The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries by Michael Gilbert

Author:Michael Gilbert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

THE MAN AT THE TOP

“THIS MAN,” SAID SHALLINI, “has taken a room. It is the room inside the front door, on the left.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” said Mercer.

“But you remember, when we came. The landlady told us it was a room she never let. Never. It was her own spare room.”

“Maybe she’s hard up.”

“She is not hard up. She has a great deal of money. I think she keeps it under her mattress.”

“She’s stupid enough to do just that,” agreed Mercer. “But why does it worry you?”

“I do not like these strange men. First they watch the house. Now they come and live here.”

“What’s strange about this one?”

Shallini considered the matter, then said, “He wears glasses.”

“Don’t bother your sweet head about him,” said Mercer. “If he wears glasses and looks strange he’s a tax inspector. And bustle along with those scrambled eggs. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a busy day at the office.”

Unless the weather was foul, Mercer liked to walk to work. It gave both him and the people who followed him some exercise. An expert himself in the art of maintaining observation, he was interested in the careful network which enfolded him. It was ably done and unless he had been watching out for it, he would probably have missed the links in the chain. A youth on a bicycle. A girl on a moped. A small closed van. A one-legged newspaper vendor. A number of less easily identifiable men and women on foot. The permutations and combinations were made skilfully and unobtrusively.

Nothing unexpected in that. When he had taken on the number two job, Mr. Henderson had told him, “You’re on probation.” If being on probation included being under observation, that was understandable too. In this game no player trusted any other player farther than he could see him. If he ever took Mr. Henderson’s place at the top, he would watch his number two just as carefully – well, to start with, anyway.

Mr. Henderson had defined the scope of his job with equal succinctness. “You’re a middle man. You’ll get instructions. You pass them on. And you see that they’re carried out.”

A beautifully watertight system, with half a dozen cutouts, everything operating downward and no leads back to the man at the top.

When Mercer got to his office in the building occupied by Arnold Rowe and Company (Ships’ Chandlers and General Marine Suppliers) in Lower Creek Street, he examined the dozen letters which had arrived with the morning post. One of them seemed to interest him. It was in a dark-blue good-quality envelope and was addressed to him by name. The word CONFIDENTIAL had been stamped in red on the top left-hand side of the envelope. The word was enclosed in a rectangular frame, which was tilted very slightly to the left.

Before opening the envelope, Mercer took out a ruler and measured the distance between the top left-hand corner of the frame and the comer of the envelope. He seemed satisfied with the result and slit open the envelope.

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