The Numbered Account Page 2

  ‘She ought to pack,’ Edina said.

  ‘Oh, I’ll pack tonight.’ The two young people went off up the avenue, arm-in-arm.

  The azalea glen at Glentoran when in flower is something to see. The banks of a narrow ravine, down which a small burn runs, were planted long ago with azaleas which have grown to an immense size; the great rounded bushes overhang the water, sprawl above the path, below the path, and even encumber the small wooden bridges which here and there span the glen—fallen blossoms are carried away by the clear noisy water. It is a most beautiful place, full of all shades of colour from cream to coral; the scent, with its hint of incense, is almost overpowering. And here, on a rather decrepit wooden seat—Philip Reeder had not yet extended his new teak benches as far as the glen—Colin and Julia sat and talked; and what Julia privately expressed as ‘the nub’ emerged.

  ‘If you’re really going to Switzerland anyhow, darling, I thought you mightn’t mind doing something.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Well yes, in a way.’ His horrible thumb shot out.

  ‘Tell,’ Julia said comfortably.

  ‘Yes, I will. It’s about Aglaia Armitage. Her father’s dead and her mother’s no good—she ran off to the Argentine with a Dago tenor even before poor Armitage died, four years ago.’

  ‘Is Aglaia in Switzerland?’ Julia had visions of a girls’ school near Lausanne or Ouchy.

  ‘Oh no. But her grandfather died the other day.’

  ‘Was he looking after her?’

  ‘Not much, no—she lived with an aunt in London, her father’s sister. But’—Colin paused, and his thumb jerked out again. ‘He left her quite a lot of money, and she ought to be sure of getting it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, can’t the will simply be proved, if he left it to her?’ Julia asked, puzzled by Colin’s obvious anxiety.

  ‘The money isn’t in a will. It’s in Switzerland.’ He stuck again.

  ‘Darling, do be a little more clear. Why no will?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a will all right, and she’s his heir. But—did you ever hear of numbered accounts?’

  ‘No. What are they?’

  ‘Well people all over the world, if they want to have some of their funds safe and sure, put them in Swiss Banks.’

  ‘Oh, funk-money. Yes, very sensible. I expect masses of Levantines and Armenians and rich ones from those unreliable South American republics have millions stowed away there. But what are these numbered accounts?’

  ‘Accounts with a number, but no name. Anonymous, you see.’

  ‘No I don’t, quite. Unless somebody in the Bank knows which name is attached to what number, how does Mr. Sophocles Euripides or Senhor Vasco da Gama get his money out when he wants it?’

  Colin laughed.

  ‘I don’t know the exact mechanism, but there’s some sort of secret record, or code, and the owner can touch his cash in need. Only it’s not quite so easy when the person who made the deposit is dead, and that’s the case with Aglaia’s fortune.’

  ‘What was her grandfather’s name? Armitage? The English do this too, do they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. He wasn’t English, and his name wasn’t Armitage; that was her father.’

  ‘Then what was the grandfather’s name?’

  Colin hesitated; he gave a curious youthful giggle of embarrassment before he said—‘Thalassides; Orestes Thalassides.’

  ‘Oh Lord, not the old shipowner? He must have been worth a packet.’

  ‘Yes he was. And he did make a will all right, with proper legacies—don’t you remember, half a million to Cambridge alone for science fellowships?—and more to various Redbricks. But although the papers called her a great heiress, all that didn’t leave an awful lot for Aglaia except this Swiss money. And—’ again he checked—‘you see he may not have told the Swiss Bank that she is his heiress.’

  ‘Won’t the will show that?’

  ‘We hope so, but it isn’t dead certain.’

  ‘If the will makes her his residuary legatee, or whatever they call it, surely she’s on velvet?—except for death duties.’

  ‘That’s just the point. The lawyers seem to think that the will may have been left a bit vague for that very reason.’

  ‘Oh, these smart foreigners! Here are all our own Dukes and peers selling their family portraits to pay those revolting death-duties, and Mr. What’s-it-ides puts his dough in a foreign bank to escape paying.’

  ‘Don’t be nasty, J.,’ the young man said, mildly and rather sadly.

