That Will Do Nicely (11 page)

"Is it O.K. to change
travelers’ cheques?" Dodge asked the cashier.

"American dollars?" Inquired the clerk with an air of extreme boredom.

"Yeah," Dodge placed the plastic wallet of cheques on the counter and extracted several of them.

"These are very popular this
week... 'Second National, Dallas'... commented the clerk.,

"Yeah, we were at a convention and we all got them."

"There must have been a lot of you there."

"Quite a few." Dodge replied, turning to his daughter." Sylvia, how many people would you say were at the convention?"

“Between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and fifty.”

"That explains why we've had so many then," commented the clerk. "Every year we see new che
ques from 20 or so different banks around the world... the whole thing seems to go in cycles."

"That's what the convention was about
... launching the bank's travelers’ cheques in Europe. They're introducing the cheques onto the market to make sure all the systems work before the big public launch in the summer," said Dodge.

"They brought the launch date forward from next year because of the strength of our dollar," explained Sylvia.

"How much would you like to change then.., a thousand dollars each?" asked the cashier, a hint of envy in his voice.

"Well that would certainly make things easier for us
... save us some walking. What do you think Sylvia?"

"I don't think we should
.., they told us not to change more than $300 at a time and I think we should stick to that."

"You heard the lady," continued Dodge, "$300 each it is." Soon, they were on their way to Dover and the English Channel.

The man known to Pascoe and Sam as John O'Hara, another of the delegates, had spent all his time since the conference working extremely hard, changing the cheques and had just exchanged the last $500 worth of the cheques at a small Chinese-run exchange, next door to a strip club, not 100 yards from the Swiss Center in London's Piccadilly. Now he looked for a cab to take him back to his hotel in Victoria. He found one cruising in Brewer Street and although the driver seemed less than delighted to make the trip, he made it across town in 15 minutes, a record, considering the traffic.

At first glance, Belgrave Road appears to be a long avenue of porticoed buildings, built in Regency style, reminiscent of the older part of Bath. Close inspection though, reveals a different world. The buildings, though large and imposing, have been converted from the elegant colonnaded private residences of the last century, to the Bed and Breakfast emporia of this. Some proprietors, not satisfied with the external appearance of their property, aspire to even greater heights by borrowing the names of their nobler counterparts in better areas of the city, such as the Dorchester and Grosvenor in London's Mayfair. O'Hara's hotel even supplied its own crested stationery to complete the illusion, but apart from this ready means of padding an executive's expense account, the hotel delivered far less than its name implied.

In his room, O’Hara retrieved his empty suitcase from under the bed and opened it on the small bedside table, propping up its lid against the bedroom wall. Next, he turned his attention to a shabby three drawer dressing table. He bent down, wrenched free the bottom drawer and carried it across to the bed. He tipped-out its contents onto the bed-spread and laid the drawer upside-down on the bed. There, securely taped to the underside of the drawer, were several freezer bags, containing the haul from the previous two days' cheques.., some  £13,500. He stripped the packets from the wood and slung them into the open suitcase, then packed the rest of his belongings on top of them. He looked the room over, making sure he'd forgotten nothing and checked out of the hotel. In his profession, it just didn't pay to stay in the same place too long.

"Taxi!" He yelled, flagging-
down an approaching cab with an outstretched arm. It was O'Hara's style of dress rather than his gesture which caught the cabby's eye. Charlie Morgan, like most London cabbies, could weigh-up a fare at 200 yards and although O'Hara didn't look to Charlie like one of the wealthier American tourists, he had him pegged as an Yank at that range. As the distance between his cab and the fare closed, Charlie's computer-like brain, honed to perfection over 15 years taxiing, had computed the odds of getting a good fare out of the punter. At 150 yards he knew it wouldn't be an airport run as the man wasn't expensively dressed and Belgrave Road didn't sport the type of hotel where American expense account executives usually stayed. At 100 yards Charlie's hopes were finally dashed and he knew it would probably only be a fare to Victoria station, a few blocks away. He switched his 'For Hire' sign on at 50 yards, having taken one last look at his quarry, to make sure the fare was all right. Satisfied that the fare presented no real problem, he slid the cab to a halt inches from the Yank and awaited him to announce his destination.

