. I have been offered no inducement to make it. No violence or threat of violence has been used…

I confess to stealing from First Mercantile American Bank the sum of six thousand dollars in cash at approximately 1:30 P.M. on Wednesday, October…

I obtained and concealed this money by the following means…

A quarter of an hour ago, after Wainwright's threat to walk out, Miles Eastin had collapsed entirely, co-operative and cowed.

Now, while Eastin continued writing his confession Wainwright telephoned Innes, the FBI man, at his home.

15

During the first week of November, Ben RossellPs physical condition worsened. Since the bank president's disclosure of his terminal illness four weeks earlier, his strength had ebbed, his body wasted as proliferating and invading cancerous cells tightened their stranglehold on his remaining life.

Those who visited old Ben at home including Roscoe Heyward, Alex Vandervoort, Edwina D'Orsey, Nolan Wainwright, and various directors of the bank were shocked at the extent and speed of his deterioration. It was obvious he had very little time to live.

Then, in mid-November, while a savage storm with gale force winds beset the city, Ben Rosselli was moved by ambulance to the private pavilion of Mount Adams Hospital, a short journey which was to be his last abode. By then he was under almost continuous sedation, so that his moments of awareness and coherence became fewer day by day.

The last vestiges of any control of First Mercantile American Bank had now slipped from him, and a group of the bank's senior directors, meeting privately, agreed the full board must be summoned, a successor to the presidency named. The decisive board meeting was set for December 4th.

Directors began arriving shortly before 1O A.M. They greeted one another cordially, each with an easy confidence the patina of a successful businessman in the company of his peers.

The cordiality was slightly more restrained than usual in deference to the dying Ben Rosselli, still clutching feebly to life a mile or so away. Yet the directors now assembling were admirals and field marshals of commerce, as Ben had been himself, who knew that whatever else on traded, business, which kept civilization lubricated, must go on. Their mood appeared to say: The reason behind decisions we must make today is regrettable, but our solemn duty to the system shall be done.

Thus they moved resolutely into the walnut paneled boardroom, hung with paintings and photographs of selected predecessors, once important themselves, now long departed.

A board of directors of any major corporation resembles an exclusive club. Apart from three or four top management executives who are employed full time, the board comprises a score or so of outstanding businessmen often board chairmen or presidents themselves from other diverse fields.

Usually such outside directors are invited to join the board for one or more of several reasons their own

achievements elsewhere, the prestige of the institution they represent, or a strong connection usually financial with the company on whose board they sit.

Among businessmen it is considered a high honor to be a company director, and the more prestigious the company the greater the glory. This is why some individuals collect directorships the way some Indians once collected scalps Another reason is that directors are treated with ego satisfying reverence and also generously major companies pay each director between one and two thousand dollars for every meeting attended, normally ten a year.

Particularly high in prestige is a directorship of any major bank. For a businessman to be invited to serve on a top-flight bank board is roughly equivalent to being knighted by the British Queen; therefore the accolade is widely sought. First Mercantile American, as befitting a bank among the nation's top twenty, possessed a board of directors appropriately impressive. Or so they thought.

Alex Vandervoort, surveying the other directors as they took seats around the long, elliptical boardroom table, decided there was a high percentage of deadwood. There were also conflicts of interest since some directors, or their companies, were major borrowers of bank money. Among his long-term objective if he became president would be to make the FMA board more representative and less like a cozy club. But would he be president? Or would Heyward?

Both of them were candidates today. Both, in a short time, like any seeker after office, would expound their views. Jerome Patterton, vice-chairman of the board, who would preside at today's meeting, had approached Alex two days earlier. "You know as well as the rest of us, our decision's between you and Roscoe. You're both good men; making a choice isn't easy. So help us. Tell us your feelings about FMA, in any way you like; the what and how, I leave to you."

Roscoe Heyward, Alex was aware, had been similarly briefed.