  ‘Sorry—no, I won’t.’ She considered. ‘But Aglaia knows this money has been left to her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And told you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Colin said again, blushing.

  Julia pounced, so to speak, on the blush.

  ‘Colin, are you engaged to Aglaia?’

  ‘M’m’m—after a fashion.’

  ‘Is she sweet?’ Julia asked, with warm interest.

  ‘Yes, incredibly sweet. I want to marry her, if only to get her away from this dim aunt she lives with since her mother ran away. Well not ‘if only’—I long to marry her.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘Oh, in London, like one does. She knows some cousins of the Macdonalds.’ He paused. ‘But you see I’ve really nothing to marry on.’

  ‘Well I suppose you really have Glentoran—though of course you don’t want to call that in, with Philip and Edina so blissfully happy here, and making such a go of it.’

  ‘No, of course I don’t, and anyhow I want to go on working. But that doesn’t bring in much.’

  ‘Does that matter, if Aglaia’s got plenty?’

  ‘Only that everyone will think I’m marrying her for her money—which I’m not. I’d marry her if she hadn’t a single Swiss centime, if I could support her. And she wants to marry me,’ Colin added guilelessly, ‘so she might just as well have her own cash, since it’s there. But you do see, darling, that all that is just why I should like someone like you to go and aborder the Swiss Bank. I mean, you know I’m not after her money.’

  ‘Of course, darling.’ Julia reflected for a moment, sniffing at a spray of azalea which she had picked off the nearest bush. ‘What I don’t quite see,’ she said then, ‘is why your Aglaia can’t simply go out with a copy of the will in her hand, walk into the Bank, give the secret number, and get the cash. How much is it, by the way?’

  ‘About half a billion dollars, I believe.’

  ‘That says nothing to me,’ Julia stated airily. ‘I never can remember if a billion is a hundred million, or a thousand million, or a million million. And anyhow I can’t really think in dollars—‘divide by three’ is what I say when I place an article in America. But it sounds quite a nice little lump sum, whichever it is! Well, why can’t she do what I say?—just go and collect herself?’

  ‘Well for one thing she’s a minor, under 21; and for another, she doesn’t know the account number.’

  ‘How ridiculous! Who does? Don’t the lawyers or the executors?’

  ‘No. It seems these things are kept pretty dark—no one in London has the faintest idea. But there is someone out there who quite certainly does know; her godfather, a Swiss Pastor, who is also her guardian.’

  ‘Why a Swiss godfather? Oh well, never mind; no odder than a Greek grandfather—all international! Well, can’t she go and get it from him?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no. For one thing her mother has just sent for her to go and pay a dutiful visit in the Argentine—she’s sailing this week.’

  ‘Colin, what nonsense! Why must she go to her unpleasant mother?’

  Colin hesitated. ‘Well, it might be a wise move. The lawyers think her mother may have an idea that the numbered account exists—Aglaia has told them, of course—and that if she goes out there it might put the mother and her Dago husband off the scent, and prevent them from trying to get hold of the money. The lawyers have been wondering, and so has Aglaia, how to set things in train in Switzerl
and in the meantime, very discreetly and quietly, of course—and now that you’re actually going to be out there, it struck me at once that you could have a try. Your lovely silly face is such a help!’

  ‘Beastly child!’

  ‘Well, would you?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, when I’ve got Mrs. H. all settled. It might be rather fun, really—and in Morocco I seemed to have quite a light hand with bankers, like some women have for pastry. Have you got the guardian’s address, who has the essential number?’

  ‘I can get that for you.’

  A huge sound of a distant bell resounded through the glen. Julia sprang up.

  ‘The dressing-bell! We must fly.’

  ‘We don’t dress,’ Colin said, following her down the path between the mountains of blossom.

  ‘No, but we clean ourselves. And Ronan and his mamma are coming to supper, so I must tidy up a bit.’ She ran on.

  Out in the avenue—‘I shall have to have a copy of the will, you know, Colin, or the bank certainly won’t play; and some pièces justificatives for the godfather, or he won’t either,’ Julia said.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll get you all that—I shall have to come South and see that you’re properly briefed, now that you’ve agreed to take it on. Darling, I am glad that you will.’ He gave her a quick light kiss. ‘I needn’t tell you to keep it all utterly dark.’

