The Clayton Account by Bill Vidal Page A

morning, sir. Mr Hoechst. He passed it to me with the second mail.’
    ‘Who is Hoechst?’
    ‘He used to manage the Clayton account, sir,’ replied Ackermann, ‘until Dr Brugger instructed me to take it over last Wednesday.’
    ‘I shall want to speak to him,’ said Laforge, addressing no one in particular, as this was a statement not a request.
    Ulm, who had been studying the papers on Brugger’s desk, pushed them across to Laforge and turned to Ackermann.
    ‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’
    ‘Only to Dr Brugger, Director.’
    ‘Good. You are not to discuss this with anyone else. Understood?’
    ‘Yes, Director.’
    ‘What I want to know,’ said Laforge, extracting a sheet from the file, ‘is how a dead man wrote this letter?’
    They all looked at him, not quite understanding, then at Ulm.
    ‘Please explain, Walter,’ prompted Ulm.
    ‘November eighteenth,’ he said, waving the letter. ‘The letter from Professor Michael Clayton, instructing us to close his account, is dated November eighteenth.’ He passed it back to Ulm. ‘And so is the postmark on the envelope.’ He showed this to Ulm as well.
    Before anyone could ask the obvious question, Laforge pulled out the copy of Michael Clayton’s death certificate. ‘November fourth!’ he said. Then, turning to Ackermann: ‘Did you check the signature?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Of course. The moment I got the letter. It is … it appears to be perfectly genuine.’
    ‘Good,’ replied Laforge. ‘We shall of course check it again.’
    ‘What do you think, Walter?’
    ‘It could be forgery, Director. Then again, it could have been an undated letter.’ He scrutinized the typeface closely, adding, ‘Sometimes people do that. Death duty avoidance, and so forth. But of course,’ he said with emphasis, ‘in such cases the holder of the letter would
backdate
it, which is clearly not the case here.’
    ‘Actually, sir, there is one thing,’ ventured Ackermann.
    ‘Speak up,’ interjected Brugger quickly, welcoming the chance to show some authority.
    ‘The intended beneficiary of the transaction, the account holder at Credit Suisse –’
    ‘Sweeney Tulley McAndrews,’ said Laforge, reading from Michael Clayton’s letter.
    ‘Yes, sir. They are the same firm, the law firm in New York, that confirmed Professor Clayton’s death to Mr Isler.’
    ‘Isler?’ asked Ulm.
    ‘He works for Walter in our New York office,’ said Brugger. ‘I instructed him to verify all facts in person, which he did.’
    ‘So. A forgery then, Walter?’
    ‘I must check, sir,’ replied the security man. ‘I will also speak to Martelli at Credit Suisse.’
    They all understood that. Secrecy is deeply embedded in Swiss banking law and to divulge anything about an account is an offence. But there is no greater offence in Switzerland than to commit a fraud – in Switzerland. Frauds abroad do not count, but in this case someone was clearly attempting fraud in Zurich. Either their new customer, Tom Clayton, was not entitled to the money, or whoever wanted this money sent to Geneva was a thief. So if Laforge wanted a quiet and unofficial word with his opposite number at a rival institution, he would get it. Martelli had asked for similar help in the past.
    ‘What about the five million dollars?’ Ackermann’s voice broke as he said it.
    ‘What five million dollars?’ Ulm asked menacingly and all eyes turned to Ackermann.
    ‘I transferred five million to London this morning.’ Ackermann explained the circumstances, his body shaking with fear. Automatically Ulm and Brugger glanced at the wall clock. It read 13:20, one hour and forty minutes until the close of the foreign-exchange day.
    ‘Reverse the transaction, now!’ Ulm ordered. ‘We shall see how Mr Clayton reacts. If he has nothing to hide he will complain. If he keeps quiet we might reconsider the whole business of his account.’
    Everyone nodded approval.
    ‘Meanwhile,’ Ulm said to conclude the meeting,