That Will Do Nicely (10 page)

"Well, I'm sure Mr. Spriggs has explained everything to you. Everything's fine, except for having to work when everyone else is enjoying a holiday."

"That's what we thought was odd, Sir.., working on Good Friday."

"I suppose it does seem odd, but we're part of an American bank and our lords and masters in the States
recognize only their own holidays. I never thought of it when I took the job; never crossed my mind, but now I am under contract to them, I don't have any choice but to make the best of it. Luckily, they still celebrate Christmas on December 25th!" The policemen, who also didn't enjoy the usual holidays, smiled knowingly; glad they weren't the only ones to have pulled the short straw on the holiday roster.

"Well we needn't keep you any longer,
Sir," replied  the elder of the two as they made their way to the door.

"Before you go
..," Pascoe called out to them, "We will be working right through the weekend. Perhaps you could inform your colleagues."

"Certain
ly Sir."

As soon as they had left, Pascoe and Sam retreated into the inner office.

"That was, to say the least, unexpected," commented Sam.

"It certainly was. They must have almost followed me in. Still they were only doing their job, keeping an eye on the place. It's just as well I moved the car."

"Where did you take it?"

"Bromley South Station car-park - it's only ten minutes by train from Cannon Street and that's only a five minute walk from here."

"Sounds fine to me."

"How many people this morning?"

"Fifteen so far and all except two took the maximum $15,000. The others took $5,000. What does that make the total?"

"I think I put the piece of paper with yesterday's totals in the left-hand drawer."

Sam opened the draw and handed him the paper and waited while he worked out the new figures and added them to the total.

"That brings us up to $1,450,000 gross, or $1,232,000
net." He answered.

"Whichever way you look at it, darling, it's a hell of a lot of money."

"And if my thinking's correct, some more of it should start coming in tomorrow. We had better work out how to handle it... "

“You don't really think handling it will be a problem?" Sam inquired.

"You had better believe it. Imagine just one of our clients coming in to see us having changed all his money - say £12,000 in round figures. How long will it take to count it? Remember it will be in £50's and £20's mainly, with a fair sprinkling of £5 notes. Let's average it out at 600 £20 notes and we count it twice to be sure. I reckon that'll take the best part of 12 - 15 minutes. We'll need to have a ledger written up so that we can enter the amounts returned and check against the amount given.., not strictly necessary from our point of view, but it will make things look better to the clients'. If we allow three minutes for the ledger and the arithmetic, that comes to 15 minutes per person, or 34 hours of accounting. So you see, we're going to be busy for the next few days and we'd better keep things as simple as possible. I'll get the calculator and ledger in the morning."

"We could use the file cards instead of the ledger." Sam suggested." And then we could write up the details from their application forms now."

“Brilliant. That will save time. Have you thought what you are going to do with the money?" Pascoe's question floored her. She'd never thought she would have a problem handling money.

"How do you mean?"

"Each day from now on, you might have £100,000 or so in used notes as your share. Have you thought what you are going to do with it?"

"We could leave it in the safe I suppose," she offered, lamely.

"And if they catch up with us before we're clear then we'll lose everything. Great! I think we'd better take the money away each day and put it somewhere safe and accessible. That way, if things come to the worst, it'll still be there when we come out in a few years’ time."

"I wish you'd stop talking like that
... you're beginning to frighten me."

"Sorry darling, don't worry. I've already given it a lot of thought and I'll explain everything tomorrow."

Further conversation was cut short by the buzzer, as the first of the tail-enders arrived. By the close of business that day, the total number of clients had risen to 124, and Pascoe's calculations showed that they had put $1,398,250 into circulation. It was a pity that they had seemingly lost some 13 clients, but Pascoe put it down to natural wastage. If they had shown up and each taken the maximum amount, it would have added some $195,000 to the total.

"It's six o'clock, darling. Time to close-up
... " Pascoe called to Sam, "Not a bad day's work. For once, I think Good Friday's lived up to its name!" 

Easter Saturday started in a sullen mood, London was overcast with low cloud and in parts of the city it was already falling as fine rain, the sort that permeates every kind of waterproof clothing and soaks through to the skin in minutes. Londoners commented that it was typical 'holiday week-end weather’, while their trans-Atlantic cousins accepted it as being 'typical of the goddamn city'. In truth, it was more or less what the Londoners expected and most of the visitors would have been slightly disappointed had the weather been any better. After all, most American tourists had the Hollywood vision of Jack the Ripper's London in mind and still expected to find a city swathed in fog.