  ‘Hardly!’ Julia said, with good-tempered sarcasm.

  Colin’s remarks the previous day about her throwing men over had rather upset Julia—until all the business about Mrs. Hathaway broke they had been wriggling about at the back of her mind like small ugly worms; she had remembered poor Steve in Morocco, whom Colin didn’t know about. He made a third. While she quickly changed into a short dress for dinner she thought with discomfort about Ronan Macdonald, and wished he weren’t coming; on some earlier visits to Glentoran he had obviously been attracted by her, and she had flirted with him a little, gaily and un-seriously. She hoped he wouldn’t start all that up again, under Colin’s very nose.

  He did, however. Julia Probyn’s unusual lion-tawny blondeness and great grey eyes were something men readily fell for, and did not soon forget—after nearly two years Ronan Macdonald had evidently not forgotten them, and tried to begin again where, he hoped, they had left off, when he found himself sitting beside her at dinner. Julia was markedly cool to him, both then, and afterwards in the drawing-room—he finally withdrew, hurt, and devoted his attention to his hostess. After the guests had gone Julia stated her intention of going upstairs at once and breaking the back of her packing before she went to bed; Glentoran is a long way from Renfrew, and she would have to make an early start. However, she was extremely disconcerted when Edina, who had come up with her, and sat in an armchair while Julia rapidly and skilfully folded suits and dresses and stowed them in suitcases, tackled her on the subject. After accusing her of being ‘beastly’ to Ronan all the evening she said—‘You and he had such a carry-on round the time of our wedding that I thought he might be the reason why you turned that Torrens person down—Colin’s boss.’

  ‘Colin shouldn’t gossip’ Julia said vexedly, snapping a suit-case to and laying it on the floor. ‘Certainly that had nothing to do with Ronan.’

  ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if you cared for Colin,’ Colin’s sister pursued.

  ‘Wrong again!’ Julia said, putting another suit-case on the bed, on which she had carefully spread her bath-towel to protect the quilt. ‘I adore Colin, but there never has been, and never will be, any question of our marrying.’ Her voice was severe and cold. ‘Really, you might have realised that, Edina—you’re his sister.’

  ‘I’m sorry—I expect I’ve been sticking my neck out. But you do rather go on and on, don’t you?’

  ‘All you young married women think of nothing but making matches for your friends!’ Julia said, not without justice. ‘However, I won’t hold it against you—I know you can’t help it!’ Edina laughed, and kissed her Goodnight.

  But flying South from Renfrew next day, in between thinking about Colin and his Aglaia, and the general danger of marrying too much money, the worms—added to by Edina—wriggled in Julia’s mind more actively than ever. Was there really something wrong with her and her behaviour? Was she a belle bitch sans merci? She laughed her gurgling laugh at her own phrase, but she was troubled all the same. Ought she, next time, to let the thing rip, whatever happened? She continued to brood on this idea till rage at the behaviour of the staff at London Airport mastered all other feelings.

  Chapter 2

  Gersau

  ‘There,’ Julia said, returning from the bookstall at Victoria to the carriage where she and Watkins were installed, and throwing a batch of illustrated weeklies and the livelier dailies down on the seat. ‘Now we shall have something to read. I know you like The Queen, Watkins.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Miss. I do indeed. But I’ll save that for a bit later on. Do you want the Mirror?’

  Julia didn’t; but before starting on The Times she glanced through the Express and the Daily Sketch. She was a little startled to find, in both, numbers of photographs of Aglaia Armitage, with flaring headlines: ‘Millionaire’s Heiress goes to join her Mother’—‘Richest Girl in Europe sails for South America’; the Mirror, she saw, struck a characteristic note—‘So beautiful, so small, and so RICH!’ She examined all the pictures of Colin’s girl with the deepest interest. Aglaia Armitage was indeed tiny, seen in relation to gangways, police, and bystanders; she could hardly be much over five feet. But she was beautifully made, with lovely feet and ankles, and her face in the studio photographs was attractive and intelligent, as well as undeniably pretty. Fascinated on Colin’s account, Julia read the reporters’ descriptions—things which normally she execrated. Miss Armitage, she learned, besides being ‘petite’ was ash-blonde, but with dark eyes—‘an unusual combination.’ True enough—and on the whole she liked the look of the girl her dear Colin loved.

