The Lonely Lady (15 page)

“They balance. We have all the receipts posted.”

“I don’t understand it,” the bank president said.

“Neither do I,” John said. “I’ve been worried sick ever since I discovered it.”

“When was that?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why didn’t you come to me right away?”

“I thought I might have made a mistake,” John answered. “So I went through the whole thing over again. But the answer was the same.”

Carson looked up at him. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone. Leave it with me for a few days. I want to think about it.”

“Yes, sir. But if the auditors should come in—”

Carson didn’t give him a chance to finish. “I know, I know,” he said testily. “But I want to check the figures myself before we do anything about it.”

He waited until the door closed behind the cashier before he reached for the telephone and dialed. A guard voice answered. “Hello.”

“Mr. Gennutri please. Carson calling.”

The voice became less cautious. “This is Pete, Mr. Carson. What can we do for you today?”

“I don’t know,” Carson said. “How do we stand?”

“You did good yesterday. That filly paid six ten. You got your marker down to eleven grand.”

“What about the other two?”

“They ran out.” The bookie’s voice was sympathetic. “They shouldn’t have. I was sure you were going to hit me big.”

Carson was silent for a moment. “I’m in trouble, Pete,” he said. “I need money.”

“You’re a good customer, Mr. Carson. I could let you have ten grand.”

“I need more than that,” the banker said. “Big money.”

“How much?”

“About three hundred thousand.”

The bookmaker whistled. “That’s too rich for me. You have to go to the big boys for that.”

“Can you get to them?”

“Maybe.” Caution returned to Gennutri’s voice. “What you got to give them for the money?”

“You mean collateral?”

“Yes. I guess that’s what you bankers would call it.”

“Nothing much that’s liquid. My house. The shares in the bank.”

“The shares in the bank,” Gennutri asked. “What’s that worth?”

“Five, maybe six hundred thousand,” the banker said. “But it’s non-negotiable.”

“You mean you can’t see it?”

“Not without the consent of the bank’s board of trustees.”

“Would you have any trouble getting them do to that?”

“I would have to tell them why,” he said. “And I can’t do that.”

“It won’t be easy then.”

“Would you try them for me? I’d appreciate it.”

“I will, Mr. Carson,” the bookmaker said.

Carson’s eyes fell on the newspaper lying next to the report on his desk. The page was turned to racing charts. “Pete,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Carson?”

“Put a thousand across the board on Red River in the fifth at Belmont.”

“Gotcha.”

Carson put down the telephone cursing himself. It was stupid, and he knew it. But he couldn’t help himself. The horse had a chance and the odds were long enough to make it a good bet. He stared down at the newspaper, a sinking feeling coming into the pit of his stomach. Somehow no matter how good they looked they never won when you need them. He promised himself that if he straightened out this time he would never allow himself to get into the same trap again.

***

JeriLee came out of the warm pool. Walter put down his newspaper, picked up a large bath towel and draped it around her shoulders.

“Thanks.” She smiled.

He returned her smile. “The October air has a way of getting to you.”

She looked up at him. “In a way I’m sorry that winter is coming. There’ll be nothing for us to do.”

“You can always come over and sit by the fire.”

“That would be nice.” She hesitated. “But you’ll be leaving soon. The play will be going into rehearsal in a few weeks.”

“Yes,” he said. “That is, if we can get it cast.”

“I thought it was all set.”

“It is. Except for the girl.” He looked at her. “Do you know of a seventeen-year-old actress who could play a child as if she were a woman?”

“I never thought about it. I would think there must be several.”

“Not really,” he said. “The director should be here any moment to talk about it. We’re going over some possibilities.”

“I’ll dry and get out of your way then,” she said.

“No hurry,” he said quickly. “You won’t be in the way.”

“Sure?”

“I wouldn’t say so if I weren’t.”

“I’ll get out of the wet bathing suit then,” she said.

He watched her walk into the cabana, then picked up his newspaper again. But he wasn’t reading. He was thinking. The play was one thing. There he was in complete control. The characters did only what he let them. But life was different. Very different.

