Page 173 of Storm over the Caribbean
A wide, wicked smile spread across my face. Suddenly, I very much pitied the local bank manager.
***
With a contented sigh, Mr Gilbert Goodwin Hutchinson leaned back in his leather arm chair and took a puff of his cigar. He determined he had never made a better decision than requesting a transfer to the Caribbean. England was a cold, dreary place, and English banks, always striving for excellence, managed to surpass the rest of the country in that regard. Add to that the never-ending swarms of customers and horrific working hours…
Well, suffice it to say that, when a post had opened at a certain branch bank on the Islands of Bermuda, he had packed his things and, first chance he got, skedaddled off to a nice Caribbean island with sunny beaches and wonderfully warm weather all year round.
Suddenly, he heard the door creak open and felt a cold draught that sent a shiver down his back.
“Close the door,” he barked at his clerk. Customers never came at this time. Well…they never really came at any time, period. What a lovely job! “It’s draughty!”
“Oh, is it?” an unfamiliar voice rang out. An unfamiliar, icy voice that brought the temperature of the room down by twenty degrees. Jerking his head up from his adventure nove…ehem,important banking documents, Mr Hutchinson stared at the tall man with the stony face who stood in the doorway.
He blinked.
Could it be…?
Was it really…?
“A…customer?”
The man in the doorway cocked his head. “This is a bank, is it not?”
“W-why yes, Sir, it is.” Rushing out from behind his desk, Mr Hutchinson pulled out the chair in front of his desk and inconspicuously tried to wipe the dust off the seat. “It most definitely is! What can I do for you today?”
“Cash this.” Striding forward, the newcomer placed a small, white rectangle on top of the bank manager’s desk.
With an energetic nod, Hutchinson snatched up the piece of paper. “Why, certainly, Sir. I’ll—”
Then his eyes fell upon the cheque. Specifically, the number of zeroes.
“Cnglrx,” he said.
“No,” the customer corrected. “Cash.”
Staggering back a step or two, Hutchinson slumped into his armchair. “Ehem…right. What is your name again, Sir?”
“Ambrose. Mr Rikkard Ambrose.”
The manager frowned. He was slightly out of date regarding the latest financial news, but that name sounded rather familiar. Where had he heard…
All colour drained from his face.
“Y-you mean—”
“Yes.ThatRikkard Ambrose.”
Mr Hutchinson considered for a moment whether he should get up to bow and grovel. In the end, he decided not to. No matter how awe-inspiringly wealthy and powerful the man in front of him was, he himself was a distinguished bank manager of the Bank of England! He had his dignity! He also had legs that felt like noodles and would probably not hold him up at the moment.
“Cheque,” a cold voice suddenly interrupted his inner musings. “Cash. Now.”
He nearly jumped out his chair.
“W-why, yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!” Reaching for a bell that sat on his desk, he rang it loudly. “Cooper? Cooper, get in here!”
A thump came from the room next door, as if from a heavy object hitting the ground, or maybe a sleeping man falling off his chair. Moments later, the door opened, and a bespectacled young man stuck his head into the room, rubbing his bruised temple. “Yes, Mr Hutchinson, Sir?”
“Take this cheque and cash it!”
