"$1,245,000 dollars!" h
e exclaimed. Sam let out a cry. Pascoe felt the shock run through her body as she took in the figure.
"It's not all ours, darling. That's the gross figure
... the net's a little bit less... $1,058,250 and that's only if they convert it all and bring it all back. We are a long way from home yet!"
"But just think of it
... that sort of money... doesn't it excite you? It sure as hell excites me!" she hugged him tight.
“Darling, I think we had better clear up and leave. Remember, we have got to find somewhere to stay tonight."
"And that's just where you're wrong. Everything's taken care of! I'm in charge of R & R. Remember?"
They finally left the office at 6.30, a full half hour after dealing with their last customer. It had taken Pascoe that long to work out the setting of the alarm system.
"Come on! Get a move on." Sam shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
"I'm sorry. I was miles away thinking about the alarm system."
"Thinking what about it?"
"Just that
, if it should go off, it could prove embarrassing, to say the least."
"You mean involving the police."
"More than that... I'll explain as we walk."
Sam took his arm, and as they left the alley, steered him towards the underground station. "You see," Pascoe explained, "With that sort of alarm, the police can usually notify a key-holder
... someone they can contact in the middle of the night, rouse out of bed and bring down to the office to switch off the alarm ; check the premises and reset it if need be."
"You mean Spriggs."
"Who is Mr. Spriggs?"
"He's our janitor!", replied Sam. "If the alarm goes off in the night, he waits for the police and lets them into the premises, then notifies us
... "
"That's just it Sam - your Mr. Spriggs doesn't know where we will be. I don't even know where we'll be."
"But I do." said Sam.
"Oh! And where might that be?"
"Room 121, Great Eastern Hotel. Liverpool Street Station. We're booked in under the name of Guyton!"
"You're the limit. When did you arrange that?"
"After we got back from the States and you asked me to arrange things like the Grosvenor, the security company and the office and... "
"Enough darling. You're incredible and I don't know what I would do without you."
"Well, if you want to know what you can do for me tonight, I've made a list... Hotel, change of clothes, dinner, show or cinema and then... "
"Whatever you like. You're the boss!"
From Bank underground station the journey was a simple one... only one stop on the Central line, before they emerged into the late rush-hour throngs at Liverpool Street station, people making for trains heading east into Essex and Suffolk commuter land. The Hotel entrance was right next to the mainline station. This time, Pascoe left Sam to deal with receptionist.
"Excuse me, but do you have a reservation for my husband and
me... Mr. and Mrs. Guyton... " The receptionist delved beneath the desk top and re-surfaced with a handful of reservation cards. She thumbed expertly through them, coming to the Guyton card near the end of her search.
"Yes, here we are, Guyton, one week, room 121. Do you have some identification Mrs. Guyton?" The words had hardly left the woman's lips before Pascoe felt his knees begin to buckle.
"We're travelling incognito - my husband's a famous author and if we use our real names this hotel will be swarming with autograph hunters. You wouldn't want that?" Sam switched on her best, most dazzling smile.
"Listen
dearie, It's none of my business if you just want a few nights away from your family. That's up to you. But here, the choice is a simple one... either you produce some identification, or you pay in advance. Now a week in 121 for two people will be... "
Sam
knew when she was beaten. "How about a compromise? We'll pay you now for tonight and tomorrow for the other nights."
"Yes, I'm quite sure that will be all right. With service and V.A.T. that will be £68.70 please."
Sam turned to Pascoe, "I've only got my cheque-book or travelers’ cheques darling... could you... "
Pascoe reluctantly reached for his wallet and drew out two of his remaining £50 notes. He placed them on the counter and waited while the receptionist held each of them up to the light and checked that the silver strip was still there. Pascoe picked up his change and scrutinised it just as carefully. A bell boy escorted them to their room where Pascoe tipped the boy the princely sum of £1
... after all it was not the Grosvenor!
"That was close," he remarked to Sam.
"I thought I got out of it rather well."
"You certainly did some quick thinking and don't think I am ungrateful for the arrangements
... "
"But I feel this has got a ‘but’ to it."
