Death in the City, page 4
‘£300,000 is a large sum, but you will understand, gentlemen, that in terms of the sums that come before my board daily it is not a very significant amount. One may have one’s private feelings on the justice of property speculators getting their fingers burnt, but, alas, these property companies attract many people’s savings, and we were all reluctant to force the Ingard group into bankruptcy. After some discussion we decided to hold up the cheque for a day or two instead of refusing it, while I made some informal inquiries. I couldn’t get hold of Desmond Ingard, and then I remembered Andrew Stavanger, whom, I must say, I trusted a good deal more. I telephoned him at the shipping company, but was told that he was not in the office. Next morning I had a letter from him, sent round by hand. Here it is.’
Sir Geoffrey took a folded sheet of typescript from his wallet, and handed it to Sir Edmund, who, in turn, gave it to me. It read,
Dear Sir Geoffrey,
I am sorry that I was out of the office when you telephoned this afternoon. I think I know what you wanted to talk to me about – the rather large cheque for Irwin Osnafeld. Please pay it. These are difficult times, as you know, and if it is an embarrassment to the Ingard account please use my personal deposit to meet it.
Yours sincerely,
Andrew Stavanger
‘What was the deposit? Was there enough to meet the cheque?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ the banker went on, ‘there was. I’m afraid I must go back into history again. It was a tradition in the Stavanger family to keep, through thick and thin, enough money to buy a new ship – in gold. James Stavanger used to keep the gold in the strong room at the Upper Thames Street branch of the bank. During the war, of course, gold holdings were requisitioned, and it was replaced by a deposit account at the bank. Andrew Stavanger would never touch it – even when he needed a bank overdraft, and to use the deposit would have kept down interest charges, he preferred to keep it intact. With bank interest over the years it amounted to some £320,000 – certainly enough to meet the Ingard cheque. I was relieved, we met the cheque, and that was that.
‘But for some reason I was not happy about it. My initial relief that there were funds to meet the cheque was replaced by a feeling that the letter was out of character with everything I knew about Andrew Stavanger. He had refused to touch what he called the Stavanger Final Insurance even when he needed the money for his fleet – why should he use it now for what was only indirectly of concern to him? The deposit belonged to him personally, not to the T and T shipping company, and certainly not to the Ingard group. It was some years since I had seen his signature. I had no reason to suppose that the letter was anything but genuine – it was on the shipping company’s notepaper, and, insofar as such recollections are of any value, the signature at first glance was in keeping with the signature I remembered vaguely from my days at Upper Thames Street. But something kept nagging in my mind, and a couple of days later I sent my secretary to Upper Thames Street to get the files of our earlier correspondence with him, and the original specimen of his signature kept by the bank. When I got them I became more worried. Superficially the signatures are alike, but when you look into them closely, there are differences. Here is a signature that I know to be genuine, on a document guaranteeing his overdraft of over twenty years ago, signed in my presence. Compare it with the signature on the letter. The “d” and the “w” of Andrew are somewhat different and a pen stroke joining the “w” of Andrew to the capital “S” of “Stavanger” is also different. Now I know that handwriting changes slightly as men age, but the essential character of a signature remains the same. I am a banker. I was a bank clerk in the days before computers, when the signature on every cheque was scrutinised before the cheque was entered – by hand – in the ledger. I’m not happy about this signature.’
Sir Geoffrey paused to drink some tea. Neither of us said anything, and he continued. ‘We had already acted on the letter by meeting the cheque, and you may feel that my fears came rather late in the day. I felt so myself. But I was worried, and I telephoned Andrew Stavanger again. I intended to say merely that we had done as he had instructed us in his letter, hoping that he would thereby confirm the letter as a matter of course. But again I was told that he was away from the office, and a girl who said she was his secretary could give me no clear indication of when he was expected back. His private address is listed in the telephone book. He lives in Stepney – the Stavangers have always lived in Stepney. That evening I telephoned his home and could get no reply. I telephoned again early next morning before he would have gone to work, but again there was no reply. Next I took the liberty of calling on his daughter, Mrs Carolan. I’d telephoned beforehand, and she agreed to see me, but she was obviously puzzled by my visit. I explained that I wanted to see her father on a matter of business, but that his office had been unable to tell me where he was, and that I could get no reply by telephoning his home. She then said – these are more or less her exact words – “I’m sorry about this, but I’m not altogether surprised. His office wouldn’t want to talk about it on the telephone, because my father has not been well, and at times has been behaving rather strangely. He’s taken to going off on one or other of his ships – quite reasonably, because he is managing director of the shipping company. But he goes off just before a ship sails, without telling anyone. As far as I knew he’s at present on the Charlotte T – all our ships are called something T, as you probably know – on a trip to Hamburg.”