About the time Sam and Pascoe were opening up the office, the Kennerlys from Columbus, Ohio were leaving the Waldorf Hotel in London's Aldwych. The area marked on their map for changing the cheques lay due north of the hotel, bounded by the Inns of Court to the east and the great main-line stations of Euston, King's Cross and St.Pancras to the north. The remainder of their area consisted mainly of Bloomsbury and a little part of Soho. Fortunately for them, it also included the British Museum, which was prominent on their list of places to 'do'.

The Kennerleys had agreed between themselves that they would not alter their sight-seeing plans and would only change their che
ques when the opportunity arose.

Bob Kennerley was the first to spot a Bureau-de-Change in High Holborn. It was little more than a glorified newsagent/tobacconist. Its grandiose claim to being a Bureau-de-Change consisting of a dingy rate board, equipped with equally dingy rates, leaning against its outside wall.

"Excuse me," Kennerly asked the bureau’s Indian proprietor, "Do you take travelers' cheques?"

"Would these
be in your excellent dollars?” responded Rashid, the proprietor in an accent reminiscent of Peter Sellers in "The Millionairess".

"That's right. Is there any limit to how many we can change?"

"No, no. None at all. None whatsoever!" The request was music to Rashid’s ears. The more dollars exchanged the more commission he would make.

"Well I'd like to change three hundred  bucks if that's all right with you and I expect my wife will do the same
... "

"Certainly,
Sir... no problem at all," said Rashid, his mind calculating that he stood to make more than £50 from the deal.

"Excuse me again," asked the American, "But will there be any banks or change-places open tomorrow?"

"No, Sir. All such places will be closed until next Tuesday, because of the holiday... but if I can be of humble service to you..," offered Rashid, lowering his head obsequiously, as he visualized future profits.

Kennerley reflected that perhaps it would not take quite as long to change all the che
ques as he had thought. He didn't mind waiting the several minutes it took for Rashid to retrieve the money from a secret place at the back of the shop, as it meant one less transaction that he would have to make. They left the Indian's shop, each having changed $ 500 and foraged further into the area around High Holborn.

The district was littered with similar places and nearly every small shop, no matter what its primary business was, had
an exchange rate-board displayed outside it. They made six similar transactions before they even reached the British Museum.

The money changers

Kennerley reflected that perhaps it would not take quite as long to change all the che
ques as he had thought. He didn't mind waiting the several minutes it took for Rashid to retrieve the money from a secret place at the back of the shop, as it meant one less transaction that he would have to make. They left the Indian's shop, each having changed $ 500 and foraged further into the area around High Holborn.

The district was littered with similar places and nearly every small shop, no matter what its primary business was, had
an exchange rate-board displayed outside it. They made six similar transactions before they even reached the British Museum.

At the Change Alley office, two more people had turned up to collect their che
ques and a third visitor, a Mr. Dwight Chambers had arrived bearing cash, having exchanged all of his. The young man from the mid-west was a student at U.C.L.A and related how easy it had been to change his cheques. Pascoe recalled that Chambers had been one of the first people to collect the cheques on the Thursday and realized the student must have devoted all his waking hours to changing them during the first two days of the holiday. Chambers explained that his area had included central London and he had concentrated on the main railway stations. He had found three separate Bureau-de-Change in Victoria Station alone and had managed to change $1,000 at each of them. This sum was far in excess of what Pascoe had asked the clients to do, but congratulated him on his efficiency and didn’t remind him of the $300 limit to be cashed at each outlet. As it was a 'fait accompli', he thanked him for his co-operation and handed over the commission fee.

"There you are Mr. Chambers," said Pascoe," £1,080 Sterling, which at current rates is the equivalent of $1,350
... not bad for a couple of day's work!"

"Hell no, like taking candy from a baby." He replied, thumbing through the money, taking pleasure feeling the bills. "Just let me know if I can help again."

"We will Mr. Chambers... if the need should arise. It's good to know we can count on you." Pascoe turned to Sam," We do have Mr. Chambers' address and telephone number Miss. Fairbrother?"

"Certainly,
Sir. Everything's on file."

Pascoe showed the American out.

"Well Miss Fairbrother, I hope that that was but the first of many such successes."

"You know Tom, I think this might just work," said Sam, toying with the notes in the drawer. "How much did we make?"

"Just over £10,000"

Sam swallowed hard, her eyes wide with excitement.

"He didn't exactly stick to the script, did he?" she commented.

"He certainly didn't, but there's no harm done. In fact he may have helped."

