I let myself out of the silent house, closing the front door behind me, then ran through the steady rain to my car.
After a hamburger lunch, I drove to the Pacific & National Bank, arriving there at 15.00.
The bank couldn’t be faulted. It looked rich: it had two alert-looking security guards, the tellers were behind bulletproof glass. There were vases of flowers and a heavy pile carpet. The air conditioner hummed softly.
Under the cold scrutiny of the two guards, I crossed to a desk which carried a banner: RECEPTION. Sitting behind the desk was an elderly, prune-faced woman who regarded me without enthusiasm. I could see by her expression that she had been trained to smell money, and there was no smell of money coming from me.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Ackland,’ I said.
‘Have you an appointment?’
I took from my wallet one of my professional cards and laid it before her.
‘Give him this and he’ll see me.’
The woman regarded the card, then stared at me.
‘Mr Ackland is busy. What is your business?’
‘If you are that curious,’ I said, ‘telephone Mrs Henry Thorsen who will explain everything to you, but, on the other hand, she might make your future life disagreeable.’ I gave her my wide friendly smile. ‘Take a chance: telephone her.’
Mrs Henry Thorsen’s name appeared to ring an alarm bell in her mind. She picked up my card, got to her feet and walked away, her head held high, her back rigid.
One of the security guards moved a little closer. I winked at him, and he immediately shifted his stare, fingered the butt of his gun, then moved away.
Minutes ticked by while I watched the elderly rich pay in money, draw out money, and talk to the tellers who gushed, bowed and did everything servile except stand on their heads.
Prune-face returned.
‘Mr Ackland will see you.’ Her voice was frosty enough to put the air conditioner on the blink. ‘Over there. First door on your right.’
‘Thanks,’ I said and, leaving her, took her directions to come up before a polished oak door with: Horace Ackland. General Manager printed in large gold lettering: an impressive sight. I rapped, turned the glittering brass door handle and entered an imposing office with lounging chairs, a settee, a cocktail cabinet, and a desk large enough to play snooker on.
Behind this desk sat Horace Ackland. He rose to his feet as I entered and closed the door. He was fat, short, balding and benign-looking, but there was nothing benign in his alert, brown eyes. He regarded me with a stare that could compete with a laser ray, then waved me to a chair.
‘Mrs Thorsen told me you would be calling, Mr Wallace,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly deep. ‘You will have some questions to ask.’
I settled myself in the comfortable chair, facing his desk while he lowered his bulk back into his chair.
‘Would you give me your opinion about the daughter, Mr Ackland? Her mother says she is retarded. What do you think?’
‘Frankly, I don’t know. It would seem she has grown out of her handicap.’ Ackland paused, then went on. ‘She appears to be normal, but then I only see her for a few minutes when she picks up this money. She dresses oddly, but so do most young people. I wouldn’t care to give you an opinion.’
‘I understand there is a trust and she can only touch the income, which is fifteen thousand a month. What happens in the event that the daughter dies?’
His eyebrows lifted.
‘She is only 24, Mr Wallace.’
‘You can die by accident at any age.’
‘If she dies, the trust ceases to exist, and the money goes back to the estate.’
‘How much money?’
‘Mr Thorsen was one of the richest men in the world. I couldn’t possibly tell you how much money.’
‘Mrs Thorsen has inherited his money, and at the death of her daughter, she will come into more money?’
‘Yes. There are no other heirs.’
‘There is a son.’
Ackland grimaced.
‘Yes. Terrance Thorsen. He was disinherited when he left the Thorsen residence two years ago. He has no claim on the estate.’
‘No one else?’
Ackland moved in his chair as if my questions were beginning to bore him.
‘A number of bequests. Mr Thorsen left money to his butler, Smedley. The will provided Smedley with an immediate payment of five thousand dollars at Mr Thorsen’s death.’
‘You think, Mr Ackland, that these monthly withdrawals of ten thousand a month point to blackmail?’
Ackland placed his fingertips together, making an arch. He looked suddenly like a bishop.
‘Mr Wallace, I have had thirty-five years in banking. Miss Thorsen is 24 years of age and appears, anyway to me, normal. She has the right to do what she likes with her money. But Henry Thorsen and I were very close friends, and trusted each other, and I gave him my promise that if anything should happen to him, I would keep a close eye on Angela when she inherited this fortune. Also, Mrs Thorsen is now a dear friend of mine and relies on me for financial advice, and for help in any problems which might arise. But for these special circumstances I would not have told her about these odd withdrawals. I hesitated, I admit, as it was not entirely ethical for me to tell her what Angela was doing. I held back for ten months, but as these withdrawals continued, I felt it my duty to these old friends to alert Mrs Thorsen and advise her that this possibility of blackmail should be investigated.’
‘I see your point, Mr Ackland.’
‘What I have told you is in strict confidence. That is understood?’
‘Of course. Now, Mr Ackland, I need to know Miss Thorsen by sight. Her mother told me on no account should I approach the girl. How do I see her?’
‘Nothing easier. Tomorrow, she will arrive here to collect the money. I will arrange that you see her enter my office and leave. Then it is up to you.’
‘That’s fine. What time should I be here?’
‘She always comes at ten o’clock. I suggest you come here at 9.45, and wait in the lobby. I will tell Miss Kertch to give you a signal when she arrives.’
A soft buzzer sounded on his desk. He lost his benign expression and looked what I knew he must be, a shrewd, tough banker.
He picked up the receiver, nodded, then said, ‘In three minutes, Miss Kertch.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wallace, I can give you no further time. If there is anything...’
I got to my feet.
‘Maybe I’ll need to talk to you again, Mr Ackland. I won’t hold you up. I’ll be here at 9.45 tomorrow.’
‘Do that.’ He rose to his feet and offered a firm but damp hand. ‘I am sure you will be able to unravel this little problem. I have heard great things about your agency.’
Tomorrow morning should be interesting, I thought, as I got in my car. I itched to set eyes on Angela Thorsen.
Glenda Kerry heard me out, making occasional notes, as I gave her my report.
‘Mrs Thorsen wants this wrapped up fast,’ I concluded. ‘She thinks our charges are excessive.’
‘They all do, but they still come to us,’ Glenda said with a wintry smile. ‘What’s your next move?’
‘Go to the bank, tail Angela, see where she delivers the money, and with luck, get the general photo. I’ve got Bill digging into Thorsen’s background.’
She nodded.
‘OK. Go to it,’ and reached for the telephone.
I found Bill at his typewriter and gave him a blow-by-blow account of my interview with Mrs Thorsen, and also with Horace Ackland.
‘That’s it so far,’ I concluded. ‘What puzzles me is why Mrs Thorsen, who couldn’t care less about her daughter, who in turn couldn’t care less about her, should spend good money hiring us to find out if her daughter is being blackmailed. Why? That’s what I need to know. There’s a smell about this that bothers me.’