The Man from Lisbon, page 37
“My God,” she said, straightening pillows behind her, sitting up straighter. “And I thought you were a businessman.”
“No, this kind of power, this kind of economic leverage, is simply not attainable in the normal course of business. You must bend the system to your own needs, you must risk it all. … I’ll wager Kreuger knows what I mean.”
“Can they catch you?” There was a kind of excitement, a quiver in her voice.
“No, my darling. The money is perfectly legitimate, printed from the Bank of Portugal’s plates. … There are no counterfeits. The only way anything can possibly go amiss is within the structure of the bank itself. Waterlow and the bank must be kept apart; there must be no communication from the printer to the bank … and Waterlow has been told of the secrecy required. No, nothing is likely to go wrong … and, should the worst happen, the documents prove that I was acting as an agent of the bank!”
“It is perfect, isn’t it?” She hugged him. He felt gooseflesh rise on her arm. “I can’t believe it. …” Her voice trailed off.
It was dark outside now, and all he could think about was that he wasn’t alone anymore; someone else knew. …
“There’s more,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder, cradling her. “My aim … from the beginning has been for something bigger, something more than mere wealth. I have plans for Portugal … for my country. I will control the economy, you see, everything, when I have gained control of the bank.” He fumbled on the bedside tabletop, got hold of a cigarette and his lighter. The smoke calmed him. He hadn’t realized how excited he was, what a speech he was making. But the words tumbled onward; he couldn’t stop. “Once we have control of the Bank of Portugal, we not only control the nation’s economy … we also have erased any possible detection. You see, in studying the bank’s bylaws in the Oporto jail I discovered an amazing thing: only the Bank of Portugal can initiate action against counterfeiters of its notes. Only the bank! Whether we counterfeited the notes or not, we are in possession of them illegally, which could be interpreted as counterfeiting. … It sure as hell would be if they ever caught us!”
They looked at each other, grinning, She tasted his cigarette, inhaled deeply. He had never spoken aloud of his scheme before, never told the whole story, never heard the words. The plan had its own life: now it had been given a voice. He squeezed Greta’s hand. She was with him now—he was no longer alone inside the plan. …
“So the bank itself is the only possible source of danger. When I control a working majority of the bank’s stock, well, then I would never tolerate the presence of any bank official who would want to initiate such action against us. … Control of the bank is the final step. …”
“Does anyone else know? How could they not know?”
“No, no one else knows. Everything is completely acceptable once you know that I am an agent of the bank. We’re buying up the shares because there is an internal power struggle going on. … My friends at the bank are using us to help them gain control.” He laughed aloud. “It is so perfect … like an egg, smooth and seamless and perfect. No one knows, no one will ever know until it is much too late. Once we are in control we secretly regularize all the unauthorized issues of banknotes. We sweep the bank as clean and fresh as the egg. No evidence, nothing but Portugal in our hands. …”
In the morning he left her with a kiss. Had he been wise, telling her? How could one ever know? He pushed the doubt aside. He felt better, knowing that someone else knew. Whom else could he have told? Greta was the only person on earth he felt sure of. …
The morning was bright, the streets alive with strollers enjoying the spring sunshine.
“I … am … Alves … Reis,” he hummed as he walked. He bought a flower for his buttonhole. It was all going to be all right, one way or another.
Before he left for Lisbon he spent ten minutes in an automobile showroom on the Champs-Elysées buying a replacement for Greta’s Bentley. An Isotta-Fraschini would be delivered to Greta Nordlund with his compliments. Already in the taxi that took him to the railway station he missed her, felt the vague emptiness. He tried to concentrate on Paris passing by, but the charm was gone. He was leaving her behind, and the uncertainty tore at his happiness. He lit a cigarette. Life without her was a pale travesty, colorless, only a half life. When would he see her again? When?
