The Moneychangers

Was it still? Possibly the answer was yes, as Margot said. Probably, too, no one ever changed his basic nature. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you," Margot said. "This seems as good a time as any." He nodded. "Go ahead." "That night in Tylersville, the day of the bank run, when the old couple with their life savings in that shopping bag asked you the question: Is our money absolutely safe in your bank? You answered yes. Were you really sure?"

"I've asked myself that," Alex said. "Right afterwards, and since. If I own up, I suppose I wasn't." "But you were saving the bank. Right? And that came first.

Ahead of those old people, and all the others; ahead of honesty even, because 'business as usual' was more important." Suddenly there was emotion in Margot's voice. "It's why you'll go on trying to save the bank, Alex ahead of everything else. It's the way it was with you and Celia. And," she said slowly, "as it would be if you had to make the choice with you and me."

Alex was silent. What could you say, what could anyone say, confronted with the naked truth? "So in the end," Margot said, "you aren't all that different from Roscoe. Or Lewis either."

She picked up The D'Orsey Newsletter with distaste. "Business stability, sound money, gold, high share prices. All those things first. People especially little, unimportant people a long way after. It's the big gulf between us, Alex. It will always be there.' He saw that she was crying. A buzzer sounded in the hallway beyond the living room.

Alex swore. "Goddam the interruptions!" He strode toward an intercom unit connecting with a doorman on the street floor. "Yes, what is it?" "Mr. Vandervoort, there's a lady here asking for you. Mrs. Callaghan."

"I don't know any…" He stopped. Heyward's secretary? "Ask if she's from the bank." A pause. "Yes, sir. She is." "All right. Send her up." Alex told Margot.

They waited curiously. When he heard the elevator on the landing outside, he went to the apartment door and opened it.

"Please come in, Mrs. Callaghan." Dora Callaghan was an attractive, well-groomed woman, nearing sixty. She had, Alex knew, worked at FMA for many years, at least ten of them for Roscoe Heyward.

Normally she was poised and confident, but tonight she looked tired and nervous.

She wore a fur-trimmed suede coat and carried a leather briefcase. Alex recognized it as belonging to the bank.

"Mr. Vandervoort, I'm sorry to intrude..." "I'm sure you have a good reason for coming." He introduced Margot, then asked,

"Could you use a drink?" "I really could." A martini. Margot mixed it. Alex took the suede coat. They all sat by the fire. "You can speak freely in front of Miss Bracken,"

Alex said. "Thank you." Dora Callaghan took a gulp of the martini, then put it down. "Mr. Vandervoort, this afternoon I went through Mr. Heyward's desk. I thought there would be some things to clear, papers perhaps that should be sent to someone else."

Her voice thickened and stopped. She whispered, "I'm sorry." Alex told her gently, "Please don't be. There's no hurry." As her composure returned, she continued,

"There were some locked drawers. Mr. Heyward and I both had keys, though I didn't use mine often. Today I did." Again a silence while they waited. "In one of the drawers… Mr. Vandervoort, I heard there would be investigators coming tomorrow morning. I thought… that you'd better see what was in there, that you'd know, better than I, what to do." Mrs. Callaghan opened the leather briefcase and took out two large envelopes.

As she handed them to Alex, he observed that both had been slit open previously. Curiously, he removed the contents.

The first envelope contained four share certificates, each for five hundred shares of Q-Investments common stock and signed by G. G. Quartermain. Though they were nominee certificates, there could be no doubt they had belonged to Heyward,

Alex thought. He remembered the Newsday reporter's allegations of this afternoon. This was confirmation. Further proof would be needed, of course, if the matter were pursued, but it seemed certain that Heyward, a trusted, high-ranking officer of the bank, had accepted a sordid bribe. Had he lived, exposure would have meant criminal prosecution.

Alex's earlier depression deepened. He had never liked Heyward.

They were antagonists, almost from the time that Alex was recruited into FMA. Yet never for an instant, until today, had he doubted Roscoe's personal integrity

. It demonstrated, he supposed, that however well you thought you knew another human being, you never really did. Wishing none of this was happening, Alex removed the contents from the second envelope. They proved to be enlarged photographs of a group of people beside a swimming pool four women and two men in the nude, and Roscoe Heyward dressed.

As an instant guess, Alex suspected the photos were a souvenir from Heyward's much vaunted trip to the Bahamas with Big George Quartermain. Alex counted twelve prints as he spread them out on a coffee table while Margot and Mrs. Callaghan watched. He caught a glimpse of Dora Callaghan's face.

Her cheeks were red; she was blushing. Blushing? He'd thought no one did that any more. His inclination, as he studied the photos, was to laugh.

Everyone in them looked there was no other word for it ridiculous. Roscoe, in one shot, was staring fascinated at the naked women; in another he was being kissed by one of them while his fingers touched her breasts.

Harold Austin exhibited a flabby body, drooping penis, and foolish smile.

Another man, with his behind to the camera, faced the women. As to the women well, Alex thought, some people might consider them attractive. For himself, he would take Margot, with her clothes on, any day. He didn't laugh, though out of deference to Dora Callaghan who had drained her martini and was standing up. "Mr. Vandervoort, I'd better go."

"You were right to bring these things to me," he told her. "I appreciate it, and I'll take care of them personally." "I'll see you out," Margot said. She retrieved Mrs. Callaghan's coat and went with her to the elevator. Alex was by a window, looking out at the city's lights, when Margot returned.

"A nice woman," she pronounced. "And loyal."

"Yes," he said, and thought: Whatever changes were made tomorrow and in ensuing days, he would see that Mrs. Callaghan was treated considerately.

There would be other people to think of, too. Alex would immediately promote Tom Straughan to Alex's own previous post as an executive vice-president. Orville Young could fill Heyward's shoes well. Edwina D'Orsey must move up to senior vice-president in charge of the trust department; it was a post Alex had had in mind for Edwina for some time, and soon he expected her to move higher still.

Meanwhile she must be named, at once, a member of the board. He realized suddenly: he was taking for granted that he himself would accept the bank presidency.

Well, Margot had just told him that. Obviously she was right. He turned away from the window and the outside darkness. Margot was standing at the coffee table, looking down at the photographs. Suddenly she giggled, and then he did what he had wanted to, and laughed with her.

"Oh, God!" Margot said. "Funny-sad!" When their laughter ended he bent down, collected the prints and returned them to their envelope. He was tempted to throw the package on the fire, but knew he mustn't. It would be destruction of evidence which might be needed. But he would do his best, he decided, to keep the photos from other eyes for Roscoe's sake.

"Funny-sad," Margot repeated. "Isn't it all?" "Yes," he agreed, and in that moment knew he needed her, and always would. He took her hands, remembering what they had been speaking of before Mrs. Callaghan came.

"Never mind any gulfs between us," Alex urged. "We have a lot of bridges, too. You and I are good for each other. Let's live together permanently, Bracken, starting now."

She objected, "It probably won't works or last. The odds are against us." "Then we'll try to prove them wrong." "Of course, there is one thing in our favor." Margot's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Most couples who pledge 'to love and to cherish, till death us do part,' wind up in divorce courts within a year. Maybe if we start out not believing or expecting much, we'll do better than the rest." As he took her in his arms, he told her, "Sometimes bankers and lawyers talk too much."