  Her study of the papers was interrupted by Watkins.

  ‘Do look at that man, Miss—the tall one, talking to the Inspector on the platform. Do you think he can be a detective? He keeps walking up and down, up and down, watching the passengers.’

  Julia and Watkins had arrived early, and so had plenty of time for staring out of the carriage window, as everyone does at Victoria, besides reading the papers. Julia now looked obediently where Watkins directed. She saw a tall man, lightly built, with a curious sharply-chiselled face (the word ‘gothic’ sprang into her mind) which besides intelligence showed an amusing quizzical quality; she thought he looked what she called ‘fun.’ He was strolling up and down beside the Inspector, casting rather sardonic glances at the passengers for the Golden Arrow who passed, accompanied by porters wheeling their luggage.

  ‘Don’t you think he must be one, Miss?’ Watkins pursued. ‘He’s been doing that for ever so long.’

  ‘Shall I ask him if he is?’ Julia said, on a gay impulse—going abroad always went to her head far more directly than any alcohol.

  ‘Well, why not, Miss?’ Watkins said, with a discreet giggle.

  Julia slipped along the corridor, stepped down from the train, and went over to the tall man; the Inspector tactfully moved away.

  ‘I beg your pardon, but are you a detective?’ she asked, hardily.

  The man put a finger to his lip.

  ‘No. On business,’ he said with a faint smile—his voice and accent were as attractive as his appearance; the small episode seemed to amuse him.

  ‘Oh I see. You behave so like one! Please excuse me for asking.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ the man said, smiling more broadly; Julia, feeling a little foolish, went back into the train. ‘He says he isn’t,’ she told Watkins, and started on The Times. But soon she was again interrupted by the maid.

  ‘Do look at that young lady coming along, Miss! Isn’t she the proper ditto of that girl in the papers? Can she be going to South America this way?’

  ‘No,
not possibly—she sailed yesterday, you know,’ Julia said, before she even looked out of the window. When she did she was startled. Walking along the platform between two men was a girl whose resemblance to the photographs she had just been studying was quite astonishing. She was minute, her hair was the palest blonde possible, and when she turned her head in their direction to speak to one of the men with her, Julia could see that she had dark eyes and eyebrows. How very peculiar! The occurrence was so surprising as to cause Julia a sudden faint sense of unease. She looked carefully at the girl’s two companions. One was a tall, dark, handsome young man, slender but athletically built, and distinctly un-English in appearance; the other was shorter, broadly-built with grey hair and a bushy grey beard—he too didn’t look entirely English, nor did he walk like an old man. Julia glanced round to see what had become of the detective—she still thought of him as that, in spite of his denial. Yes, there he was, chatting to the Inspector, and apparently paying no attention to these late arrivals, who so surprised her. She sat back as they passed out of sight.

  Presently a whistle blew, and the train pulled out. Julia was so intrigued by the resemblance of the girl on the platform to Aglaia Armitage that as the Boat Express shook and rattled through the suburbs she walked along the corridor to find where the party was sitting. They were in the second coach ahead; she took a good look at all three. Yes, the girl really had dark-brown eyes, and dark eyelashes too; and the older man’s grey beard was slightly parted in the middle, she now saw. She went back to her carriage.

  Soon a hand-bell, rung along the corridor by a white-coated steward, announced lunch. Julia had frugally brought sandwiches for herself and Watkins for this first meal; they would have to pay a fortune for dinner and breakfast on the other side of the Channel. But she didn’t suggest eating at once—she gave it ten minutes, and then again walked forward down the train, hoping to find that the party which interested her had gone to eat, so that she could examine the labels on their hand-luggage. They had gone to eat, right enough, leaving overcoats on their seats—but there was no hand-luggage! Feeling fooled, and foolish, Julia went back and ate sandwiches with Watkins.