Soot-caked Rossio Station had never looked better. He had rested surprisingly well on the long ride from Paris, losing himself in one of Wodehouse’s novels. He did not expect wonders at the Menino d’Ouro, and there were none. Time would see it all resolved. His plan for the Bank of Portugal, the creation of his own bank must come first. His personal life … well, sacrifices would have to be made in the short run. Kreuger would have understood. Greta, too. Maria would simply have to adjust.
Upon his arrival in the grand foyer she met him with a cool embrace, a kiss on the cheek, polite inquiry as to the trip home. She was civil and avoided his eyes. His memory served him badly: where had things gone wrong? Precisely. At what moment? At Kreuger’s, yes, and when she struck him and made him bleed. … Yet, he’d insisted he loved her: there was no doubt about that. He would always love her. But was that enough? He sat alone in his library late into the night, watching the flickering lights of Lisbon. Greta had called her dangerous. …
There was little more than cursory communication between them, nothing overt. It was best to leave her to herself. She busied herself supervising the staff of servants, having her friends in to visit, building a series of activities that excluded Alves. “You’re always off somewhere, anyway,” she said. “Yes, don’t say it, I know how busy you are. José explains it to me. He is very thoughtful.”
She was making all the discoveries Greta had mentioned. The change worked in Alves’ life was so fundamental that he found it difficult to think about. Maria no longer offered comfort. Well, perhaps it would make his decision an easier one. … But that was nonsense and he knew it. The only thing to do was to put it all off as long as possible.
Away from the house his energy and confidence had never been greater. It was as if the onrushing heat of summer set him aflame. Each day brought new triumphs and opportunities. While he busied himself with the official paperwork and interviews attendant on the creation of the Bank of Angola and Metropole, he deputized Arnaldo to expend the monies required to achieve control of Ambaca. Within ten days the railway was his, owned by A.V. Alves Reis, Limitado. He was at the portrait painter’s studio, sitting astride an angled wooden horse, posing with a wide-brimmed white hat on his head, a white silk shirt with an open collar and belled sleeves, when Arnaldo burst in, stopped short.
“Where did you get that hat?”
“Never mind, I got it. Dashing, don’t you think?”
“You never wore a hat like that in Africa. … Nor a shirt like that. You’d have sooner been boiled alive!”
“Arnaldo, this is called artistic license. Tell him,” he said to the painter.
“It will be a portrait in the heroic style,” the painter began. “It is accepted heroic dress. A blend of truth and fiction … a heightening of the essential realities of Senhor Reis’ experience—”
“That’s enough,” Alves interrupted. “He understands. Now, why are you here, Arnaldo? It’s like walking in on a man sitting on a toilet … worse, there is nothing more intimate than having your portrait painted!”
Arnaldo had sidled around to have a look at the canvas. He pinched his lower lip dubiously. The painter stepped back appraisingly. “There is much to be done yet.” Arnaldo nodded.
Alves slid awkwardly down from the horse. “What is it, Arnaldo?”
“A man from the Public Prosecutor’s office,” he said, still regarding the painting. “He came by to see you this morning. He’s coming in again this afternoon.”
“The Public Prosecutor’s office …” For a moment it was like the old days: icy dread in his chest.
“I think you should see him,” Arnaldo said. “He was nervous. Ah, I have it,” he cried. “There’s something wrong with this painting—you aren’t wearing your spectacles!”
“Not heroic, idiot,” Alves snapped. He was already unbuttoning the silk shirt, heading for the dressing room.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Alves saw that the man from the Public Prosecutor’s office was an old friend, a small fellow who always looked nervous. His eyes flickered restlessly, his fingers drummed and fluttered. Not a dangerous man. Pleasantries quickly exchanged, he seated himself on the first six inches of the chair, dangling his straw hat on his knees.
“It has come to my attention,” he said carefully, “that you have acquired majority holdings in the Royal Trans-African Railway Company of Angola.” How like him not to say simply Ambaca, how characteristic not to reveal his source. Alves could not resist a smile.