"How do you work that out?"

"Well, if he concentrated on the
bureau at the main-line stations, they will be used to seeing our cheques and if their staff are familiar with the Dallasbank name, that might help the others when they turn up." Pascoe picked up the money from the desk and carried it to the safe, "We had better put this away for the time being." He counted out several notes. "Here's £350 and I'll take the same... don't forget we will have to pay the rest of the hotel bill tonight."

By close of business it seemed that everyone who was going to take the che
ques, had probably already picked them up. A quick tally of the amounts recorded in the file showed they had issued a hundred and twenty six  Americans with nearly $1,700,000. All they could do now was wait.

Earlier the same morning, T.T. Ford of San Diego, California, had checked out of the Great Park Inn and received his bill for £625. He wanted to pay with the Dallasbank che
ques for his own personal reasons; he didn't want his movements traced from his credit card receipts. His need for secrecy was simple; as  far as his wife was concerned, he was supposedly on a three-week business trip in France, not living it up with another woman in London. The fact that he had spent most of the time in bed with his mistress, was something which would cost him dear, should his wife ever find out.

Although most hotel cashiers prefer to be paid in foreign currency, so that they can make an extra profit by charging an inflated rate, the duty manager at the Great Park Inn that morning, however, was not one of them. The possibility of making a few extra dollars was outweighed by the trust his employers had placed in him. He had held his position at the hotel for over 15 years and would do nothing to
jeopardize it. He was only on desk duty because of the holiday period, because in the hotel industry, when it comes to public holidays, all the staff who can 'fiddle' the time off, do so.

"Hi there, can you make up my bill
... name of Ford, room 166?" The man from San Diego inquired.

"Certainly
Sir. Will you be paying by cash or credit?"

"Someone told me that everything's gonna be closed until Tuesday. Is that right?"

"Yes, Sir, that's quite right."

"Does that mean no banks until then?"

"Yes, I am afraid it does Sir."

"O.K. I'm running a little low on cash at the moment and I don't really want to use my credit cards. Do you take dollar travelers' che
ques?"

"Yes
Sir, but I must point out that we can't give you as good a rate as the banks would."

"I see. What rate will you
give me for them?" asked Ford. The manager consulted his list of rates.

"I can accept them at $1.30 to the pound if you wish."

"But that's... "

"I know
Sir, and I do sympathize, but we are not a bank... we are an hotel and have to cover ourselves for any change in the rates which may occur." In fact, had Ford found other staff manning the desk, they would have charged at least $1.35 or so, especially as it was a holiday weekend. Ford was unaware that the manager was in fact being extremely fair to him. He withdrew the wallet of travelers’ cheques from his jacket pocket somewhat reluctantly and slapped it down on the counter, convinced he was being taken advantage of. Grudgingly, he studied the bill, still unhappy about the exchange rate.

"How much does this work out at in real money?" He asked, tetchily. The manager performed an involved calculation on his desk-top machine.

"$812.50, Sir." The manager announced, reading the calculator's screen.

"Can I give you a thousand dollars in
travelers’ cheques and you give me the rest in English?"

"We would rather you paid the $800 with your che
ques Sir, and the rest cash."

"O.K. Have it your way." Ford took eight of the che
ques from his wallet and signed them while the manager watched.

"The Second National City Bank of Dallas," the manager read aloud from the che
ques." I don't think we've had those before." He picked up the house phone and rang the hotel's accounts office." Are you familiar with the Second National City Bank of Dallas... Travelers’ Cheques... $100's... Yes, I'll hold.", He turned back to Ford at the desk, "I won't keep you long Sir, but we do have to check... " Ford became more and more uneasy with each passing second.

"Hello, no
.., nothing reported.., I see. Yes. Thank you." The voice had returned on the line." May I just trouble you for some identification Mr. Ford. Your passport will be fine." Ford handed over his passport and the manager copied its number onto the back of each and every cheques.

"That just leaves the balance of £9.60 or $12.50 Mr. Ford." Ford gave him the money.

"Thank you very much Sir for choosing to stay with us at the Great Park Hotel. Have a good day!" T.T. Ford turned on his heels and left the reception, without returning the courtesy. To him the English had an unnerving way of getting right up his nose with their over emphasized manners. He told the doorman to hail him a cab. One slid to a stop within seconds.

"Heathrow, driver! Get me the hell out of this damn city!" The cabby turned around in his seat and slid back the dividing partition so he could speak to his fare.

