Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

I shrugged. 'I don't know. What do you think?'

Hamilton paused. 'We have no way of knowing. We don't have enough to go on yet, but it's a start. Well done.' He took a peck at his salad. 'I think you are right, though. Finding out what this thing is, is the key to getting our money back.'

'How did you get on in the Netherlands Antilles?' I asked.

'It was a bit difficult, since I didn't want to tip off Van Kreef, Heerlen that we are suspicious. Rudy Geer was very helpful. My cover was that the recent tax reforms had caused us to look at the possibility of asking for a change in domicile for Tremont Capital. As part of the process, Geer had to check all the documentation.'

'Did he find anything?'

'It's interesting. Van Kreef, Heerlen claim that they did see the Honshu Bank guarantee. When Geer asked them to produce it, they said they couldn't find it in their files. This is of course a terrible thing for any firm of lawyers to admit, so Geer suspects it must be true.'

'What do you make of that?' I asked.

'I don't know. I suppose the most likely thing was that the guarantee was a fraud that was somehow removed from Van Kreef, Heerlen's files. Perhaps by one of their own lawyers who is on the take. It is going to be difficult to kick up too much of a fuss without causing our concerns to get back to whoever owns Tremont Capital.'

'Very interesting,' I said. 'Anything else?'

'Well, it looks as though we will get a court order forcing Tremont Capital's auditors to show us a copy of their accounts. Hopefully that will give us some clue as to where the money has gone. The court order won't be granted until early next week, and they will have a couple of weeks to comply. There's not much I can do until I hear back from Geer, and actually get my hands on those accounts.'

'So, what now?' I asked. 'Do you think we have enough to go to the police?'

Hamilton leaned forward, his blue eyes boring straight into mine. 'We have to get that money back,' he said. His voice was calm, his tone level but there was an edge of absolute determination to it. 'You remember I told you about that lead I had in Tokyo? Well, I think we really might get it. And they are talking five hundred million dollars. That could transform De Jong.' He sipped his mineral water, never taking his eyes from mine. 'If they hear we have lost twenty million dollars in a fraud, our credibility will be blown, and no one will give us their money to manage. Even if it wasn't our fault.'

It was our fault, I thought. Or at least Hamilton's. He had been sloppy in checking the documentation. A rare mistake on his part, but I was not about to try to get him to admit to it.

'But if we go to the authorities, won't they help us find the money?'

Hamilton shook his head. 'The police's top priority is to catch the criminal, not find the loot. That's why most cases of fraud in the City never get to the police or the public. If you can sort it out yourself, you have a much better chance of coming out whole.' There was a slight smile on his lips, mocking my naivety.

'All right,' I said, not really feeling all right about it at all, 'So what do we do next?'

'Well, you've done a good job so far. Keep plugging away, asking questions. There will be a lot of people from Bloomfield Weiss at the conference in Arizona. See what you can find out there. In particular, see if you can find out anything about this "Money Machine". I'll do what I can in London, and wait to hear from Curacao.'

Hamilton saw the concerned look on my face. 'Don't worry, we'll find the money.'

Hamilton brushed away the dessert trolley, dripping with temptation, and paid the bill. We went our different ways, with me taking a taxi downtown to Harrison Brothers.

The afternoon dragged. I was tired and edgy, and found it difficult to concentrate. I was nervous about going along with Hamilton. I felt out of my depth, and although I would normally trust Hamilton to do anything, I had nagging doubts that he was out of his depth too.

Finally five o'clock came, and I could respectably leave. I was due to meet one of Harrison's government bond salesmen at eight o'clock for dinner. That was three hours away, so I decided to head back to the Westbury. I walked to the Fulton subway station and boarded the Lexington Line Express heading north. I changed at Grand Central to get the Local.

It was rush hour and the train was crowded. New York in early September is still very hot and very humid. The train was one of the few on the subway system which had no air-conditioning. I felt the sweat run down my body, soaking my shirt and even my trousers. My tie looked as though it would curl up in the heat.

The train stopped for an age. Passengers were crammed together. Tempers were short. People were muttering under their breath, cursing the goddamn subway system. Even in these conditions, everyone was following the golden rule of the New York subway-never, ever catch another person's eye. He might be a cokehead, a rapist, a serial murderer, a Jehovah's Witness.

I stared at the advertisements. There was poor Walter Henson, an architect famous throughout New York City for his haemorrhoid complaint. There, too, were big, black, ugly cockroaches crawling into a Roach Motel with the caption 'Las Cucarachas entran pera no pueden salir'.

The train lurched forward. My gaze wandered along the carriage. It stopped with a jolt.

There, at the end of the carriage, was Joe. He was staring at me, expressionless. Although I was looking straight at him, he gave no sign of recognition. I tried to regain my composure, but I was sure he must have seen the alarm that I felt when I spotted him.

I tore my eyes away from him and looked the other way. Since catching sight of Joe in Bloomfield Weiss's dining room, we had avoided each other, much to my relief. But now he was right here, in the same subway carriage as me. It must be a coincidence, mustn't it? It had to be.

I tried to ease myself down to the other end of the carriage. I was flustered, and I trod on the toe of a mild-looking man in a business suit reading the Wall Street Journal. I put all my weight on it.

'What the fuck are you doing, you dumb fucker?' he screamed at me. 'Get the fuck off my fucking toe or I will smash your fucking face in!'

I glanced at the swearing man without really focusing on him. I pushed passed him.

'Jerk,' he muttered to me and to everyone standing round us.

I was glad of the attention. It would be impossible for Joe to do anything to me on a crowded subway train, and when we got to Sixty-Eighth Street, there ought to be plenty of people around.

I was right. A stream of office workers spilled out of the subway entrance on their way home. I latched on to a group of noisy young bankers who were heading in the same direction as my hotel. Looking over my shoulder, I could see Joe following a block behind.

I peeled off from the bankers on Park Avenue and walked the block to the Westbury as fast as I could. I paused by the awning in front of the hotel, and could make out the figure of Joe standing on a street corner, still a block away.

I told the man at reception to make sure I was not disturbed by anyone. He looked at me a little strangely but promised me he would do as he was asked. I went up to my room, turned all the locks and bolts on my door, and flopped on to my bed.

If Joe was following me, it could only be because he wanted to get even with me. Perhaps the police had been round to his house again. Or perhaps, despite my caution, I had stirred something up with my questions about Greg Shoffman and Tremont Capital. But why should that bother him? Maybe he was just brooding over the fact that my little finger was still intact.

I paced up and down the small bedroom, worrying about Joe. After ten minutes or so, I became less agitated. It must have been a coincidence that Joe had got on the same subway train as me. He had probably followed me just because he was curious; perhaps he thought it would be fun to scare me. Well, he had succeeded.