“Quite so.”
“Which automatically makes you a director of the Oporto Commercial Bank.”
“Right again, old fellow.”
“Alves, as an old friend and a new director, you should know something that has not as yet been made public. I asked myself, what are friends for, and I decided to come around and put this in your ear. We at the Prosecutor’s office have discovered certain serious irregularities at the Oporto Commercial Bank, involving two of the directors.” He placed a finger to his lips. “Two directors known to you personally,” he whispered. “We are investigating and I can tell you there’s something very crooked going on up there. I am here to suggest that you clean house before we complete our inquiries. Beyond that my lips must remain sealed.” He drew a thick folder from his briefcase. “There is nothing, however, to keep you from reading this material. Remember, I have told you nothing. …”
“I see,” Alves said. “I am in your debt. Tell me, are you and your lovely wife free for dinner on Saturday? Maria and I would love to have you come and visit us in our new home. … There will be some people you might enjoy.” He rattled off a list of several names drawn from Lisbon’s social and financial circles. The little man’s face beamed like a child’s.
“We would be delighted, my dear Alves. You know, my wife could hardly believe it when I told her what friends we’d been in school. … The Menino d’Ouro!” He pulled a long face. “She will make me buy her a new gown!”
“Believe me, if this information is useful to me, you will not be forgotten by Alves Reis!” He saw him to the door. “Splurge, buy her the gown!”
Alone for an hour, Alves read the file. It was, on the whole, too good to be true. Fate had once again smiled on him.
The board room of the Oporto Commercial Bank was as somber as his memories of his last visit to the city. The twelve directors sat in their heavy chairs, staring up at him, not knowing what to expect. Black severe suits, high detachable collars, narrow black ties on white shirts, frowning faces revealing nothing but their ill-ease. Alves looked at them, tight-lipped, impassive, his bearing and expression full of unbending rectitude. The chairman tapped a gold pen on the table, scowled. “All right, we’re here, Senhor Reis, but let me say at no little inconvenience to ourselves. We are all busy men, so let me suggest that you get to it. And, speaking for all of us, let me say that you had better have a serious reason for convening this board.”
“If you will stop being officious I will tell you just how serious I am.” He looked at the directors. Two of them he knew: they had personally made certain he went to jail. “You are now dealing with Alves Reis, gentlemen, an honest man … a powerful man, as you are about to find out. I have in my possession incontrovertible documentary evidence that extreme—‘shocking’ is perhaps the better word—irregularities have occurred here among you and involving certain bank directors. … The irregularities and the men who perpetrated them are known to the Public Prosecutor’s office. An investigation is very nearly complete.”
The chairman glared around the table. “I know nothing of any investigation. Do any of you? Has any of you been approached?” He had bitten through his cigar, ashes spilling on the polished tabletop.
The directors uniformly shook their heads. One of his two accusers leaned back, laughed. “I don’t believe you, Reis. You’re trying to scare us, make trouble. … We know you, we know your tricks!”
“We are being given the opportunity,” Alves went on, “to clean our own nest … solely because of the respect with which I am held in the Public Prosecutor’s office. Anyone else but me and they would be on you like wolves in the night.” He picked up the folder, weighed it in his hand, looked pointedly at the two directors. “These two must go—their names dot every document here, like punctuation marks.”
“You are a known swindler,” the second one cried. “A jailbird! Your word means nothing, Reis! You’re out for revenge, plain and simple.” He leaped out of his chair. “I’m leaving. This is ridiculous!”
“Would you care to see the evidence?” Alves offered the folder to the chairman, who brushed the mound of ashes aside and placed it before him. “The two documents on top should satisfy any doubts you have had.” The man stopped short of the double door, came back to the table and sat down.
The large ormolu clock on the credenza ticked loudly in the silence. Alves sat down and lit a cigarette, inspected his manicured nails, the perfect crescents. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. Directors were sweating, pacing; the room grew thick with cigar smoke. Finally the chairman wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief and looked up at Alves, running his tongue shakily along his dry lips.
