Hours later he still lay awake, his right arm going to sleep, cursing the darkness.
But at least he now had hope.
Chapter 11
Jeremy Lippincott's silver Bentley circled the bank bearing his name three times before he received the high sign signifying that it was safe for the president of the Lippincott Savings Bank to enter.
"My usual spot, Wigglesworth," Jeremy said tartly.
"Yes, Mr. Lippincott."
The Bentley purred into the space, and Jeremy waited for the door to be opened by his brown-liveried chauffeur before alighting.
He noticed a slightly loose button on Wigglesworth's tunic. It dangled from two threads.
"Have you no personal pride?" Jeremy Lippincott, scion of the Lippincott family wealth, complained in his clipped lockjaw accents. "That button is dangling."
Wigglesworth looked down. His thin face went ashen. "I had no idea, Mr. Lippincott," he gulped, clapping the button close to his barrel chest.
"I believe you know the inviolate rule about faultless attire."
Wigglesworth puckered up his face in perplexity. "I don't believe I do, sir."
"Faultless attire earns one's salary. Attire at fault results in the docking of a day's salary for the day the sartorial lapse was committed, and for every day thereafter if it is not satisfactorily corrected."
"But Mr. Lippincott-"
"Stop sputtering, you latter-day hackney driver, and beat my usual path to the door."
Wigglesworth set his teeth and turned smartly on his booted heel, walking ahead of his master and opening the door for him.
"That will be all, Wigglesworth."
"Yes, Mr. Lippincott."
"Remain with the machine in case there is a sudden need for flight. But do not use the heater. In fact, why don't you stand at attention before the passenger door until instructed otherwise?"
"Might I point out that it is a tad nippy today?"
"If you catch your death, no doubt that loose button will make a fit epitaph," Jeremy drawled as he passed into the marble-and-brass bank lobby.
The Lippincott Savings Bank was the picture of an old-money bank. Oils hung high on the crackled and faded marble walls. The half-open bank vault had the look and feel of an old pocket watch magnified by the passing of years. The decor was so staid that even the red crushed-velvet guide ropes were gray.
All looked sound, Jeremy saw. Tellers were busy telling. The loan staff seemed underoccupied, but perhaps it was a seasonal quirk. No need to lay off anyone prematurely. Too difficult to break in new stock, and with the hiring quotas these days, there was no telling what color person one would be forced to employ. Better a slacker with some pedigree than some low Mediterranean type.
Rawlings, the manager, met him at his office door.
"What took you so long?" Jeremy hissed. "I had to circle the block three times."
"I expected you at ten-thirty, not eleven, Mr. Lippincott," Rawlings said apologetically.
"I lingered over my scones and tea," Jeremy said. "One must eat a hearty breakfast if one is to endure the travails of this trade."
"Yes, sir."
"Speaking of travails, have those rotters been about?"
"The IRS? No, sir."
"Are we rid of them, then?"
"I doubt it, Mr. Lippincott. They were not satisfied with my explanations."
"Then give them explanations they are satisfied with, you unmitigated dunderhead!"
"It is not as simple as that."
"Exactly how simple is it?"
"As I have tried explain to you, Mr. Lippincott, it is not simple at all. The bank is in violation of several strict laws governing wire transfers, including the Bank Secrecy Act and the Money Laundering Control Act. Not to mention IRS reporting requirements regarding the transfer funds in excess of ten thousand dollars from other banks. I'm afraid we've failed to exercise due diligence."
"And whose responsibilty is that?"
"For the hundreth time, sir, these funds simply appeared in our system overnight. I brought this to your attention at the time, and you said to ignore it. And so I did. Emphatically."
"You obeyed my instructions?"
"Yes, sir. Implicitly."
"And thereby called down the combined wrath of the Federal Banking Commission and the Infernal Revenue Service!" Jeremy thundered.
"Please, sir. Not in front of the staff."
"The staff be hanged! This is your mess. Clean it up or clean out your desk."
"Yes, Mr. Lippincott," said Rawlings as the cherrywood door with the brass nameplate slammed shut in his face.
"Carry on," he told his staff in a voice as weak as his knocking knees.
JEREMY LIPPINCOTT crossed his cherrywood-paneled office in a blind tizzy. The nerve of that man, Rawlings. Trying to foist his personal failings on a Lippincott. Why, the Lippincotts had landed on Plymouth Rock in the first ship. The Rawlings were easily three sails back, yet he had dared stand up to his betters and speak as if an equal. After this ugliness was done with, he would suffer summary dismissal if Lippincott Savings had to replace him with an Italian-or worse, a damn Irishman!
By the time Jeremy Lippincott had doffed his slate gray Brooks Brothers suit and climbed into his habitual workaday attire, he had revised his thinking. It might be better if Rawlings only went to jail for his failings. That way it might be possible to hold his post open for him and avoid hiring a common type for the long term. Certainly the barbarous equal-hiring laws allowed an employer to hold a spot in reserve for a convicted felon like Rawlings. It only made sense. Rehabilitation and all that nonsense.
Jeremy Lippincott idled the difficult first hour of the working day before lunch by indulging in some witty repartee with one Mistress Fury on the Leather Line 900 number and had nearly recovered his good humor when the sounds of commotion came from the other side of his closed office door.
"You can't go in there!" Rawlings was protesting.
"No, you can't," Miss Chalmers chimed in. "That happens to be Mr. Lippincott's office. And we have express instructions to admit no one when the door is locked."
"So open the door," an unfamiliar voice said. It sounded rather lower-class. Rough would not be too strong a descriptive.
"Only Mr. Lippincott can open that door."
"Then I'll open the door."
"Are you with the IRS?" Rawlings demanded with positively nervous solicitude. The utter coward!
"Worse," returned the impatient voice.
"What is worse than the IRS?"
"The people who sent me. Now, get out of my way."
"I must see proper identification," Rawlings insisted. Good man, that Rawlings. His job was secure once the unfortunate prison interlude was out of the way.
"I left it in the car."
"I will not see anyone without proper identification," Jeremy shouted through the door. For good measure, he repeated it into his intercom, where it was certain to be heard by the intruder. He used his most stentorian voice-the one he employed to berate young Timothy-for additional intimidating power.
"Proper identification coming right up," the voice called back.
Jeremy did not like the way that sounded.
A moment later Rawlings began entering the room, yet the door remained firmly shut. Jeremy would have thought there was no way anyone could enter his office with the door locked.
But there was Rawlings's hand. He recognized it at once, despite its distressingly flattened condition. The man's plain wedding band was unmistakable, as was the inferior fabric of his coat sleeve.
The flattish hand was followed by a very flat arm, and the screams Rawlings emitted were quite shocking to the refined ear.
"Is this ID enough?" the crude voice demanded. "Or do I send the rest of him in?"
"I believe I accept your credentials," Jeremy Lippincott admitted in a gulping voice. He unlocked the door, retreating to the stolid safety of his desk.