Heyward, typically, had armed himself with a prepared text. Seated directly across from Alex, he was studying it now, his aquiline face set seriously, the gray eyes behind rimless glasses unwaveringly focused on the typewritten words. Among Heyward's abilities was intense concentration of his scalpel-sharp mind, especially on figures. A colleague once observed, "Roscoe can read a profit and loss statement the way a symphony conductor reads a score sensing nuances, awkward notes, incomplete passages, crescendos, and potentialities which others miss." Without doubt, figures would be included in whatever Heyward had to say today.

Alex was unsure whether he would use numbers in his own remarks or not. If they were used, they would have to be from memory since he had brought no materials. He had deliberated far into last night and decided eventually to wait until the moment came, then speak instinctively, as seemed appropriate, letting thoughts and words fall into place themselves.

He reminded himself that in this same room, so short a time ago, Ben had announced, "I'm dying. My doctors tell me I don't have long." The words had been, still were, an affirmation that all in life was finite. They mocked ambition his own, Roscoe Heyward's, others.

Yet whether ambition was futile in the end or not, he wanted very much the presidency of this bank. He longed for an opportunity just as Ben in his time had to determine directions, decide philosophy, allot priorities and, through the sum of all decisions, leave behind a worthwhile contribution. And whether, viewed across a larger span of years, whatever was accomplished mattered much or little, the zest itself would be rewarding the doing, leading, striving, and competing, here and now.

Across the boardroom table to the right, the Honorable Harold Austin slipped into his accustomed seat. He wore a windowpane check Cerruti suit, with a classic button-down shirt and hounds-tooth pattern tie, and looked like a pacesetting model from the pages of Playboy. He held a fat cigar, ready to be lighted. Alex saw Austin and nodded. The nod was returned, but with noticeable coolness.

A week ago the Honorable Harold had dropped by to protest Alex's veto of Keycharge credit-card advertising prepared by the Austin agency. "Keycharge marketing expansion was approved by the board of directors," the Honorable Harold had objected. 'What's more, the department heads at Keycharge had already okayed that particular ad campaign before it got to you. I'm of two minds whether to bring your high-handed action to the attention of the board or not."

Alex was blunt, '`To begin with, I know exactly what the directors decided about Keycharge because I was there. What they did not agree to was that marketing expansion would include advertising which is sleasy, misleading, half-truthful and discreditable to the bank. Your creative people can do better than that, Harold. In fact, they already have I've seen and approved the revised versions. As for being high-handed, I made an Executive management decision well within my authority, and any time necessary I'll do the same again. So if you choose to bring the subject before the board, you can. If you want my opinion, they won't thank you for it they're more likely to thank me."

Harold Austin had glowered, but apparently decided to drop the subject, perhaps wisely because Austin Advertising was going to do just as well financially with the revised Keycharge campaign. But Alex knew he had created an antagonist. He doubted, though, if it would make any difference today since the Honorable Harold obviously preferred Roscoe Heyward and was lately to support him anyway.

One of his own strong supporters, Alex knew, was Leonard L. Kingswood, outspoken, energetic chairman of Northam Steel, now seated near the head of the table, conversing intently with his neighbor. It was Len Kingswood who had telephoned Alex several weeks ago to advise him that Roscoe Heyward was actively canvassing directors for support as president. "I'm not saying you should do the same, Alex. That's for you to decide. But I'm warning you that what Roscoe's doing can be effective. He doesn't fool me. He's not a leader and I've told him so. But he has a persuasive way which is a hook that some may swallow."

Alex had thanked Len Kingswood for the information but made no attempt to copy Heyward's tactics. Solicitation might help in some cases but could antagonize others who objected to personal pressure in such matters. Besides, Alex had an aversion to campaigning actively for Ben's job while the old man remained alive.

But Alex accepted the necessity for today's meeting and decisions to be made here.

