The Moneychangers

  The operations officer was one of four people seated around Edwina D’Orsey’s desk. The others were Edwina; young Miles Eastin, Tottenhoe’s assistant; and a teller named Juanita Núnez.

  It was from Juanita Núñez’s cash drawer that the money was missing.

  A half hour had elapsed since Edwina’s return to the main branch. Now, as the others faced her across the desk, Edwina answered Tottenhoe. “What you say is true, but we can do better. I want us to go over everything again, slowly and carefully.”

  The time was shortly after 3 P.M. Customers had gone. The outer doors were closed.

  Activity, as usual, was continuing in the branch, though Edwina was conscious of covert glances toward the platform from other employees who knew by now that something serious was wrong.

  She reminded herself that it was essential to remain calm, analytical, to consider every fragment of information. She wanted to listen carefully to nuances of speech and attitude, particularly those of Mrs. Núñez.

  Edwina was aware, too, that very soon she must notify head office of the apparent heavy cash loss, after which Headquarters Security would become involved, and probably the FBI. But while there was still a chance of finding a solution quietly, without bringing up the heavy artillery, she intended to try.

  “If you like, Mrs. D’Orsey,” Miles Eastin said, “I’ll start because I was the first one Juanita reported to.” He had shed his usual breeziness.

  Edwina nodded approval.

  The possibility of a cash shortage, Eastin informed the group, first came to his attention a few minutes before 2 P.M. At that time Juanita Núñez approached him and stated her belief that six thousand dollars was missing from her cash drawer.

  Miles Eastin was working a teller’s position himself, filling in as he had through most of the day because of the shortage of tellers. In fact, Eastin was only two stations away from Juanita Núñez, and she reported to him there, locking her cash box before she did so.

  Eastin had then locked his own cash box and gone to Tottenhoe.

  Gloomier than usual, Tottenhoe took up the story.

  He had gone to Mrs. Núñez at once and talked with her. At first he hadn’t believed that as much as six thousand dollars could be missing because even if she suspected some money had gone, it was virtually impossible at that point to know how much.

  The operations officer pointed out: Juanita Núñez had been working all day, having started with slightly more than ten thousand dollars cash-from-vault in the morning, and she had been taking in and paying out money since 9 A.M. when the bank opened. That meant she had been working for almost five hours, except for a forty-five-minute lunch break, and during that time the bank was crowded, with all tellers busy. Furthermore, cash deposits today had been heavier than usual; therefore the amount of money in her drawer—not including checks—could have increased to twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars. So how, Tottenhoe reasoned, could Mrs. Núñez be certain not only that money was missing but know the amount so specifically?

  Edwina nodded. The same question had already occurred to her.

  Without being obvious, Edwina studied the young woman. She was small, slight, dark, not really pretty but provocative in an elfin way. She looked Puerto Rican, which she was, and had a pronounced accent. She had said little so far, responding only briefly when spoken to.

  It was hard to be sure just what Juanita Núñez’s attitude was. It was certainly not co-operative, at least outwardly, Edwina thought, and the girl had volunteered no information other than her original statement. Since they started, the teller’s facial expression had seemed either sulky or hostile. Occasionally her attention wandered, as if she were bored and regarded the proceedings as a waste of time. But she was nervous, too, and betrayed it by her clasped hands and continuous turning of a thin gold wedding band.

  Edwina D’Orsey knew, because she had glanced at an employment record on her desk, that Juanita Núñez was twenty-five, married but separated, with a three-year-old child. She had worked for First Mercantile American for almost two years, all of that time in her present job. What wasn’t in the employment record, but Edwina remembered hearing, was that the Núñez girl supported her child alone and had been, perhaps still was, in financial difficulties because of debts left by the husband who deserted her.

  Despite his doubts that Mrs. Núñez could possibly know how much money was missing, Tottenhoe continued, he had relieved her from duty at the counter, after which she was immediately “locked up with her cash.”

  Being “locked up” was actually a protection for the employee concerned and was also standard procedure in a problem of this kind. It simply meant that the teller was placed alone in a small, closed office, along with her cash box and a calculator, and told to balance all transactions for the day.

  Tottenhoe waited outside.

  Soon afterward she called the operations officer in. Her cash did not balance, she informed him. It was six thousand dollars short.

  Tottenhoe summoned Miles Eastin and together they ran a second check while Juanita Núñez watched. They found her report to be correct. Without doubt there was cash missing, and precisely the amount she had stated all along.

  It was then that Tottenhoe had telephoned Edwina.

  “That brings us back,” Edwina said, “to where we started. Have any fresh ideas occurred to anyone?”

  Miles Eastin volunteered, “I’d like to ask Juanita some more questions if she doesn’t mind.”

  Edwina nodded.

  “Think carefully about this, Juanita,” Eastin said. “At any time today did you make a TX with any other teller?”

