Tell Tale: Short Stories

It made Arthur smile to think that anyone who turned up with $10,000 in cash today would be subject to an investigation by their recently formed money-laundering team, and if they didn’t tick all the boxes, their file would be handed over to the Toronto police’s special investigation squad.

Arthur had long ago stopped trying to fathom why Mr. Macpherson still did business with the National Bank of Toronto, when there were so many Scottish banks that were just as competent and considerably more convenient. But as he had conducted his affairs in an exemplary fashion for the past twenty-five years, the subject no longer arose, and in any case, NBT wouldn’t have wanted to lose one of their most important customers.

Although Arthur knew very little about his client other than that they both shared the same heritage, one thing he had learned over the years was that he was unquestionably a shrewd, intelligent businessman. After all, he had multiplied his original investment tenfold, while at the same time withdrawing enough money to live an extremely comfortable lifestyle. In fact, only once in the past eighteen years had he failed to show a profit, despite stock market collapses, changes of governments, and countless skirmishes around the globe. He appeared to have no vices, and his only extravagance was purchasing the occasional painting from Munro’s, a fine art dealer in Edinburgh—and then only if it was by a Scottish artist.

Arthur had long ago accepted he didn’t have Mr. Macpherson’s flair for finance, but he was quite happy to sit at the feet of the master and when any new instructions came, he would invest a portion of his own money in the same shares at a level no one would have noticed. So when the bank’s senior vice president checked his own account at the end of the quarter, it stood at $243,519. How he would have liked to thank Mr. Macpherson in person, because retirement was fast approaching for Arthur, and with his little nest egg and a full pension, he looked forward to ending his days in a degree of comfort he felt he had earned.

If there was a Mrs. Macpherson there were no clues to suggest it, so Arthur rather assumed that, like him, his client was a bachelor. But like so many mysteries surrounding the man, he didn’t know for sure, and assumed he never would.

However, something had been worrying Arthur about the account for some weeks, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. He opened the file again and noted the figure, $8,681,762, before checking every entry meticulously. But all seemed to be in order.

He then studied each check that the different individuals and companies had presented during the past month, before checking them against the entries in the ledger. Every one tallied. All the usual household expenses and utility bills, food, wine, gas, electricity, even Hudsons, the local newsagent. But he still felt something wasn’t quite right. And then, in the middle of the night, it hit him like a thunderbolt. Less, not more.

On arrival at the bank the following morning, the first thing Arthur did was to take Mr. Macpherson’s ledger out of the bottom drawer. He turned the pages back to the previous quarter, and was able to confirm the most recent bills were considerably less than those for any other quarter. Had they been considerably more, Arthur would have spotted it immediately, and become suspicious. The fact that they were less, aroused his interest. The only entry that remained consistent was the monthly banker’s order for his long-serving retainers, Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw.

He leaned back in his chair and wondered if he should inform the manager of this break in routine, but decided against it for two reasons. It was coming up to quarter day, when he would receive his new instructions from Mr. Macpherson, and with it no doubt a simple explanation as to why the bills had fallen, and second, he didn’t care much for the new manager of the bank.

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Arthur had considered the possibility of being appointed manager himself, but his hopes were dashed when that position was filled by a Mr. Stratton from their Montreal branch, who was half his age, but a graduate of McGill and the Wharton Business School. Arthur on the other hand had, to quote his late father—a former sergeant in the Seafort

h Highlanders—risen through the ranks, and quite recently acquired the title of senior vice president. However, everyone in banking circles knew there were several vice presidents, and you only became the senior VP because everyone else had retired and you were next in line. “Buggins’s turn,” as his father would have described it.

Arthur had applied to be the manager of one of the bank’s smaller branches a couple of times, but hadn’t even made the shortlist. On one occasion he’d overheard a member of the panel say, “Dunbar’s a good enough chap but simply isn’t officer material.”

He had also considered leaving NBT to join one of their rivals, but quickly discovered he wouldn’t be starting at the same salary, and he certainly couldn’t hope to be offered the same pension plan as he was entitled to after so many years of loyal and devoted service. After all, in eighteen months’ time he would have been with the bank for thirty years, which meant he could retire on two-thirds of his current salary; less than thirty years, and it would only be half. So he only had to cling on for another eighteen months.

Arthur turned his attention back to the pile of checks on his desk, and was about to go over them once again, when the phone rang. He picked it up and immediately recognized the cheerful voice of Barbara, Mr. Stratton’s secretary.

“Mr. Stratton wondered if you could pop around and see him when it’s convenient—” code for as soon as possible—“as there’s something he’d like to discuss with you fairly urgently—” code for now.

“Of course,” said Arthur. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He disliked being summoned to the manager’s office because it was rarely, if ever, good news. Last time Stratton had called for him was when he needed a volunteer to organize the Christmas party, and the responsibility had ended up taking hours of his spare time without any remuneration, and gone were the days when he could hope that one of the girls from the typing pool would go home with him later that evening.

The happiest of these occasions was when Barbara had joined the bank, and they had what might be described as a fling. He found they had so much in common, even enjoying the same passion for classical music, although he still couldn’t understand why she preferred Brahms to Beethoven. And the biggest regret in Arthur’s life was that he didn’t ask her to marry him. When she married Reg Caldercroft in accounts, he ended up as best man.

He closed the Macpherson file and placed it in the top drawer of his desk, which he locked. He left his room and walked slowly down the corridor, knocked on the manager’s door and received a curt “Come” in response. Something else he didn’t like about Mr. Stratton.

Arthur opened the door and entered a large, well-furnished office, and waited to be told he could sit down. Stratton smiled up at him and pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. Arthur returned the smile, equally insincere, wondering what voluntary chore was about to be thrust upon him.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said the young man.

“Good morning, Mr. Stratton,” replied Arthur, who had once addressed him as Gerald when he first took over as manager, only to be told, “not during working hours.” And as they never met socially, it was also the last time he had addressed the manager by his Christian name.

“Arthur,” he said, the same smile. “I’ve had a letter from head office that I felt I ought to share with you, remembering that you are the bank’s senior vice president and our longest-serving member of staff.”

What’s he after? was Arthur’s first thought.

“I have been instructed to make cutbacks on staff. The figure they are insisting on,” Stratton said, looking down at a letter on his desk, “is ten percent. And the board are recommending we start by offering senior staff the opportunity to take early retirement.”

To make way for younger people who they will only have to pay half the salary, Arthur wanted to say, but kept his counsel.

“And of course, I thought you might consider this an ideal opportunity, after your little scare last year.”

“It wasn’t a scare,” said Arthur, “and I was off work for four days. The only four days in nearly thirty years with the bank,” he reminded Stratton.

“Indeed, most commendable,” said Stratton. “But don’t you think these things are sometimes a warning?”

“No, I do not,” said Arthur. “I’ve never felt fitter, and as you well know, I only need to serve another eighteen months to qualify for a full pension.”