A hum of conversation in the boardroom quietened. Two late arrivals who had just come in were settling down. Jerome Patterton, at the table's head, tapped lightly with a gavel and announced, "Gentlemen, the board will come to order."

Patterton, projected into prominence today, was normally self-effacing and, in the management echelon of the bank, something of a timeserver. Now in his sixties and near retirement, he had been acquired as part of a merger with another, smaller bank several years ago; since then his responsibilities had quietly, and by mutual agreement, diminished. Currently he concerned himself almost equally with trust department matters and playing golf with clients. The golf took priority, to the extent that on any working day Jerome Patterton was seldom in his office after 2:30 P.M. His title of vice-chairman of the board was largely honorary.

In appearance he resembled a gentleman farmer. Mostly bald, except for a white, halo-fringe of hair, he had a pointed pink head uncannily like the narrow end of an egg. Paradoxically, his eyebrows were matted and fiercely sprouting; the eyes beneath were gray, bulbous, and becoming rheumy. Adding to the farmer image, he dressed tweedily. Alex Vandervoort's assessment of Patterton was that the vice-chairman had an excellent brain which in recent years he had used minimally, like an idling motor.

Predictably, Jerome Patterton began by paying tribute to Ben Rosselli, after which he read aloud the latest hospital bulletin which reported "diminishing strength and eroding consciousness." Among the directors, lips were pursed, heads shaken. "But the life of our community goes on." The vice-chairman enumerated reasons for the present meeting, principally the need to name, speedily, a new chief executive for First Mercantile American Bank.

"Most of you gentlemen are aware of procedures which have been agreed on." He then announced what everyone knew that Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort would address the board, after which both would leave the meeting while their candidacies were discussed.

"As to the order of speaking, we'll employ that ancient chance which all of us were born under alphabetical precedence." Jerome Patterton's eyes twinkled toward Alex. "I've paid a penalty sometimes for being a 'P.' I hope that 'V' of yours hasn't been too burdensome."

"Not often, Mr. Chairman," Alex said. "On some ocasions it gives me the last word."

A ripple of laughter, the first today, ran around the table. Roscoe Heyward shared in it, though his smile seemed forced.

"Roscoe," Jerome Patterton instructed, "at your convenience, please begin."

'Thank you, Mr. Chairman." Heyward rose to his feet, moved his chair well back and calmly surveyed the nineteen other men around the table. He took a sip of water from a glass in front of him, cleared his throat, and began speaking in a precise and even voice.

"Members of the board, since this is a closed and private meeting, not to be reported in the press or even to other shareholders, I shall be forthright today in emphasizing what I conceive to be my first responsibility, and this board's the profitability of First Mercantile American Bank." He repeated with emphasis, "Profitability, gentlemen our priority number one."

Heyward glanced briefly at his text. "Allow me to elaborate on that.

"In my view, too many decisions in banking, and in business generally, are being excessively influenced nowadays lay social issues and other controversies of our times.

As a banker I believe this to be wrong. Let me emphasize that I do not in any way diminish the importance of an individual's social conscience; my own, I hope, is well developed. I accept, too, that each of us must re-examine his personal values From time to time, making adjustments in the light of new ideas and offering such private contributions as he can. But corporate policies are something else. They should not be subject to every changing social wind or whim. If they were, if that kind of thinking is allowed to rule our business actions, it would be dangerous for American free enterprise and disastrous for this bank by lessening our strength, retarding growth, and reducing profits. In short, like other institutions, we should once again stay aloof from the socio-political scene which is none of our concern other than how that scene affects our clients' financial affairs."

The speaker intruded a thin smile into his seriousness. "I concede that if these words were spoken publicly they would be undiplomatic and unpopular. I will go further and say that I would never utter them in any public place. But between us here, where real decisions and policy are made, I conceive them to be wholly realistic."

Several of the directors gave approving nods. One enthusiastically thumped his fist upon the tabletop. Others, including the steel-man Leonard Kingswood, remained expressionless.