He heard the cabana door open and looked up. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a bulky knit sweater. She caught his glance and smiled. “Would you like me to get you something to drink?”

“Yes, please,” he said. A tight hard knot suddenly gathered in the pit of his stomach. “Scotch and water.”

“Okay.”

He watched her disappear into the house. The surge of feeling left him almost trembling. It was the first time he realized he had fallen in love with her.

***

“All right, Guy,” he said. “If we don’t find the girl we don’t open in November. We’ll go for next spring.”

“Can’t do it,” the director said. He was a slim lanky man with large horn-rimmed glasses and an air of quiet confidence. “We lose Beau Drake if we wait. He has a film commitment in May. And without him we’d have to begin all over again. We’ll just have to take a chance and go with the girl we think is best.”

Walter shook his head. “The play is chancy enough,” he said. “If the girl lets us down it won’t work.”

“I’ve never steered you wrong, Walter. There are ways to get around her.”

“I’m not rewriting,” Walter said stubbornly. “If I wanted it to be something else I would have written it that way.”

Guy made a gesture of futility. “It’s your baby, Walter.” He glanced through the glass sliding doors at the pool. JeriLee was sitting there reading a newspaper. He turned back to Walter. “Who’s the girl? A friend of Junior’s?”

Walter felt his face flushing. “In a way.”

Guy was sensitive. “That’s a funny answer,” he said, probing. “Sure she’s not a friend of yours?”

“Come on, Guy. She’s just a child.”

“How old is she?” He took a stab. “Seventeen?”

Walter stared at him.

“Can she act?” Guy asked.

“You’re crazy! She’s a high school kid who wants to be a writer.”

“Has she any talent?”

“I think so. There’s something extraordinary about her. If she keeps on the way she’s going she’s going to make it someday.”

“You have doubts?” Guy asked shrewdly.

“There’s only one thing that could stop her.”

“And that is?”

“She’s a girl and there’s something very physical about her. She’s really not aware of it but I have the feeling that a tigress is in there waiting to be unleashed.”

“You’ve just given me a perfect description of our girl,” Guy said. “Now, if she could only act.”

Walter was silent.

“Ask her to come in here.”

As she came through the door, Guy played a hunch. Without waiting for an introduction, he spoke the opening lines of the play. “Your father just called. He wants you to come home right away and said that he doesn’t want me to see you anymore.”

His hunch was right. She had read the play. She answered him the script. “My father is insane. If he can’t have me, he doesn’t want anyone else to.”

“Anne! That’s no way to talk about your own father.”

She looked at him with a demurely innocent smile. “Don’t act so shocked, Mr. Jackson. Didn’t you ever have any incestuous thoughts about your own daughter?”

Guy turned to Walter, who had been watching with fascination. “What do you think?”

Walter was looking at JeriLee.

“She is the girl, Walter,” the director said.

JeriLee was bewildered. “What’s he talking about?”

Walter found his voice. “He wants you to play the girl.”

“But I am not an actress.”

Guy smiled at her. “All it takes to be one is to be one.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said. “I’ve never really been on stage before except for a few school productions.”

Guy turned to Walter. “It’s up to you to convince her.”

Walter was silent and there was a strange expression on his face as he looked at her.

Guy walked to the door. “I’m going back to the city. Give me a call when you decide what you’re going to do.”

Walter didn’t answer him.

JeriLee saw Walter staring at her. “Are you angry with me?”

He shook his head.

“Then what is it?”

He found his voice. “Suddenly I find out I’m like the father in my own way. I’m jealous of you.”

***

Carson looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. They should have the results of the fifth race by now. He dialed the bookmaker’s number.

Gennutri answered the telephone with his customarily cautious voice. “Hello.”

“Pete? What happened in the fifth?”

“Tough luck, Mr. Carson. Your horse ran out of the money.”

Carson was silent for a moment. “Did you get in touch with your friends?” he asked.

“I did.” Gennutri’s voice was expressionless. “They’re not interested.”