‘I asked her if she expected to see him when he got back, and she said, “To be perfectly frank, I don’t know. My father and I are not very close – I’m not a son who could be sent to sea.” She said this, I thought, rather bitterly. And she added, “Don’t misunderstand me – we’re on perfectly good terms. But we have little in common, and since my mother died we haven’t had much to do with one another. He did telephone to say that he was going to Hamburg – that was a little unusual. But it was a few days before my birthday, and he has always remembered my birthday. I think he telephoned to explain that he would be away. That’s how I know about this particular trip – otherwise I probably wouldn’t.”
‘Well, that didn’t get me much forrader, but it was something. I got my staff to check on the Charlotte T, and found that she had sailed the day after Andrew Stavanger wrote his letter. So that was all right as far as it went. But I sent someone to meet the Charlotte T when she docked at Tilbury on her return. Andrew Stavanger was not on board, and her Master said that he had certainly not sailed in her. That was three days ago. It was then that I decided to invoke the help of the Commissioner.’
‘What, exactly, do you suspect?’ Sir Edmund asked.
The banker hesitated. ‘In general, I suspect that there’s something badly wrong,’ he said. ‘More specifically, I think I suspect the letter purporting to be from Andrew Stavanger of being a forgery – or, if not, that it was signed by Andrew Stavanger without his fully realising what he was doing. His daughter says that he had been ill – the slight differences in his signature might be due to illness.’
‘If he actually signed the letter it would be difficult to prove that he didn’t know what was in it,’ Sir Edmund observed.
‘Yes. And as we acted on the instructions in the letter it wouldn’t be easy for the bank to challenge it,’ Sir Geoffrey said frankly. ‘But if it were a forgery?’
‘That would be different, certainly. But, again, it might be exceedingly hard to prove.’ Sir Edmund looked at the letter again. ‘It’s perfectly normal office typing, with the usual index or file reference – AS/TMJ. The AS presumably indicates Andrew Stavanger, and the TMJ will be his secretary, or one of the typing staff. And it reads sensibly enough – it is just the sort of letter that he might have been expected to write if he got back to his office late and were told that you had been trying to get in touch with him. It mentions the payee of the cheque – that implies full knowledge of the matter.’
‘All that may be so, but you don’t know Andrew Stavanger, and I do. The letter is utterly out of character. Of course, people do act out of character – but not often in a matter involving almost the whole of a man’s private fortune. Stavanger has a considerable holding of Ingard stock, but he must know that it is largely worthless. I warned you at the outset, gentlemen, that my suspicions may be unfounded. They are nonetheless real. I have a lifelong experience of banking, and have had to act constantly on personal judgment. When you go to a banker for a loan and he asks you what security you can offer, you may think that banks exist to lend on good security. That is true only up to a point. The most important bank loans are made to people – determined by the banker’s judgment of the personality of the man he’s dealing with. I’ve made mistakes in my time – we all have. But I wouldn’t be chairman of the bank if I’d made very many mistakes. In this case I feel a deep conviction that I’m not making a mistake. That’s why I have broken all the rules of confidence by coming to you.’
The man was curiously impressive.
‘Surely the matter can be settled simply by asking Mr Stavanger about it?’ I said.
‘Of course. But where is Mr Stavanger? I cannot get in touch with him at his office, or his home, or through his daughter. And the trip he was supposed to have gone on he didn’t make.’
‘Could you not write to him?’
‘If there is anything in my suspicions, a letter addressed to him might be opened by someone privy to the forgery or fraud. And for the chairman of the bank to be showing particular interest in him might alert people who, if the truth is ever to come to light, ought not to be alerted.’
‘Much the same applies to police inquiries,’ I said.
‘Colonel Blair is right,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘That’s one reason why the Commissioner felt that our—’ he paused, choosing his words carefully – ‘perhaps slightly unorthodox approach might be helpful. I’m wondering if it might be possible for Colonel Blair to have access to the offices of either the Ingard group or the shipping company in some capacity that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.’
‘The offices are in the same building, Ingard House. It’s on the site of the old T and T offices in Upper Thames Street, but is a new and grandiose building put up soon after the merger. I thought it a great waste of money. But I’m not quite clear what you mean.’
‘In all the circumstances,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that the bank would have good grounds for putting in a receiver. I know you don’t want to do that at the moment, since it would be tantamount to forcing liquidation. But you could ask for a special audit. Apart from the £300,000 which couldn’t be met, what is the state of the Ingard account? A firm of their size must be pouring out cheques all the time, for wages, office bills, all its normal business. How are these met?’
‘The account is exceedingly unhealthy. Of course there is money coming in – the shipping company makes money, though not enough to meet the losses on Ingard investments. And there are some properties producing rent, though not many, because the group’s business is in speculative purchases of property to sell at a profit – it’s not a property company in the sense of owning blocks of offices or flats to rent. It has a large overdraft, a matter of some £5 million, secured on Ingard Holdings – that’s the finance company holding shares in the various subsidiary companies set up to buy and sell blocks of property. I say “secured” but the overdraft at present is largely unsecured, because property values have declined so much that many of the holdings are worth very little. The income from the shipping company and rents is just about enough to keep the overdraft from going above its limit. For the past few months it’s been more or less constantly at the limit – the £300,000 cheque put it unacceptably over.’
