Heads You Win

“I’m sure you did. But I am not Mr. Lowell, and I will require a little more detail.”

“The summary in the annual report stretches to three pages, and I think you’ll find it quite comprehensive.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I suppose you could study the detailed accounts we prepare for the IRS every year, but they stretch to hundreds of pages, and it would take me two, possibly three, days to put them all together.”

“I said I wanted to see the past five years’ accounts, Mr. Jardine, not next year’s. So make sure that the full IRS version,” said Alex, emphasizing the word “full,” “is on my desk within an hour.”

“It might take a little longer than that, sir.”

“Then I might have to find someone who understands how many minutes there are in an hour, Mr. Jardine.”

Alex had never seen anyone leave an office as quickly. He was about to call Mr. Harbottle, when the phone on his desk rang.

“I’ve tracked down Miss Robbins, chairman,” said the switchboard operator, “and I have her on the line. Shall I put her through?”

“Please do.”

“Good morning, Miss Robbins. My name is Alex Karpenko, and I’m the new chairman of Lowell’s.”

“Yes, I know, Mr. Karpenko. I read about your appointment in this morning’s Globe, and of course I heard your moving eulogy at Mr. Lowell’s funeral. How can I help?”

“I understand that Mr. Ackroyd sacked you last Friday.”

“Yes he did, and ordered me to clear my desk by close of business.”

“Well, he had no authority to do so. As you were Lawrence’s personal assistant, not his. So I was wondering if you’d consider coming back and doing the same job for me.”

“That’s most generous of you, Mr. Karpenko, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a younger person to herald in a new era for the bank?”

“That’s the last thing I need. I’m sinking under a sea of paperwork, and I have a feeling you might be the one person who knows where the lifeboat is.”

Miss Robbins stifled a laugh. “When would you like me to start, chairman?”

“Nine o’clock, Miss Robbins.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“No, this morning.”

“But it’s already eleven thirty-five, chairman.”

“Is it?”

* * *

“Hi, Alex, I’m Ray Fowler, company secretary. What can I do for you?” he said, thrusting out his hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Fowler,” said Alex, making no attempt to rise from behind his desk, or to shake the outstretched hand. “I want a copy of the minutes of every board meeting held during the past five years.”

“Not a problem, sir, I’ll have them sent up immediately.”

“No, you will bring them up yourself, Mr. Fowler, along with any notes you made at the time when you drew them up.”

“But they may have been mislaid or destroyed after all this time.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, Mr. Fowler, that it’s against company law to destroy any material that might later prove relevant in a criminal inquiry.”