“But surely they understand. I’m not just the usual horseplayer. I’ll pay them back.”

“Nothing personal in it, Mr. Carson, but that’s what they all say.”

He looked down at the newspaper still on the desk. There was a horse in the eighth race that could help out. “Okay, Pete,” he said. “Give me two thousand across the board on Maneater in the eighth.”

“Can’t do it, Mr. Carson.” Gennutri’s voice was cool. “You’re into me for twelve grand right now and I can’t give you any more markers until that’s cleaned up.”

“But I’ve run more than that before,” he protested.

“I know,” the bookmaker said flatly. “But things were different then. You weren’t hurtin’.”

“A thousand then,” Carson said. “You got to give me a chance to get even.”

“Sorry.” The bookmaker went off the line.

Carson stared at the dead phone in his hand for a moment, then slowly put it down. He sat there for almost an hour until he was sure everyone had gone home. Then he opened the small drawer in the bottom of his desk. He took out the revolver, put the muzzle in his mouth and blew the top of his head all over the wall under the picture of President Eisenhower.

Chapter 20

Wearily John Randall glanced up at the big clock on the wall. Three o’clock. The bank guard was looking at him. He raised his hand; the guard nodded and turned to lock the door. At the same time the two tellers dropped the windows, closing their cages.

Frustrated, the crowd of people still in line in front of the teller’s windows surged toward him. He got to his feet. The news of Carson’s suicide had hit Port Clare like a shock wave.

He glanced over his shoulder. The door of the president’s office was closed. Behind it the state examiners were still going through the records. Several other large discrepancies had been found but the total had not yet been reached. Carson had been thorough. Transfers and approvals had been carefully forged. No one could understand how he had slipped up this time.

“When do we get our money?” an irate customer shouted at him from the crowd. “Why are you closing the doors on us?”

“It’s legal closing time,” he said patiently. “And you will get your money. Whatever losses there have been are completely covered by insurance.”

“How do we know that?” another customer shouted. “I remember they told us the same thing when the Bank of the United States failed back in thirty-two.”

“Things were different then,” John explained. “Savings accounts are protected by the F.D.I.C. up to ten thousand dollars. The bank carries insurance against fraud and theft. Every penny will be replaced.”

“That’s what you say,” the man replied. “But you don’t have the cash to give us back our deposits right now, do you?”

“No,” John said. “But no bank has all the cash on hand to return to its depositors. Banks have the same problem as people. Cash comes in and goes out all the time. Like when you pay up your mortgage we have the money to lend to someone else or go give them a mortgage. Multiple that by hundreds and you understand how it works. It’s really simple common sense.”

“I’m not stupid,” the man said. “If I don’t make the payment on the mortgage, the bank takes my house away. If the bank doesn’t make our payment, what do we do?”

“The bank will make the payments.”

“What if you close?”

“We won’t close,” John said stubbornly. “We have assets enough to cover all our liabilities. All we need is time to convert them. And if you give us that time, I can promise that not one of you will suffer.”

“Mr. Randall, why should we believe you after what happened?”

John looked the man squarely in the eyes. He spoke slowly and clearly so that they could all hear him. “Because like you, Mr. Sanders, I’ve worked for a living all my life. And I have every penny I’ve managed to save in the world in this bank. And I’m not worried about it.”

The man was silent for a moment, then turned to the others. “I’m goin’ along with Mr. Randall. How ’bout you?”

There was a murmur among the crowd. Their hostility was dissolving. This was something they could understand. The word of one man.

“We’ll go along too!” a man in back of the crowd shouted.

Sanders held out his hand to John. “You’ll keep your promise to us?”

John nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Several of the others grabbed at his hand and then he watched the crowd silently leave the bank as the guard opened the door for them.

As he returned to his desk, John saw that Arthur Daley and several other members of the board of trustees had come out of the president’s office, where they had been closeted with the examiners, and were looking at him Arthur nodded and they went back into the office.

Three days later John was elected president of the Port Clare National Bank.

***