Alex Vandervoort reflected: So Roscoe Heyward had decided on a direct confrontation, a total clash of views. As Heyward was undoubtedly aware, everything he had just said ran contrary to Alex's own convictions, as well as Ben Rosselli's, as demonstrated by Ben's increasing liberalization of the bank in recent years. It was Ben who had involved FMA in civic affairs, both city and statewide, including projects like Forum East. But Alex had no delusions. A substantial segment of the board had been uneasy, at times unhappy, about Ben's policies and would welcome Heyward's hard, all-business line. The question was: How strong was the hard line segment? With one statement made by Roscoe Heyward, Alex was in full agreement. Heyward had said: This is a closed and private meeting… where real decisions and policy are made. The operative word was "real..

While shareholders and public might later he fed a soporific, sugar-coated version of bank policy through elaborately printed annual reports and other means, here, behind closed boardroom doors, was where true objectives were decided in uncompromising terms. It was a reason why discretion and a certain silence were requirements of any company director.

"There is a close-to-home parallel," Heyward was explaining, "between what I have spoken of and what has happened in the church which I attend, through which l make some social contributions of my own.

"In the 1960s our church diverted money, time, and effort to social causes, notably those of black advancement. Partly this was because of outside pressures; also certain members of our congregation saw it as 'the thing to do.' In sundry ways our church became a social agency. More recently, however, some of us have regained control, and decided such activism is inappropriate, and we should return to the basics of religious worship. Therefore we have increased religious ceremonies our church's primary function as we see it and are leaving active social involvement to government and other agencies where, in our opinion, it belongs."

Alex wondered if other directors found it hard, as he did, to think of social causes as "inappropriate" to a church.

"I spoke of profit as our principal objective," Roscoe Heyward was continuing. "There are some, I am aware, who will object to that. They will argue that the predominant pursuit of profit is a crass endeavor, shortsighted, selfish, ugly, and without redeeming social value." The speaker smiled tolerantly. "You gentlemen are familiar with arguments along those lines.

"Well, as a banker I profoundly disagree. The search for profit is not shortsighted. And, where this bank or any other is concerned, the social value of profitability is high "Let me enlarge on that.

"All banks measure profit in terms of earnings per share. Such earnings which are a matter of public record are widely studied by shareholders, depositors, investors, and the business community nationally and internationally. A rise or fall in bank earnings is taken as a sign of strength or weakness.

"While earnings are strong, confidence in banking continues high. But let a few big banks show decreased earnings per share and what would happen? General disquiet, increasing swiftly to alarm a situation in which depositors would withdraw funds and shareholders their investments, so that bank stocks tumbled with the banks themselves imperiled. In short, a public crisis of the gravest kind."

Roscoe Heyward removed his glasses and polished them with a white linen handkerchief.

"Let no one say: this cannot happen. It happened before in the depression which began in 1929, though today, with banks larger by far, the effect would be cataclysmic by comparison.

'This is why a bank like ours must remain vigilant in its duty to make money for itself and its shareholders."

Again there were murmurings of approval around the boardroom. Heyward turned another page of his text.

"How, as a bank, do we achieve maximum profit? I will tell you first how we do not achieve it.

"We do not achieve it by becoming involved with projects which, while admirable in intent, are either financially unsound or tie up bank funds at low rates of yield for many years. I refer, of course, to funding of low-income housing. We should not, in any case, place more than a minimal portion of bank funds in housing mortgages of any kind, which are notorious for their low return of profit.

"Another way not to achieve profitability is by making concessions and lowering lending standards as, for example, with so-called minority business loans. This is an area nowadays where banks are subjected to enormous pressures and we should resist them, not with racial motives but with business shrewdness. By all means let us make minority loans when possible, but let terms and standards be as strict as those for any other borrower.

"Nor, as a bank should we concern ourselves unduly with vague matters of environment. It is not our business to pass judgment on the way our customers conduct their business vis-a-vis ecology; all we ask is that they be in good financial health.