"Where to Guv?" h
e uttered the magic words, sliding his hand surreptitiously onto the taxi-meter and starting the clock.

"Cabby this is your lucky day!" The Yank announced. "I want to buy some luggage
.., quality mind you.., and then I want you to take me to a nice quiet hotel, somewhere central. Do you think you can do that?" The request was music to Charlie's ears. It had been a lean shift in spite of the holiday. However, he was conscious of not sounding too eager.

"Yeah, I suppose I can manage that, but I'm due off in half an hour
... so it'll cost yer," responded Charlie, obeying his first unwritten law.' Always let the client know that you're doing him a favor!'

"I'll make it worth your while."

They left Victoria and headed towards Trafalgar Square and the Strand against the flow of the traffic. A few yards past the entrance to Charing Cross station, Charlie stopped outside a shop which sold nothing but luggage.

"Before you go in there
Sir, how about some'n on account," Charlie asked the Yank, protecting his interests.

"On account of what exactly?" q
ueried O'Hara.

"On account of you disappearin' in there an' me not seein' you again."

"You don't trust me?"

"No offence, squire, but when it comes to my livin', I don't even trust me ol' granny
.., and she's been dead two years."

"Just hang on for me, O.K?" s
aid O'Hara, handing over a fiver."

Charlie nodded, having obeyed his second law of 'getting the money first', picked up his newspaper and started studying the figure on page 3.

O'Hara's fiddle

It took O'Hara several minutes to find what he was looking for
... a nondescript flight bag and a stout suitcase large enough to swallow it. The shop assistant thought him mad when he asked for the oldest stock items in the most drab, unfashionable colors, but he wanted something unnoticeable; something which wouldn't stand out in a crowd. By the time he rejoined the cab Charlie had worked his way little more than half-way down the same page of his newspaper. His eyes were slightly glazed from comparing the nubile form of the page 3 girl with his missus of 20 years, but the sound of his door being opened, brought him back to earth.

"O.K, driver, now I want somewhere ve
ry safe to leave this luggage. Any suggestions?"

"How about the station acros
s the road?" offered Charlie.

"No, I don't want a locker, I want someone to look after it. I don't trust lockers." Charlie had noticed the same lack of trust before with American fares before. All the Yanks he'd ever met carried their paranoia with them, like snails carry their shells on their backs.

"That's what I told you, squire. In the station there's a 'Left-luggage Office'. You book your luggage in and they give you a receipt and charge you by the day... all right."

"Let's take a look!"

Charlie made a U-turn across the traffic coming up the Strand from Trafalgar Square, and then turned into the station forecourt.

He turned the ignition off, got out and walked over to the last cab on the rank.

"Hello Bert, 'ow’s your luck?"

"Not much doing this morning, Charlie. I've being working the circuit, but i
t's fairly quiet. How about you?"

"Well I've got a nice one on at the moment." Charlie winked and gestured at his own cab with his thumb. "A run around from the Vic. Couple o' stops an' he wants a nice hotel. Should be a nice tickle
.., we're already on double-bubble. Tell the lads for me that I'm not pirating.., just visitin' the 'Left-luggage' if anyone wants to know. Be lucky!"

Charlie walked back to his own cab where O'Hara was getting impatient.

"What the hell was that all about?" Demanded O'Hara.

"All that's about not gettin' lynched when we bleedin’ come out. You see this," he said, pointing to the cabs. "This is what we call a Taxi rank. You might sit on it for an hour before you get a job and if they see me swan straight out of the station wiv' a fare, and wiv'out so much as a 'by-your-leave', my life wouldn't be worth livin'"

Charlie led O'Hara through one of the station entrances and across to the 'Left-luggage' office by Platform 6. O'Hara had already transferred all his belongings and clean clothing into the new case, leaving the old one with its secret and an assortment of dirty washing, to discourage anyone should they open it. He consigned the old suitcase to the loving care of a West Indian British Railways clerk, who duly handed him his receipt.

"How does this work?" O'Hara asked.

"You've paid for a day, man. You come back tomorrow and claim your suitcase and that's it."

