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For a terrible moment Ebert
thought his friend, always so imperturbable and plucky, was going to break
down and cry. Wavering between embarrassment and anger, he barely managed to
keep his composure. An image of misery sat opposite him, the like he had only
seen in a mental institution before. For an instant Baldwin appeared to be
sliding into regions where demons reign and the afflicted howl. But he
checked himself with superhuman effort. “Let me hear all about it,”
Ebert urged, visibly annoyed by now. “Be prepared, what I tell
you is the gospel truth. About a week
after Anita’s funeral I went to the bank in order to rearrange my affairs. I
had spent little of what you had procured for me through sales of my assets.
It was a considerable fortune, as you well know.” “Some must have been eaten up by
the acquisition of the estate,” Ebert interrupted. “Only on paper really, since we
merely made a down payment of ten percent, and contracted to pay the balance
at a later date.” “We, you said?” “Yes. I mean Anita and myself,
we were engaged by then.” “Hm, I find that puzzling,
knowing your tenet to avoid interest payments.” “Quite true, but Anita
insisted.” To conceal his frown of
disapproval, Ebert asked quickly: “How did it go at the bank?” “Not good at all, there was
nothing left to arrange.” Taken aback, Ebert repeated: “Nothing left to arrange? But
there must have been a small fortune in deposits and bonds.” “Should have been, my friend,
should have been. But it all had disappeared.” Ebert jumped up. “That is beyond the pale of my
comprehension.” “Mine too. The account was
practically cleaned out, and the safety deposit boxes were completely bare.” “But were you not the only one
with signing authority, as much as keys and passwords to satisfy safety
requirements?” “Not really; Anita had full
power of attorney concerning all matters, including keys. She was privy to
passwords, moreover, personally known at the banks.” “You are talking plural
numbers.” “Indeed, I do. Money and
securities were deposited in three major banks.” Anticipating his friend’s next
observation, Baldwin announced: “Yes, the same had happened at
the other places.” As Ebert expressed silent
disapproval about putting one’s whole fortune at the mercy of someone else,
wife or otherwise, he suddenly realised why these pictures on the walls
fascinated him. Anita, Baldwin’s wife, looked familiar. He was all but
certain that he had met her previously, or at least knew a close blood
relative of hers. But his attention was diverted again by his friend’s
startling announcement: “I tell you, Franz, someone
cleaned me out.” Raising both hands to forestall his friend’s anticipated
reaction, he said: “Before you jump to
conclusions, be advised that everything happened four days after Anita’s
burial, I am sure of that. It was impossible, besides being fraudulent. I put
up quite a row at the bank, till the manager along with his entire retinue
showed up. Trying to calm me down proved hopeless, I pounded the counter and
stomped the floor until the president appeared.” “What did he have to say?” “Not much for a while. He started talking in sort of a
patois, which I only half understood, prior to asking me plus four or five of
his employees, to accompany him to his office.” Interrupting himself, Baldwin cast the strangest look
imaginable at Ebert. Amazement mirrored itself in a sea of disgust and
unfeigned abhorrence. “What I learned there curdled my blood and raised my
hackle. Hold on to your seat, Franz, here it is: All of them maintained that
Anita made the withdrawals, moreover, it was she who they admitted to the
vaults, they insisted.” “So help me, someone must have impersonated your wife,”
Ebert interjected. “That is what I said, but the president rejected such
frivolous notions, as he called it. He explained indignantly that the
signature was authentic. The teller, although recognising Mrs Baldwin,
nevertheless called the manager to obtain his approval. After hearty
greetings, he knew her of course, Mr Cote, the manager, cosigned the
transaction. “When I asked, in a rebuking manner I fear, whether he
did not consider such singularly large withdrawals odd, he viewed me with
utmost surprise. ‘Why, Mr Baldwin, your wife did most, if not all bank
transactions. I had neither cause nor the right to interfere,’ he advised. ‘But my wife was buried four days prior to these
withdrawals,’ I screamed at them.” “What was their reaction?” “They shrugged their shoulders and smirked, assured that
I was either drunk or hallucinating.” |
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Sangaree |
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Excerpt from Without Tears and other Tales |