"In short, we do not achieve profitability by becoming our brother's keeper or his judge or jailer.

"Oh, at times we may support these public objectives with our voice low-cost housing, civic rehabilitation, improvement of environment, energy, conservation, and other issues which arise. After all, this bank has influence and prestige which we can lend without financial loss. We can even allocate token amounts of money, and we have a public relations department to make our contributions known even," he chuckled, "to exaggerate them on occasions. But for real profitability we should direct our major thrust elsewhere."

Alex Vandervoort thought: Whatever criticism might be leveled at Heyward, no one could complain later that he had failed to make his viewpoints dear. In a way his statement was an honest declaration. Yet it was also shrewdly, even cynically, calculated.

Many leaders in business and finance including a good proportion of the directors in the room chafed at restrictions on their freedom to make money. They resented, too, the need to be circumspect in public utterances lest they draw fire from consumer groups or other business critics. Thus it was a relief to hear their inner convictions spoken aloud and unequivocally.

Clearly, Roscoe Heyward had considered this. He had also, Alex was certain, counted heads around the boardroom table, calculating who would vote which way, before committing himself. But Alex had made his own calculations. He still believed a middle group of directors existed, sufficiently strong to swing this meeting from Heyward toward himself. But they would have to be persuaded.

"Specifically," Heyward declared, "this bank should depend, as it has traditionally, on its business with American industry. By that I mean the type of industry with a proven record of high profits which will, in turn, enhance our own.

"Expressed another way, I am convinced that First Mercantile American Bank has, at present, an insufficient proportion of its funds available for large loans to industry, and we should embark immediately on a program of increasing such lending

It was a familiar script which Roscoe Heyward, Alex Vandervoort, and Ben Rosselli had debated often in the past. The arguments which Heyward now advanced were not new, though he presented them convincingly, using figures and charts. Alex sensed the directors were impressed.

Heyward talked for another thirty minutes on his theme of expanded industrial lending against a contraction in community commitments. He ended with as he put it "an appeal to reason."

"What is needed most today in banking is pragmatic leadership. The kind of leadership which will not be swayed by emotion or pressured into 'soft' uses of money because of public clamor. As bankers, we must insist on saying 'no' when our fiscal view is negative, 'yes' when we foresee a profit. We must never buy easy popularity at stockholders' expense. Instead we should lend our own and our depositors' money solely on the basis of the best return and if, as a result of such policies, we are described as 'hard-nosed bankers,' So be it. I am one who will be glad to be counted among that number." Heyward sat down amid applause.

"Mr. Chairmanl" The steel-man, Leonard Kingswood, leaned forward with a hand raised. "I've several questions and some disagreement."

From lower down the table the Honorable Harold Austin riposted, "For the record, Mr. Chairman, I have no questions and total agreement with everything presented so far."

Laughter erupted and a fresh voice that of Philip Johannsen, president of MidContinent Rubber added, "I'm with you, Harold. I agree it's time we took a harder line." Someone else injected, "Me, too."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Jerome Patterton rapped lightly with his gavel. "Only part of our business is concluded. I'll allow time for questions later; as for disagreement, I suggest we save that until our discussion when Roscoe and Alex have withdrawn. First, though, let's hear Alex."

"Most of you know me well, as a man and as a banker," Alex began. He stood at the boardroom table casually, shoulders slightly hunched as usual, leaning forward momentarily to catch sight of those directors on his right and left as well as others facing him. He let his tone stay conversational.

"You also know, or should, that as a banker I am tough hard-nosed, if anyone prefers that word. Proof -of this exists in financing I've conducted for FMA, all of it profitable, none involving loss. Obviously in banking like any other business, when you deal from profitability you deal from strength. That applies to people in banking, too.

"I'm glad, though, that Roscoe brought up this subject because it gives me an opportunity to declare my own belief in profitability. Ditto for freedom, democracy, love, and motherhood."

