Numbered Account by Christopher Reich

Mr. Neumann.”
    “Didn’t you tell me that it’s really none of our concern what he does? That we shouldn’t poke our noses into our clients’ business. We’re bankers, not policemen. You said that, right?”
    “I did indeed. You’d have thought I’d have learned by now.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Sprecher lit a cigarette before answering. “Put it this way, it’s not just more money that’s got me leaving the bank. Your friend, Peter, has a dash of self-preservation in him. Cerruti out with a nervous breakdown — might never come back. Marty Becker just plain dead — definitely can’t count on him. Survival instinct, you boys in the marines might call it.”
    It hadn’t taken Nick long to question the odds of two portfolio managers from the same department being knocked out of their jobs by sickness or, in Becker’s case, murder. After all, his own father’s murder was unrelated to his work at the bank. At least officially. Still, he had dismissed Cerruti’s illness as a case of personal burnout, and he had never questioned the fact that Becker’s murder was a mugging gone awry.
    “What happened to them had nothing to do with their work.” He hesitated a second. “Did it?”
    “Of course it didn’t,” Sprecher said earnestly. “Cerruti’s been a nervous wreck forever. And Becker just had the worst kind of luck. I’m just spooked. Or maybe I’ve just had one too many a beer.” He nudged Nick with an elbow. “In any event, some advice?”
    Nick leaned closer. “Yeah, what?”
    “Keep your nose clean after I’m gone. I can see that look in your eyes sometimes. Been here a month and every morning you come in like it was your first day all over again. You’ve got something going. Can’t fool Uncle Peter.”
    Nick looked at Sprecher as if what he’d said were absurd. “Believe it or not, I like it here. There’s nothing going on.”
    Sprecher shrugged resignedly. “If you say so. Just do as you’re told and keep Schweitzer off your back. You know his story?”
    “Schweitzer’s?”
    Sprecher nodded, his eyes opened widely in mock terror. “The London Ladykiller.”
    “No, I don’t.” And after thinking about Becker and Cerruti, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
    “Schweitzer made his name with the bank trading Eurobonds in London during the late seventies,” said Sprecher. “Eurodollars, Europetrol, Euroyen — they were halcyon days. Everyone was making a fortune. From dawn till dusk, Schweitzer leaned on his staff to package a maximum of offerings. From dusk till dawn, he prowled London’s poshest clubs, dragging an entourage of once and future clients from Annabel’s to Tramp. If you couldn’t syndicate a double A deutsche mark offering at three A.M., two bottles of Tullamore Dew down the hatch and a quiver of tarts at the by, you shouldn’t be in this business: the Schweitzer credo. And it put USB at the top of the rankings.”
    Sprecher laughed at the thought, then finished off the dregs of his mug.
    “One fine spring afternoon,” he continued, “Schweitzer arrived a little late to his suite at the Savoy Hotel. The board of directors had reserved it permanently on his behalf. Convinced them he needed a refined setting in which to meet his clients, he had. The office was too small, too busy. So in walks Armin only to find his most recent mistress, a young minx from Cincinnati, Ohio, and his wife arguing like wildcats.”
    Nick thought the whole thing sounded like a bad soap opera. “So what happened?”
    Sprecher ordered another beer, then went on. “What happened next is still foggy. The official version put forth by the bank stated that at some point during the ensuing altercation, the good Frau Schweitzer, mother of two daughters, treasurer of the Zollikon curling club, and wife of fifteen-odd years to a philanderer of notorious repute, removed a handgun from her purse and shot Armin’s mistress dead. A single round through the heart. Appalled at her