"It's time we both started taking this seriously... from now on the risks are going to increase every day and if we don't take precautions we will get caught."
"I thought it was fool-proof
..."
"It is, up to a point."
"And where might that point be?"
"Time, Sam. That's the point. All the time the banks are closed for the holiday, the che
ques can't be fed into the system and so can't be detected. We should be safe until next Wednesday at the earliest... "
"And then?"
"Then the cheques will start arriving at the clearing banks and possibly some eyebrows will start getting raised."
"I thought that was why we posted those circulars from Dallas, to buy us extra time?"
"You're right, Sam, but we will never know how effective that was. We can't take the risk of sitting here until those cheques hit the States. We have to be out of the office by Tuesday lunchtime at the very latest."
"There will still be people arriving to pay their money in on Tuesday and afterwards probably."
"I hope so. But we can't afford to be there."
"We're not going to write off everything after Tuesday?"
"I have got an idea about that. I think we should employ someone to do it for us, someone to act as cashier."
"You don't mean to let someone else in on it, do you?"
"Certainly not. I thought we might hire a temp from one of the agencies. Two might be better... just for the week. We'll have to start them on Tuesday morning and then we'll be able to show them the ropes. Keep the guards on as well, to escort them to the bank."
Delaying Tactics
Sam sat down on the bed, listening to Pascoe thinking aloud. He had stopped talking to her directly and she noticed his mind seemed to switch to a higher gear, as the random thoughts began to link together. He seemed to be in an almost trance-like state as he paced the room for the next few minutes. Suddenly, he stopped and his face brightened.
"I'm sorry, I got carried away.., didn't mean to," he said by way of explanation.
"That's all right, it was quite a performance. Well worth watching. Do you do that very often?" Sam
enquired, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Pascoe glared at her. "Well now you seem to be back to normal, is there any reason why we can't continue this discussion over dinner? I'm famished."
"It's amazing, how everything with you resolves to food and sex, but I agree. Let's eat."
"That only takes care of the food..."
"Sam!"
The area around the great London stations, especially in the north of the City, can hardly be described as salubrious. Accordingly, they took a taxi into the West End. It wasn't raining so they easily found a cab on the station rank. Pascoe approached the driver of the first cab on the rank.
"Can you take us to Peter Marios' restaurant, in Soho
... I think it's in Gerrard Street or perhaps Greek Street. It's close to Soho market."
"Yeah Guv, I know the one you mean. Won't take a jiff." The driver reached backwards out of his window and opened the rear door to the cab. They were there in 15 minutes. Amazingly, although it was some eight or nine years since his previous visit, the restaurant had hardly changed.
They dined on Lasagna, washed down with liberal amounts of Ruffino, supplied in wicker-covered bottles. It was a simple but delightful meal, enhanced by their tacit agreement not to talk 'shop'.
"You know Tom, you're the strangest man I have ever met. I have spent the best part of a year with you and still know next to nothing about you. You're not like most men
.., they can't stop talking about themselves, but you don't. What makes you tick?" asked Sam.
"I could ask you the same question."
"Yes you could, but I asked first."
"What do you want to know?" There was an edge to his voice as his
defense mechanism creaked into gear.
"Nothing much - just
where you come from? Who your parents are? School? Career? Marriage? Check the secrets I can pry out of you."
"In any particular order, or will you take pot-luck?"
"I am quite serious .Where do you come from?" Pascoe gazed deeply into her eyes, wondering how much he ought to tell her. It wasn't that he had anything particular to hide.., just that he wasn't used to being questioned, especially by her.
"I thought you could have told that from my accent. Where do you think I'm from?" He said at last, making a game out of it.
"That's it Tom. I really don't know. You're almost accent less, or rather your accent changes, like the weather. I've heard at least three different ones."
"Such as?"
"Such as the one when I first met you at the college. It was a little more distinguished than the rest. Then the one when you arrived at the Grosvenor Hotel.., that sounded very upper.., city-ish. Just this evening, when you booked the taxi, I could have sworn you were a Cockney, the way you spoke to the driver and in here; you ordered the meal in Italian. I know the waiter didn't understand too well, but he's probably from Islington."
