Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [62]
The following evening Henry made his way to the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, arriving a few minutes after midnight. He was carrying an empty Gladstone bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. After all, he had to look the part.
The Westminster and City Conservative Associations annual ball was coming to an end. As Henry entered the ballroom, party-goers were beginning to burst balloons and drain the last drops of champagne from any remaining bottles. He spotted Angela seated at a table in the far corner, sorting out pledges, checks and cash before placing them in three separate piles. She looked up and couldn’t mask her surprise when she saw him. Angela had spent the day convincing herself that he didn’t mean it and, if he did turn up, she wouldn’t go through with it.
“How much cash?” he asked matter-of-factly, even before she could say hello.
“Twenty-two thousand three hundred and seventy pounds,” she heard herself saying.
Henry took his time. He double-checked the notes before placing the cash in his battered bag. Angela’s calculation had proved to be accurate. He handed her a receipt for £19,400.
“See you later,” he said, just as the band struck up “Jerusalem.” Henry left the ballroom as the words “Bring me my bow of burning gold” were rendered lustily and out of tune. Angela remained transfixed as she watched Henry walk away. She knew that if she didn’t chase after him and stop the man before he reached the bank, there could be no turning back.
“Congratulations on another well-organized event, Angela,” said Councillor Pickering, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t know how we’d manage without you.”
‘Thank you,” said Angela, turning to face the chairman of the ball committee.
Henry pushed his way through the hotels swing doors and out onto the street, feeling for the first time that his anonymity was no longer a weakness but a strength. He could hear his heart beating as he headed toward the local branch of HSBC, the nearest bank with an overnight safe deposit. Henry dropped £19,400 into the safe, leaving £2,970 of the cash in his bag. He then hailed a taxi—another departure from his usual routine—and gave the cabby an address in the West End.
The taxi drew up outside an establishment that Henry had never entered before, although he had kept their accounts for over twenty years.
The night manager of the Black Ace Casino tried not to look surprised when Mr. Preston walked onto the floor. Had he come to make a spot-check? It seemed unlikely, as the company accountant didn’t acknowledge him but headed straight for the roulette table.
Henry knew the odds only too well because he signed off the casino’s end-of-year balance sheet every April, and despite rent, rates, staff wages, security and even free meals and drinks for favored customers, his client still managed to declare a handsome profit. But it wasn’t Henry’s intention to make a profit, or, for that matter, a loss.
Henry took a seat at the roulette table and saw red. He opened his Gladstone bag, extracted ten ten-pound notes and handed them across to the croupier, who in turn counted them slowly before he gave Henry ten little blue and white chips in return.
There were a number of gamblers already seated at the table, placing bets of different denominations, five, ten, twenty, fifty and even the occasional hundred-pound golden chip. Only one punter had a stack of golden chips in front of him, which he was spreading randomly around the different numbers. Henry was pleased to see that he held the attention of most of the onlookers standing round the table.
While the man on the far side of the table continued to litter the green baize with golden chips, Henry placed one of his ten-pound chips on red. The wheel spun and the little white ball revolved in the opposite direction until it finally settled in red 19. The croupier returned one ten-pound chip to Henry, while he raked in over a thousand pounds’ worth of golden chips from the gambler on the other side of the table.
While the croupier prepared