“Well, it’s possible Kevin was right to say it was the big one.
Remember the names of the people allegedly blackmailing Fitzpeterson?
Cox and Laski.” Cole turned to Hart. “Okay, Kevin.”
Hart uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“Another phone call, this time from a woman who gave her name and
address. She said that her husband, William Johnson, had been on the
currency van raid, that he had been shot and blinded, and that it was a
Tony Cox job.” The editor said: “Tony Cox! Did you follow it up?”
“There is a William Johnson in hospital with shotgun wounds to the face.
And there’s a detective beside his bed, waiting for him to come round.
I went to see the wife, but she wouldn’t speak.”
The editor, who had once been a crime reporter, said: “Tony Cox is a
very big fish. I’d believe anything of him. Not at all a nice man. Go
on.” Cole said: “The next bit is Mervyn’s.” “There’s a bank in trouble,”
the City editor said. “The Cotton Bank of Jamaica–it’s a foreign bank
with a branch in London. Does a lot of UK business. Anyway, it’s owned
by a man called Felix Laski.” “How do we know?” the editor asked. “That
it’s in trouble, I mean.”
“Well, I got a tip from a contact. I rang Threadneedle Street to check
it out. Of course, they won’t give a straight answer, but the noises
they made tended to confirm the tip.” “Tell me exactly what was said.”
Glazier pulled out his pad. He could write shorthand at 150 words per
minute, and his notes were always immaculate. “I spoke to a man called
Ley, who is most likely to be dealing with it. I happen to know him,
because–”
“Skip the commercial, Mervyn,” the editor interrupted. “We all know how
good your contacts are.” Glazier grinned. “Sorry. First, I asked him if
he knew anything about the Cotton Bank of Jamaica.
He said: “The Bank of England knows a good deal about every bank in
London.”
“I said: “Then you’ll know just how viable the Cotton Bank is at the
moment.” “He said: “Of course. Which is not to say that I’m going to
tell you.” “I said: “They’re about to go under-true or false?” “He said:
“Pass.” “I said: “Come on, Donald, this isn’t Mistermind–it’s people’s
money.” “He said: “You know I can’t talk about that sort of thing. Banks
are our customers. We respect their trust.” “I said: “I am going to
print a story saying that the Cotton Bank is about to fold. Are you or
are you not telling me that such a story would be false?”
“He said: “I’m telling you to check your facts first.” That’s about it.”
Glazier closed his notebook. “If the bank was okay, he would have said
so.
The editor nodded. “I have never liked that kind of reasoning, but in
this case you’re probably right.” He tapped his cigar on a large glass
ashtray.
“Where does it get us?”
Cole summed up. “Cox and Laski blackmail Fitzpeterson. Fitzpeterson
tries to kill himself. Cox does a raid. Laski goes bust.” He shrugged.
“There’s something going on.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Find out. Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
The editor got up and went to the window, as if to make time in which to
consider. He made a small adjustment to his blinds, and the room became
slightly brighter. Slats of sunshine appeared on the rich blue carpet,
picking out the sculptured pattern. He returned to his desk and sat
down.
“No,” he said. “We’re going to leave it, and I’m going to tell you why.
One: we can’t predict the collapse of a bank, because our prediction on
its own would be enough to cause that collapse. Just to ask questions
about the bank’s viability would set the City all a-tremble.
“Two: we can’t try to detect the perpetrators of a currency raid.
That’s the police force’s job. Anyway, anything we discover can’t be
printed for fear of prejudicing a trial. I mean, if we know it’s Tony
Cox, the police must know; and the law says that if we know an arrest is