"So I'm a little bit of a mimic
... lots of people are. I've noticed that myself. If I am in the company of Americans for example, I tend to start speaking with that sort of accent. I try not to because they must think it very rude. It's one of my sins."
"There you are again. 'I will tend to
... '.Who uses that kind of phrase these days? It's not just the way you sound when you talk, it's the use of the language. I should say you've had an excellent education, but you play it down. What are you afraid of?"
"I don't see this getting us anywhere, unless you're after membership of the Pascoe Admiration Society. Drink your wine." They raised their glasses to each other and Sam made a grudging toast.
"To our mutual success."
"A la callata," replied Tom.
"There you go again!"
"Sorry."
Pascoe turned toward the waiter and mimed the action of writing on paper. Sam watched with interest and was amazed at how quickly the bill arrived. Pascoe placed cash on the salver with the bill and handed it back to the waiter. He helped Sam up from the table, held her coat for her and opened the door for her to exit into the street ahead of him. He knew that each little courtesy he performed would irritate her a little and took a perverse pleasure in challenging her liberalism. From the street, Sam heard him say, "Mille grazi, arriverderci," before the door closed. Was he showing off or was it natural for him to behave that way? She had no way of knowing. It was part of his mysterious persona. But she wanted to know and at that precise moment, she would have given a lot to understand what made Tom Pascoe tick.
Pascoe took her arm and steered her to the end of
Gerrard Street and into Soho market.
"Do you know this part of London?" He asked her.
"Isn't it where all the sex clubs are?"
"Trust you to think of that. At least you're behaving true to form. I used to work near here, a long time ago."
"What, in a sex club?"
"You're closer than you think. I used to work in a photographic studio very close to one of the most famous sex clubs. The Windmill Theatre
.., the one that never closed in the war."
"And did they have those
sorts of shows on there then.., the ones with the girls."
"Of course, only it was strictly controlled by the Lord Chancellor of England. He invented a rule that female nudity was allowed on the stage as long as the girls didn't move. They called them 'tableaux'. Some of the best entertainers of our time started at the Windmill."
"Such as?"
"Most of the Goons and lots of other acts. Would you like to see it?"
They turned and headed up into Shaftesbury Avenue and along to Great Windmill Street, threading their way through the crowds as theatre-land disgorged its patrons onto the streets. At this time of night it seemed there were as many people about as in the rush hour. The great theatre of the Windmill was now under the wing of Paul Raymond, as was the revue bar of the same name. Some of the front of house pictures on display in some premises caused even Sam's liberal eyebrows to rise. Pascoe wondered what a stroll through the Pigalle district in Paris would do to her.
"There you are, you wanted to know more about me
.., that's where I got my first job." Sam looked to where his hand pointed.
"It's a sex shop! I knew it!"
"It is now, but back in the sixties it was just a photographic studio. Satisfied?"
"Not yet, but I think I will be ".
"I think we'd better start heading back to the hotel. It'll be another long day tomorrow."
They hailed a cab in Regent's Street and were safely back at the hotel by 11.p.m.
Good Friday dawned, with uncommon silence. Gone, were the everyday sounds of London's traffic and the peace was only occasionally disturbed by the throb of a taxi's diesel engine. Even the usual cacophony of Liverpool Street station itself, was muffled, as British Rail operated its reduced Sunday service.
Sam and Pascoe took breakfast in their room, knowing that while, for the rest of the world it was Good Friday ,a day of religious celebration, for them D-day had arrived. The day when the first of their
travelers’ cheques would start hitting the streets. A day on which, while London rested and the City slept, a hundred or more Americans would be sowing the seeds of a bountiful harvest.
They reached the office in good time. As they expected to be the only people in the building that day, the sudden appearance of Spriggs, the janitor took them both by surprise. It was a mutual shock and Spriggs was still recovering as Sam made the introductions.
"Good morning Mr. Spriggs, keeping an eye on things for us?"