“This,” Manuel, slouched disconsolately back in his chair, having failed in his final attempt at defiance, began, “is a time for harmony. I … I … What do these charges amount to? We have a right to know!”
“By all means, tell him,” Alves said, nodding to the chairman.
“It is very bad, Manuel,” the chairman whispered. “But, Reis, we can clear this up, you know. … There’s no need to drop these directors.” He fought to compose himself, placed his wrinkled old hands flat on the table. “Why, dropping them from our board would be nothing less than an admission of guilt, Reis!”
“And why not?” Alves said, shrugging. “They are guilty.”
“Let us think about it, give us two weeks. …”
“Two weeks? Chairman, I admit that you shock me. Two weeks and the funds could be replaced, the tracks covered over. … These two criminals would go free. That, Chairman, is not the way we do things in Portugal. No, I must have your decision when I leave this room.”
“Impossible!” Manuel studied the tabletop. The other, red in the face, shouted, “You are forcing us!”
“We must have time,” the chairman said.
“All right.” Alves sighed. “Until tomorrow morning. My train leaves at eleven o’clock. I want these two dismissed. Promptly.”
Alves was just finishing his after-dinner coffee at the hotel when the two directors presented themselves at his table. They were pale, smelled of drink.
“We are at your mercy, Senhor Reis.”
“Unnerving, isn’t it?” Alves dabbed his mouth. “Your resignations should be tendered to the chairman, I believe. I certainly don’t want to breach protocol in this matter.”
“Now, now, Reis, what do you get out of this vendetta? Can revenge be so sweet?”
“This is not a matter of revenge,” Alves said, chuckling. “I simply don’t want to be associated with criminals. A man in my position, it is simply unthinkable.”
“Give us a chance to clear this up. Let’s handle this man to man, what do you say? We are in a position to make it worth your while. …”
Alves laughed. “Ah, you make it worse and worse. Now you have compounded your offense by attempting to bribe me. Do you seriously believe that Alves Reis is for sale? I have already given you far more opportunity to extricate yourselves than you gave me a year ago.”
“Reis, for God’s sake, we’re begging you—”
“The answer is no. Resign from the board and hope the Prosecutor goes easy on you. Or stay. Perhaps you feel the evidence is inconclusive. You are certainly free to fight it out. Now, good evening, gentlemen. Do as you wish.”
There was no word from the chairman in the morning.
He returned to Lisbon and gave the material back to his friend in the Prosecutor’s office. He then wrote a detailed letter of “concern” to the Banking Trade Inspector, outlining “rumors” he had heard regarding the activities of two directors of an institution of which he had just become a director. Naturally he felt an obligation to bring his fears to the attention of the Inspector.
When he saw his friend at dinner Saturday night he was pleased to learn that the Public Prosecutor had wasted no time.
“The Oporto Commercial Bank will not be allowed to reopen on Monday. And the indictments against your two friends went down yesterday morning. They’re through. … Sorry about closing the bank, you being a director.”
“Think nothing of it,” Alves said magnanimously. He clapped the man’s shoulder. “There are some things more important than one’s own interests, eh? The good of Portugal comes first … and those two bastards belong in jail!”
At breakfast one morning Maria told him that she had received a letter from Greta.
“She wants me to visit her in Paris.”
“And what was your reply?”
“I thought I should ask you first. Would you object to my going?”
Several objections leaped to mind, notably his fear that Greta might be taking it on herself to tell Maria the truth about their affair. Greta had seemed satisfied when he had left Paris, but that was a few weeks ago. Women, God knew, can change as a matter of principle. Perhaps she had decided simply to take matters into her own hands. … But she was not a stupid woman, and running the risk of telling Maria and possibly losing Alves was stupid. Wasn’t it? His mind was overburdened, too many details, too much to control. This trip to Paris was too involved to worry about.