Someone chuckled. Alex responded with an easy smile. He pushed the chair behind him farther back to give himself a few paces of free movement.

"Something else about our profitability here at FMA is that it should be drastically improved. More about that later. "For the moment I'd like to stay with beliefs.

"A belief of my own is that civilization in this decade is changing more meaningfully and quickly than at any other time since the Industrial Revolution. What we are seeing and sharing is a social revolution of conscience and behavior. "A few don't like this revolution; personally I do. But like it or not, it's here; it exists; it will not reverse itself or go away.

"For the driving force behind what's happening is the determination of a majority of people to improve the quality of life, to stop spoliation of our environment and to preserve what's left of resources of all kinds. Because of this, new standards are being demanded of industry and business so that the name of the game is 'corporate social responsibility.' What's more, higher standards of responsibility are being achieved and without significant loss of profits."

Alex moved restlessly in the limited space behind the boardroom table. He wondered if he should meet another of Heyward's challenges head on, then decided, yes.

"In the matter of responsibility and involvement, Roscoe introduced the subject of his church. He told us that those who have as he puts it 'regained control' are opting out and favoring a policy of non-involvement. Well, in my opinion, Roscoe and his churchmen are marching resolutely backwards. Their attitude is neither good for Christianity nor banking."

Heyward shot up straight. He protested, 'That's unpleasantly personal and a misinterpretation." Alex said calmly, "I don't believe it's either."

Harold Austin rapped sharply with his knuckles. "Mr. Chairman, I object to Alex's descent to personalities."

"Roscoe dragged in his church," Alex argued. "I'm Simply commenting."

"Maybe you'd better not." The voice of Philip Johannsen cut sharply, unpleasantly, across the table. "Otherwise we might judge the two of you by the company you keep, which would put Roscoe and his church way out ahead." Alex flushed. "May I ask exactly what that means?"

Johannsen shrugged. "The way I hear it, your closest lady friend, in your wife's absence, is a left-wing activist. Maybe that's why you like involvement."

Jerome Patterton pounded with his gavel, this time forcefully. "That's sufficient, gentlemen. The Chair instructs there will be no more references of this kind, either way."

Johannsen was smiling. Despite the ruling, he had made his point.

Alex Vandervoort, seething, considered a firm statement that his private life was his own affair, then he rejected the idea. Some other time it might be necessary. Not now. He realized he had made a bad mistake by returning to Heyward's church analogy.

"I'd like to get back," he said, "to my original contention: How, as bankers, can we afford to ignore this changing scene? To attempt to do so is like standing in a gale, pretending the wind does not exist.

"On pragmatic, financial grounds alone we cannot opt out. As those around this table know from personal experience, business success is never achieved by ignoring change, but by anticipating and adapting to it. Thus, as custodians of money, sensitive to the changing climates of investment, we shall profit most by listening, heeding, and adapting now."

He sensed that, apart from his lapse of judgment moments earlier, his opening gambit, with its practical emphasis, had captured attention. Almost every outside board member had had experience with legislation affecting pollution control, consumer protection, truth in advertising, minority hiring, or equal rights for women. Often, such laws were enacted over angry opposition from companies which these bank directors headed. But once the laws were passed, the same companies learned to live with new standards and proudly touted their contributions to the public weal. Some, like Leonard Kingswood, concluded that corporate responsibility was good for business and espoused it strongly.

'Where are fourteen thousand banks in the United States," Alex reminded the FMA directors, "with enormous fiscal power in extending loans. Surely, when the loans are to industry and business, that power should involve responsibility on our part, too! Surely among criteria for lending should be the standards of public conduct of our borrowers! If a factory is to be financed, will it pollute? When a new product is to be developed, is it safe? How truthful is a company's advertising? As between companies A and B. to one of which we have funds to lend, which has the better record of non-discrimination?"

He leaned forward, glancing around the elliptical table to meet, in turn, the eyes of each board member.