"Mornin' Miss." Spriggs spluttered.
"This is my boss, Mr. Guyton," and turning to Pascoe, "This is Mr. Spriggs, our janitor." Pascoe shook the old man's hand.
"I expect we'll be the only ones working today Mr. Spriggs. Don't be alarmed if you see quite a few people about the place. We are expecting a few visitors," explained Pascoe.
"Shouldn't be allowed if you ask me Sir, what with it being a holiday an' all." Spriggs muttered.
"So you're a religious man Mr. Spriggs, I do so admire that."
"I didn't say I was and I didn’t say I wasn’t."
"When you referred to it being a holiday, and that we should not be working
... I thought you objected because of your religious convictions - because of today being Good Friday... "
"Well that may be as it may
... "
"Stop pulling Mr. Spriggs' leg
Sir." Sam cut in, to stop an argument developing.
"Yes, you are quite right Miss Fairbrother, we must not take up any more of Mr. Spriggs' valuable time. Thank you Mr. Spriggs. Happy Easter."
Without giving the janitor time to reply, they unlocked and entered the office. Alarm key in hand, Pascoe made a bee-line straight for the control box, counting to himself as he did so, aware that he had only 30 seconds to neutralize it. Sam, oblivious to his concern, carried on talking.
"Do we handle everything the same way as yesterday?"
"I think we'd better. I don't really know how many people we'll get today, but if everyone who didn't come yesterday, comes today, we will only have to deal with about 40 people. He opened the safe and took out some cheques and divided them equally into two piles. One for Sam, the other for himself.
"There you are," he said, placing her pile on the desk. Make them up into batches of $5,000, $10,000 and $15,000
... then we can prepare the rest of the wallets and application forms," he continued, unaware that Sam's attention was elsewhere.
"I'll be right with you, I'll just make some coffee." She appeared shortly, bearing two plastic cups, spilling a little coffee on to the carpet before handing one to Pascoe. "Are you going to be here with me all day?" She inquired.
"No, there are a couple of things I must do."
"Such as?"
"Well the biggest worry is your car. I thought I would move it today."
"Move it where?"
"Somewhere outside the city."
"Why bother?"
"Because it's going to stick out like a sore thumb in the car park over the week end when everyone's on holiday and it's number plate leads straight back to you.
"I see. You really don't believe in taking chances."
"Not when I don't have to. It's already been there for two days, but only on its own for the night. If I move it now, we should be all right. I'll do it when I've finished the coffee."
Pascoe had already decided where to leave the car and drove straight to Bromley South station, where he bought a weekly parking ticket for the station's car park. Although he knew the car would be a little more exposed than if he had driven it home to Canterbury, he also knew it would at least be safe from the prying eyes of the beat copper in the City. Bromley South had the double advantage of not only being fairly safe from the eyes of the law, but it was also within easy reach of the office. Although he had to wait the best part of an hour for a train back to Cannon Street station, he still made it back to the office by a quarter to twelve.
Within a few minutes of his return, the office buzzer sounded and the two of them prepared to receive another client.
"Good morning, Dallasbank. Can I help you?" Sam replied to the door buzzer.
"It's Spriggs here, Miss."
"Yes, Mr. Spriggs, what can we do for you?" The man was already becoming a nuisance.
"It's not for me, miss. I've got a couple of policemen here to see you." The janitor's words hit Pascoe with sledge hammer force. The blood turned to ice water in his veins and he looked long and hard at Sam.
"Don't worry Miss Fairbrother. It can only be routine. I'll see what they want. You'd better ask them for identification through the intercom."
"How?"
"Ask them to push their warrant cards through the letter box." Pascoe watched as first one, then the other card fell into the letter box. He picked them up and examined them briefly before asking Sam to open the door. The three men entered, the policemen towering over Spriggs.
"Good morning gentlemen," welcomed Pascoe. "How may we help you?" He handed back their warrant cards and ushered the caretaker out of the office.
"Just routine really,
Sir. We saw someone entering the building a few minutes ago and with it being a public holiday, we thought we'd better make sure everything was all right."