  As all of them knew, a TX was a teller’s exchange. A teller on duty would often run short of bills or coins of one denomination and if it happened at a busy time, rather than make a trip to the cash vault, tellers helped each other by “buying” or “selling” cash. A TX form was used to keep a record. But occasionally, through haste or carelessness, mistakes were made, so that at the end of the business day one teller would be short on cash, the other long. It would be hard to believe, though, that such a difference could be as large as six thousand dollars.

  “No,” the teller said. “No exchanges. Not today.”

  Miles Eastin persisted, “Were you aware of anyone else on the staff, at any time today, being near your cash so they could have taken some?”

  “No.”

  “When you first came to me, Juanita,” Eastin said, “and told me you thought there was some money gone, how long before that had you known about it?”

  “A few minutes.”

  Edwina interjected, “How long was that after your lunch break, Mrs. Núñez?”

  The girl hesitated, seeming less sure of herself. “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Let’s talk about before you went to lunch,” Edwina said. “Do you think the money was missing then?”

  Juanita Núñez shook her head negatively.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I know.”

  The unhelpful, monosyllabic answers were becoming irritating to Edwina. And the sulky hostility which she sensed earlier seemed more pronounced.

  Tottenhoe repeated the crucial question. “After lunch, why were you certain not only that money was missing, but exactly how much?”

  The young woman’s small face set defiantly. “I knew.”

  There was a disbelieving silence.

  “Do you think that some time during the day you could have paid six thousand dollars out to a customer in error?”

  “No.”

  Miles Eastin asked, “When you left your teller’s position before you went to lunch, Juanita, you took your cash drawer to the cash vault, closed the combination lock and left it there. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you locked it?”

  The girl nodded positively.

  “Was the operations officer’s lock closed?”

  “No, left open.”

  That, too, was normal. Onc
e the operations officer’s combination had been set to “open” each morning, it was visual to leave it that way through the remainder of the day.

  “But when you came back from lunch your cash drawer was still in the vault, still locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does anyone else know your combination? Have you ever given it to anyone?”

  “No.”

  For a moment the questioning stopped. The others around the desk, Edwina suspected, were reviewing mentally the branch’s cash vault procedures.

  The cash drawer which Miles Eastin had referred to was actually a portable strongbox on an elevated stand with wheels, light enough to be pushed around easily. Some banks called it a cash truck. Every teller had one assigned and the same cash drawer or truck, conspicuously numbered, was used normally by the same individual. A few spares were available for special use. Miles Eastin had been using one today.

  All tellers’ cash trucks were checked in and out of the cash vault by a senior vault teller who kept a record of their removal and return. It was impossible to take a cash unit in or out without the vault teller’s scrutiny or to remove someone else’s, deliberately or in error. During nights and weekends the massive cash vault was sealed tighter than a Pharaoh’s tomb.

  Each cash truck had two tamperproof combination locks. One of these was set by the teller personally, the other by the operations officer or assistant. Thus, when a cash unit was opened each morning it was in the presence of two people—the teller and an operations officer.

  Tellers were told to memorize their combinations and not to confide them to anyone else, though a combination could be changed any time a teller wished. The only written record of a teller’s combination was in a sealed and double-signed envelope which was kept with others—again in double custody—in a safe deposit box. The seal on the envelope was only broken in event of a teller’s death, illness, or leaving the bank’s employ.

  By all these means, only the active user of any cash drawer knew the combination which would open it and tellers, as well as the bank, were protected against theft.

  A further feature of the sophisticated cash drawer was a built-in alarm system. When rolled into place at any teller’s position at a counter, an electrical connection linked each cash unit with an interbank communications network. A warning trigger was hidden within the drawer beneath an innocuous appearing pile of bills, known as “bait money.”

  Tellers had instructions never to use the bait money for normal transactions, but in event of a holdup to hand over this money first. Simply removing the bills released a silent plunger switch. This, in turn, alerted bank security staff and police, who were usually on the scene in minutes; it also activated hidden cameras overhead. Serial numbers of the bait money were on record for use as evidence later.

  Edwina asked Tottenhoe, “Was the bait money among the missing six thousand dollars?”

  “No,” the operations officer said. “The bait money was intact. I checked.”

  She reflected: So there was no hope of tracing anything that way.

  Once more Miles Eastin addressed the teller. “Juanita, is there any way you can think of that anyone, anyone at all, could have taken the money out of your cash drawer?”

  “No,” Juanita Núñez said.

  Watching closely as the girl answered, Edwina thought she detected fear. Well, if so, there was good reason because no bank would give up easily where a loss of this magnitude was involved.

  Edwina no longer had doubts about what had happened to the missing money. The Núñez girl had stolen it. No other explanation was possible. The difficulty was to find out—how?

  One likely way was for Juanita Núñez to have passed it over the counter to an accomplice. No one would have noticed. During an ordinarily busy day it would have seemed like any routine cash withdrawal. Alternatively, the girl could have concealed the money and carried it from the bank during her lunch break, though in that case the risk would have been greater.