"It is true these questions are not alway asked, or acted on, at present. But they are beginning to be asked by major banks as matters of sound business an example which FMA will be wise to emulate. For just as leadership in any enterprise can produce strong dividends, so leadership in banking will prove rewarding, too.

"Equally important: It is better to do this freely now than have it forced on us by regulation later."

Alex paused, took a pace from the table, then swung back. Now he asked, "In which other areas should this bank accept corporate responsibility?

"I believe, with Ben Rosselli, that we should share in improving the life of this city and state. An immediate means is through financing of low-rental housing, a commitment this board has already accepted with the early stages of Forum East. As time goes on I believe our contribution should be greater."

He glanced toward Roscoe Heyward. "Of course, I realize that housing mortgages are not a notably high profit area. Yet there are ways to achieve that involvement with excellent profits, too."

One means, he told the listening directors, was through a determined, large-scale expansion of the bank's savings department.

"Traditionally, funds for home mortgages are channeled from savings deposits because mortgages are longterm investments while savings are similarly stable and long-term. The profitability we shall gain by volume far greater than our savings volume now. Thus we win attain a threefold objective profit, fiscal stability, and a major social contribution.

"Only a few years ago large commercial banks like ourselves spurned consumer business, including small savings, as being unimportant. Then, while we dozed, savings and loan associations astutely seized the opportunity we ignored and forged ahead of us, so now they are a main competitor. But still, in personal savings, gigantic opportunities remain. It's likely that, within a decade, consumer business will exceed commercial deposits everywhere and thus become the most important money force existing."

Savings, Alex argued, was only one of several areas where FMA interests could be dramatically advanced.

Still moving restlessly as he spoke, he ranged through other bank departments, describing changes he proposed. Most had been in a report, prepared by Alex Vandervoort at Ben's request a few weeks before the bank president's announcement of his impending death. In the pressure of events it had remained, so far as Alex knew, unread.

One recommendation was to open nine new branches in suburban areas through the state. Another was for a drastic overhaul of FMA organization. Alex proposed to hire a specialist consulting firm to advise on needed changes and he advised the board, "Our efficiency is lower than it should be. The machinery is creaking."

Near the end he returned to his original theme. "Our banking relationship with industry should, of course, continue to be close. Industrial loans and commercial business will remain pillars of our activity. But not the only pillars. Nor should they be overwhelmingly the largest. Nor should we be so preoccupied with bigness that the importance of small accounts, including those of individuals, becomes diminished in our minds.

"The founder of this bank established it to serve those of modest means to whom other banking facilities were denied. Inevitably, the bank's purpose and operations have broadened across a century, yet neither the founder's son nor grandson ever lost sight of those origins or ignored the precept that smallness multiplied can represent the greatest strength of all.

"A massive and immediate growth in small savings, which I urge the board to set as an objective, will honor those origins, enhance our fiscal strength and in the climate of the times advance the public good, which is our own." As they had for Heyward, board members applauded as Alex sat down. Some of the applause was merely polite, Alex realized; perhaps half of the directors seemed more enthusiastic. He guessed that the choice between Heyward and himself could still go either way.

"Thank you, Alex." Jerome Patterton glanced around the table. "Questions, gentlemen?"

The questioning occupied another half hour, after which Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort left the boardroom together. Each returned to his office to await the board's decision.

The directors debated through the remainder of the morning but failed to reach agreement. They then adjourned to a private dining room for lunch, their discussion continuing over the meal. The outcome of the meeting was still inconclusive when a dining-room steward quietly approached Jerome Patterton, carrying a small silver tray. On it was a single sheet of paper, folded.

The vice-chairman accepted the paper, unfolded and read it. After a pause he rose to his feet and waited while conversation around the luncheon table quietened.

"Gentlemen." Patterton's voice quavered. "I grieve to inform you that our beloved president, Ben Rosselli, died a few minutes ago."