"Heathrow Guv'nor... You do realize it's clock and an ‘alf," he said, pointing to his meter.

"What's that mean driver?"

"It means that you pay me 'alf as much again as is on the meter."

"And just why the hell should I do that?"

"Because if you wants to go by cab to Heathrow, that's how much it's gonna cost yer. Anythin' over six miles we can refuse to go, but if we do go, the fare's up to us. Now, do you wanna go to Heathrow or not?" Ford thought the cabby so offensive that he could easily have been in New York.

"How long's it going to take?"

"Depends on the traffic... anything from 'alf an hour to an hour and an 'alf on a day like today."

"Just get me there by eleven o’clock, O.K?"

"Right you are guv'. You're the boss." At least somebody knows his place, thought Ford. The cab joined the stream of traffic coming from Hyde Park and the cabby expertly weaved his way through the lanes of traffic and headed for the M 4 motorway to the airport. They arrived without incident, just after 10.30 a.m.

"That'll be £24.50 please," asked the cabby, looking up from the meter.

"Do you take travelers’ cheques?"

"What do you think
we are mate, a bleedin’ bank?" groaned the cabby.

"Is that a 'no'?", asked Ford, tiring of the habitual question and answer routine. Why, oh why, couldn't the London cabby's settle for just being down-right rude like their New York cousins. At least with them, you knew where you were.

"What you got then?" The driver asked. Ford took out the thick wallet of cheques. The cabby's eyes lit up with anticipation.

"Are they in dollars?"

"Yes."

"Half a jif mate. I'll work it out." The cabby checked the dollar rate in his newspaper, added 10 cents to the pound to make the buying rate and another 10 cents to the pound for himself. "That'll be $35.50 in round figures, squire." He declared. "Call it $40 for cash."  Ford signed a $100.00 che
que and handed it to him.

"What about your passport then? I'll need the number." Ford grudgingly handed it over.

"Thanks very much, guv.., very nice of you," the cabby said as he climbed back into the driver's seat and started the engine. He wrote the passport number on the back of the cheque and handed it back to Ford, slipping the cab into gear at the same time.

"What about my change?" shouted Ford, running
alongside the cab as it gathered speed.

"Couldn't split a $100 squire. Told you I wasn't a bank
.., have a nice day!"

The cab quickly disappeared from Ford's view, merging with 100 others heading for the long-waiting rank at the international terminal. As he had no time to lose before his Paris flight, Ford could do nothing, but curse his luck as he entered the terminal building.

Before catching his flight, he changed some more cheques. The cashier made no comment as to Dallasbank... they were used to seeing thousands of different cheques from banks all over the world.

"Tell me something
... " Ford asked the cashier, "Is it going to be as difficult changing my money in Paris as it has been here, this weekend?"

"It's always fairly difficult to change money in Paris." The cashier replied with studied indifference.

"Why is that?"

"They only have
Bureau-de-Change at the main air and sea ports and the main railway terminals; otherwise you have to go to the banks.

"In that case, can I change some more here?"

"Certainly Sir. How much?" the cashier inquired.

"Is their holiday period the same?"

"I don't know, Sir, but they are a catholic country and they do take their religious festivals rather seriously..."

"I'll change another $5,000 then." The cashier didn't even blink at the size of the transaction. He was quite used to it and as it wasn't his own mo
ney, the amount never concerned him.

Ford caught the Air France flight with minutes to spare. He would be working in Paris, for at least three days, before returning to his mistress in London. Plenty of time to balance the books, as in France he could freely use his credit and banking facilities to reimburse Dallasbank the money he had spent on himself. It was only because of the running costs of his mistress that he had attended the Grosvenor House conference in the first place. ‘C'est la guerre!’ He thought.

For the Americans overall, Easter Saturday was a day of mixed fortunes. Ford had spent it travelling to Paris and while the Kennerleys were traipsing around the museums of London, Dinsdale T. Brent discovered that he had forgotten his wallet and had to use the Dallasbank cheques for the day's expenses.

Ed Dodge and his daughter were the only delegates apart from Ford, to do something different with the day. They exchanged the hectic pace of the metropolis for the burlesque atmosphere of a day-trip to France. They had been seduced by a British-rail advertising poster, of all things and had bought tickets for train and
hover craft to visit the jewel of the Opal coast, Calais. There was no cultural reason for Dodge's choice of excursion other than a hankering to see the white cliffs of Dover. Before boarding the train at Charing Cross, Dodge and his daughter visited the Bureau-de-Change on the station's concourse.