‘So you would have good reason for calling in your loan.’
‘Unquestionably. But that would push the group into bankruptcy, with severe consequences in the City.’
‘The Ingard board must know that they are nearly at the end of the road. If you asked for a special audit they would probably welcome it, as an indication that the bank was going to great lengths not to put them out of business.’
‘Possibly. But I don’t see how that would help in clearing up my own suspicions.’
‘An audit requires auditors. I was thinking that perhaps you could arrange for me to be one of the team. That would give me access to the offices, with a reasonable status for asking discreet questions.’
Sir Geoffrey got to his feet. ‘That seems an admirable suggestion. And I can certainly arrange it,’ he said. ‘The board will have to accept – I can say that it is a matter of urgency for the bank to decide whether it can carry on. You had better give me a few days. Let me see – today is Thursday. That leaves tomorrow to approach the board, and as I shall insist that the arrangement must be made by Monday – the bank, of course, will wish to appoint its own auditors – if you can come to my office at four o’clock on Monday afternoon, Colonel Blair, I shall introduce you to your superiors. Er – what name would you wish to go by? Do you wish me to call you Colonel Blair?’
‘I’m not particularly well known, and I don’t see that it matters much, though it might be as well to omit the Colonel. But as we’re completely in the dark about what sort of intelligence service – if any – we’re up against it would do no harm to take precautions. My mother’s name was Mottram – I’ll call myself Peter Mottram. My qualifications for the job I leave to you.’
*
‘Well, thank you, Peter,’ said Sir Edmund, when the banker had gone. ‘It may seem hypocritical when you’re giving up your leave, but not everyone becomes a chartered accountant quite so rapidly. On second thoughts, though, I think you’d better not be a chartered accountant. They are listed in their professional register, and while it’s unlikely that anyone will look you up, it’s possible. And that would mean having to borrow someone else’s name, and that might be embarrassing. What did you say about your qualifications?’
‘I said I’d leave them to him.’
‘That might be unwise. I must have a word with him on the phone. If I may say so, you’re a bit long in the tooth to be an articled clerk, and – to make up for that – you have an air of authority that scarcely fits you for a junior position. I think you’d better be a financial adviser – one of the bank’s backroom boys. Yes, you must certainly be on the staff of the bank. That will make people respect you. Not that they wouldn’t, anyway,’ he added hastily, ‘but you know what I mean.’
‘I know just what you mean.’ Then we both laughed. ‘What on earth do you make of it all?’
‘I don’t know. Sir Geoffrey Gillington is one of the ablest brains in the City. He also struck me as wholly sincere and a very decent sort. It wouldn’t in the least surprise me if there’s something nasty going on in the Ingard empire. What we do about it is another matter. Why did this upright shipmaster sell out to such a crowd?’
‘That’s his business, and it was several years ago, anyway. What puzzles me is why we don’t do the obvious and go and find him. It’s not for me to question orders, but I should have thought that running him to earth would be a simple police job.’
‘Not so simple, Peter. That was the Commissioner’s first thought, and Scotland Yard got to work on it straight away. They haven’t found him. Telephone calls to the office get precisely the same response as Sir Geoffrey got – a polite girl saying that Mr Stavanger is away. He is expected back soon – she is sorry, but she doesn’t know exactly when. Inquiries in Stepney got nowhere. The Stavangers have one of those early Victorian houses in Yardarm Square, built for middling-prosperous ships’ captains, declining into slums and now fashionable again. Great-grandfather or great-great-grandfather bought the house, and the head of the shipping line has always lived there, even when most of the neighbourhood became a slum. It was near the ships, I suppose. After Andrew Stavanger’s wife died he turned the house into three flats, and he lives alone in the top flat. He served his time at sea, is quite capable of looking after himself, and apparently prefers it that way. The flats are self-contained, and the other occupants don’t know when he’s there or not. They think they “know Mr Stavanger by sight”, but that’s about all. One couple didn’t even know that he is their landlord – the flats are let through an estate agent. Of course there wasn’t a formal police hunt for him – there seemed no reason for it, and Sir Geoffrey was most anxious for discretion. All one can say is that discreet inquiries in the neighbourhood produced nothing, save to show that he certainly appears not to be in the flat now.’
‘Isn’t there a case for an official police search?’
‘There might be. But in the circumstances – I don’t know. The man has not been reported missing, his office does not seem to be particularly worried about him, nor does his daughter.’
‘Well, I’m not at all clear what I’m supposed to do.’
It is typical of Sir Edmund’s somewhat elliptical approach to things that we went through this rather futile conversation before he told me anything else. Then he said casually, ‘Ask Rosemary for sheet 178 of the new series of Ordnance Survey maps – that’s the one of the Thames Estuary.’ I got the map from his secretary, and when I gave it him he spread it out on his desk. ‘As you have doubtless guessed, Peter, there is actually another reason why I have asked you to give up your leave. Come and look at the map.’