"And if I don't get back tomorrow?" O'Hara knew he needed to leave it for several days at least.

"Then we charge you for every day you don't come back... until we treat it as lost property."

"How long's that?"

"Oh, that's months man, months. Don't you worry, you'll be back!"

O'Hara left the counter, satisfied his case his case would be reasonably safe for the next few days.

"Hey man," shouted the clerk, "you forgot the ticket!" O'Hara, embarrassed by his forgetfulness, hurried back to the counter and retrieved his receipt.

"You've got to be more careful than that, man," said the clerk, shaking his head." Don't you know,' no ticket'
.., no case!"

"Where to now Guv'? " asked Charlie, leaning against his cab. "I know just the place for you
.., the Regent's Palace, just off Picaddilly.., won't take a jiff... "

O'Hara readily accepted the cabby's suggestion and a few minutes later the cab turned off at the bottom of Regent Street and pulled up outside the hotel's main entrance.

“There you are Guv'.., you'll be comfy here and if you want anything special.., ask for Fancy Fred, he's the senior porter and he'll put you onto it. And should you want me again, Fancy'll know where to find me. All right?"

"Fine. Now how much do I owe you?"

Charlie looked wistfully at his meter.

"I've got £18.20 on the clock, plus waiting, say £25." He avoided the American's gaze as he mentioned the price, looking blasé by the proceedings, knowing it was likely to be his fare of the day, if not the week.

"There you are then, £25 for the fare and £10 for you."

"You're a scholar an' a gentleman
Sir!" The surprise of his easy reward caused him to almost choke on the words. He drove off. It had been the easiest forty quid of the year. God bless America, he thought, grinning from ear to ear.

Once settled into his room, O'Hara changed clothes. Before he left for Soho he taped his luggage receipt to the underside of the bottom drawer of the bedside dressing table. Next, in preparation for dumping the O'Hara passport, he carefully wiped each page clean of fingerprints. Satisfied that there was nothing in the passport which could lead the police back to him, he picked it up by the edges and placed it in his jacket pocket.

He stepped out of the hotel into the bustle of  London's West End, bought a copy of the London Evening Standard at the new-stand by Piccadilly Underground station, taking it from the vendor between the knuckles of his right hand. Tucking the paper underneath his left arm, he gingerly retrieved the passport from his jacket pocket and slipped it between the folds of the newspaper. This done, he walked through Soho's narrow streets for ten minutes before discarding both newspaper and passport into a convenient litter bin. Certain that he had remained unobserved, he wandered about for a further half-hour, before reporting the loss of his travelers’ cheques and passport to the youngest policeman he could find.

"Hey, excuse me constable." O'Hara addressed the policeman, "I think I've been robbed
... " said O'Hara.

"I see
Sir. Where and when would this have been?"

"I'm not sure
.., I had everything when I left the hotel," continued O'Hara innocently.

"Which hotel,
Sir?" asked the copper, extracting his note book from his breast pocket.

"The Regent's Palace Hotel
.., it's not far from here, I think."

"Yes,
Sir. I know the hotel. What exactly have you lost?"

"My
travelers’ cheques and my passport."

"And what would the value of the che
ques have been?"

"I'm not certain, but in the region of $12,000
... about £10,000 ... "O'Hara watched the sum register on the policeman's face.

"I think you'd better come along to the station with me,
Sir and we'll make out a report." He spoke the words not as a request but an order and turned O'Hara firmly by the elbow, walking him in the direction of Marlborough Street Police Station.

O'Hara's concern was that the original loss of the passport which he had stolen at Heathrow airport, had been notified to all police stations and he was counting on the authorities having better things to do than tidy up the inevitable flotsam of the tourist season. It was a calculated risk, but one he felt justified in taking in order to maximise his profit from the
travelers’ cheques.

It was while he had been working the airport that he had read the advertisement for the Guyton Conference in the London edition of US Today. The conference had seemed tailor-made for him as he was an opportunist both by choice and by nature
. He had travelled the world living off his wits.