  One thing Núñez must have been aware of was that she would lose her job, whether it was proven she had stolen the money or not. True, bank tellers were allowed occasional cash discrepancies; such errors were normal and expected. In the course of a year, eight “overs” or “unders” was average for most tellers and, provided each error was no larger than twenty-five dollars, usually nothing was said. But no one who experienced a major cash shortage kept her job, and tellers knew it.

  Of course, Juanita Núñez could have taken this into account, deciding that an immediate six thousand dollars was worth the loss of her job, even though she might have difficulty getting another. Either way, Edwina was sorry for the girl. Obviously she must have been desperate. Perhaps her need had to do with her child.

  “I don’t believe there’s any more we can do at this point,” Edwina told the group. “I’ll have to advise head office. They’ll take over the investigation.”

  As the three got up, she added, “Mrs. Núñez, please stay.” The girl resumed her seat.

  When the others were out of hearing, Edwina said with deliberate informality, “Juanita, I thought this might be a moment for us to talk frankly to each other, perhaps as friends.” Edwina had banished her earlier impatience. She was aware of the girl’s dark eyes fixed intently on her own.

  “I’m sure that two things must have occurred to you. First, there’s going to be a thorough investigation into this and the FBI will be involved because we’re a federally insured bank. Second, there is no way that suspicion cannot fall on you.” Edwina paused. “I’m being open with you about this. You understand?”

  “I understand. But I did not take any money.”

  Edwina observed that the young woman was still turning her wedding ring nervously.

  Now Edwina chose her words carefully, aware she must be cautious in avoiding a direct accusation which might rebound in legal trouble for the bank later.

  “However long the investigation takes, Juanita, it’s almost certain the truth will come out, if for no other reason than that it usually does. Investigators are thorough. They’re also experienced. They do not give up.”

  The girl repeated, more emphatically, “I did not take the money.”

  “I haven’t said you did. But I do want to say that if by any chance you know something more than you have said already, now is the time to speak out, to tell me while we’re talking quietly here. After this there will be no other chances. It will be too late.”

  Juanita Núñez seemed about to speak again. Edwina raised a hand. “No, hear me out. I’ll make this promise. If the money were returned to the bank, let’s say no later than tomorrow, there would be no legal action, no prosecution. In fairness, I’ll have to say that whoever took the money could no longer work here. But nothing else would happen. I guarantee it. Juanita, do you have anything to tell me?”

  “No, no, no! ¡Te lo juro por mi hija!” The girl’s eyes blazed, her face came alive in anger. “I tell you I did not take any money, now or ever.”

  Edwina sighed.

  “All right, that’s all for now. But please do not leave the bank without checking with me first.”

  Juanita Núñez appeared on the verge of another heated reply. Instead, with a slight shrug, she rose and turned away.

  From her elevated desk, Edwina surveyed the activity around her; it was her own small world, her personal responsibility. The day’s branch transactions were still being balanced and recorded, though a preliminary check had shown that no teller—as was originally hoped—had a six-thousand-dollar overage.

  Sounds were muted in the modern building: in low key, voices buzzed, papers rustled, coinage jingled, calculators clicked. She watched it all briefly, reminding herself that for two reasons this was a week she would remember. Then, knowing what must be done, she lifted a telephone and dialed an internal number.

  A woman’s voice answered. “Security department.”

  “Mr. Wainwright, please,” Edwina said.

  6


  Nolan Wainwright had found it hard, since yesterday, to concentrate on normal work within the bank.

  The chief of security had been deeply affected by Tuesday morning’s session in the boardroom, not least because, over a decade, he and Ben Rosselli had achieved both friendship and mutual respect.

  It had not always been that way.

  Yesterday, returning from the tower executive floor to his own more modest office which looked out onto a light well, Wainwright had told his secretary not to disturb him for a while. Then he had sat at his desk, sad, brooding, reaching back in memory to the time of his own first clash with Ben Rosselli’s will.

  It was ten years earlier. Nolan Wainwright was the newly appointed police chief of a small upstate town. Before that he had been a lieutenant of detectives on a big city force, with an outstanding record. He had the ability for a chief’s job and, in the climate of the times, it probably helped his candidacy that he was black.

  Soon after the new chief’s appointment, Ben Rosselli drove through the outskirts of the little town and was clocked at 80 mph. A police patrolman of the local force handed him a ticket with a summons to traffic court.

  Perhaps because his life was conservative in other ways, Ben Rosselli always loved fast cars and drove them as their designers intended—with his right foot near the floor.

  A speeding summons was routine. Back at First Mercantile American Headquarters he sent it, as usual, to the bank’s security department with instructions to have it fixed. For the state’s most powerful man of money, many things could be fixed and often were.

  The summons was dispatched by courier next day to the FMA branch manager in the town where it was issued. It so happened that the branch manager was also a local councilman and he had been influential in Nolan Wainwright’s appointment as chief of police.

  The bank manager-councilman dropped over to police headquarters to have the traffic summons withdrawn He was amiable. Nolan Wainwright was adamant.

  Less amiably, the councilman pointed out to Wainwright that he was new to the community, needed friends, and that non-co-operation was not the way to recruit them. Wainwright still declined to do anything about the summons.