His third victim of the day had been O'Hara, a man who basically resembled himself in age, build and
coloring. He had deliberately bumped him near one of the escalators, upsetting a polystyrene cup of airport coffee down the mark's suit. The rest had been easy. While mopping up the darkening stain with his handkerchief, he had removed both passport and wallet from his victim’s pockets before excusing himself seconds later, saying he had a flight to catch. He had escaped up the elevator onto the next floor and had sought refuge in a nearby toilet, but there had been no hue and cry. There he had stripped the man's wallet, keeping only its money, credit cards and passport. It was something he had done many times before. Now, in the confines of Marlborough Street Police station, he hoped to God that the police had better things to do than play Happy Families with passports lost and found.

In the event, O'Hara was questioned fairly thoroughly by two police officers as to the where, when and how he had lost the che
ques and passport, but the officers were also the first to admit to the problem of pick-pockets in central London. The older of the two officers said that it was open season for pick-pockets and compared the advent of the tourist season with the glorious twelfth. After noting the details of the cheques, they let him go and advised him to report the losses to the American Embassy and the London Office of Dallasbank. O'Hara assured them he would do so and left.

He arrived at the Change Alley Office at 5.30 and was pleased to find somebody still there. He rang the bell and went through the familiar routine of announcing himself.

"Good afternoon Mr. O'Hara, I imagine you have brought us some money," said Pascoe, opening the door.

“Not exactly. You see I have had most of the damn che
ques stolen this afternoon, in Soho. We think it must have been pick-pockets."

"We?" a
sked Pascoe.

"The police. It was what your instructions advised us to do if we lost them."

"Quite so, Mr. O'Hara. How many had you already cashed before you lost them?"

"About $ 3,000, I think. I kept a record. Here it is. "O'Hara passed his copy of the purchaser's agreement over to Pascoe, indicating the che
ques' numbers marked on the back.

"All right Mr. O'Hara, Miss Fairbrother will work out the commission on the ones you changed and then we'll replace the balance
... if you still want to go through with it, that is."

"Certainly, Pleased to help."

Sam duly paid him a balance of some £250 and another $12,000 in travelers’ cheques. O'Hara thanked them both profusely before leaving the office. His step was considerably lighter than when he had entered the building. The next day he would discard the O'Hara persona, pick up the suitcase from Charing Cross and laugh all the way to the bank. He had decided not to risk cashing any more of the original cheques himself, as he knew people in the city that he could sell them to for 15% of their face value. He thought his life should always be that easy! 

The rest of the holiday followed a similar pattern to the previous couple of days. Pascoe's 100-odd delegates mingled with the rest of the tourists in the city and busied themselves cashing in the
travelers’ cheques. For the moment, everything was going according to Pascoe’s plan.

In Paris, 180 miles south of Calais, T.T. Ford also had no problems changing che
ques at the "Charles de Gaulle" airport or the "Gare du Nord" railway station. In all, it was an uneventful weekend for the French contingent.

Later in the weekend, the pace hotted up considerably at the Change Alley office. The number of visitors had increased steadily from the Saturday afternoon onwards, with more than 20 people stopping by to deposit their cash. Only two of their callers had exchanged all their che
ques - the rest divesting themselves of cash they didn't want to carry around.

During the intervals between visitors, Pascoe and Sam discussed O'Hara. Pascoe hadn't believed the man's story for a moment and was convinced O'Hara had invented it to obtain more che
ques and keep a larger slice of the money. What neither of them suspected though, was that O'Hara was not his real name and that he had been using a stolen passport.

By close of business on the Sunday evening, they had amassed more than £250,000. Knowing that they were running short of time for more Americans to pick up their first issue of che
ques, Pascoe started issuing the remaining cheques to people on a first come - first served basis.

The
problem facing them was that of 'a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush'.., they had already netted a quarter of a million pounds in cash and they could be home, safe and sound and comfortably rich if they were to quit then. They discussed leaving ahead of schedule, but in the end, they decided to wait until the coming Tuesday lunchtime.

Easter Monday morning brought a visit from the Dodges who each handed over nearly £12,000, having exchanged all their che
ques and it was as they recounted their adventures with the Thomas Cook office at the Dover Hover  port, that Pascoe first started to worry. Sam, although disturbed by the news, managed to conceal her anxiety until the couple had left the office.

"Christ, that was close!" s
he erupted, the moment they were alone.