Arthur Hailey - The Moneychangers

On instructions from Tom Straughan, the bank's computer was consulted first.

A programmer tapped the question on a keyboard:

What are the totals of savings and demand deposits at Tylersville Branch?

The answer was instantaneous and up to the minute since the branch was on-line to the computer.

SAVINGS ACCOUNTS.

$26,170,627.54

DEMAND DEPOSITS

$15,042,767.18

TOTAL…

$41,213,394.72

The computer was then instructed:

Deduct from this total an allowance for dormant accounts and municipal deposits.

(It was a safe assumption that neither of these would be disturbed, even in a run.)

The computer responded: DORMANT & MUNICIPAL.$21,430,964.61

BALANCE!

$19,782,430.11

Twenty million dollars more or less which depositors in the Tylersville area could, and might, demand. A subordinate of Straughan's had already alerted Central Cash Vault, a subterranean fortress below the FMA Tower.

Now the vault supervisor was ir formed,

"Twenty million dollars to Tylersville Branch rushI"

The amount was still more than might be needed, but an objective decided on during advance planning by Alex Vanderyoort's group was to make a show of strength like running up a flag.

Or, as Alex expressed it, "When you fight a fire, make sure you have more water than you need."

Within the past forty-eight hours anticipating exactly what was happening now the normal money supply in Central Cash Vault had been augmented by special drawings from the Federal Reservre.

The Fed had been informed of, and had approved, the FMA emergency plans. A Midas fortune in currency and coin, already counted and in labeled sacks, was loaded onto armored trucks while an array of armed guards patrolled the loading ramp.

There would be six armored trucks in all, several recalled by radio from other duties, and each would travel separately with police escort a precaution because of the unusual amount of cash involved. However, only three trucks would have money in them.

The others would be empty dummies an extra safeguard against holdup. Within twenty minutes of the branch manager's call, the first armored truck was ready to leave Headquarters and, soon after, was threading downtown traffic on its way to Tylersville.

Even before that, other bank personnel were en route by private car and limousine.

Edwina D'Orsey was in the lead.

She would be in charge of the support operation now under way. Edwina left her desk at the main downtown branch at once, pausing only to inform her senior assistant manager and to collect three staff members who would accompany her a loan officer, Cliff Castleman, and two tellers. One of the tellers was Juanita Nunez.

At the same time, small contingents of staff from two other city branches were being instructed to go directly to Tylersville where they would report to Edwina. Part of over-all strategy was not to deplete any branch seriously of staff in case another run should begin elsewhere.

In that event, other emergency plans were ready, though there wu a limit to how many could be managed at once. Not more than two or three. The quartet headed by Edwina moved at a brisk pace through the tunnel connecting the downtown branch with FMA Headquarters.

From the lobby of the parent building they took an elevator down to the bank's garage where a pool car had been assigned and was waiting. Cliff Castleman drove.

As they were getting in, Nolan Wainwright sprinted past, heading for his own parked Mustang. The security chief had been informed of the Tylersville operation and, with twenty million dollars cash involved, intended to oversee its protection personally.

Not far behind him would be a station wagon with a half-dozen armed security guards. Local and state police at Tylersville had been alerted.

Both Alex Vandervoort and Tom Straughan remained where they were, in FMA Headquarters Tower. Straughan's office near the Money Trading Center had become a command post.

On the 36th floor, Alex's concern was to keep close tab on the remainder of the branch system, and to know instantly if fresh trouble erupted.

Alex had kept Patterton informed and now the bank president waited tensely with Alex, each mulling the unspoken questions: Could they contain the run in Tylersville?

Would First Mercantile American make it through the business day without a rash of runs elsewhere? Fergus W. Gatwick, the Tylersville branch manager, had expected that his few remaining years until retirement would pass unhurriedly and uneventfully.

He was sixtyish, a chubby apple of a man, pink-checked, blueeyed, gray-haired, an affable Rotarian. In his youth he had known ambition but shed it long ago, deciding wisely that his role in life was supportive; he was a follower who would never blaze a trail.

Managing a small branch bank ideally suited his ability and limitations. He had been happy at Tylersville, where only one crisis had marred his tenure until now. A few years ago a woman with an imagined grudge against the bank rented a safe deposit box.

She placed in the box an object wrapped in newspaper, then departed for Europe leaving no address. Within days, a putrid odor filtered through the bank.

At first, drains were suspect and examined, to no effect, while all the time the stench grew greater. Customers complained, staff were nauseated. Eventually suspicion centered on the safe deposit boxes where the awful smell seemed strongest.

Then the crucial question arose which box? It was Fergus W. Gatwick who, at duty's call, sniffed his way around them all, at length settling on one where the matador was overpowering.

After that, it took four days of legal proceedings before a court order was obtained permitting the bank to drill the box open. Inside were the remains of a large, once-fresh sea bass.

Sometimes, even now in memory, Gatwick still sniffed traces of that ghastly time.

But today's exigency, he knew, was far more serious than a fish in a box. He checked his watch. An hour and ten minutes since he had telephoned Headquarters.

Though four tellers had been paying out money steadily, the number of people crowding the bank was even greater, with newcomers pouring in, and still no help had come. "Mr. Gatwick" A woman teller beckoned him.

"Yes?"

He left the railed management area where he normally worked and walked over to her. Across a counter from them both, at the head of a waiting line, was a poultry farmer, a regular bank customer whom Gatwick knew well. The manager said cheerfully,

"Good morning, Steve." He received a cool nod in return while silently the teller showed him checks drawn on two accounts.

The poultryman had presented them. They totaled $23,000.

"Those are good," Gatwick said. Taking the checks, he initialed both. In a low voice, though audible across the counter, the teller said,

"We haven't enough money left to pay that much." He should have known, of course. The drain on cash since opening had been continuous with many large withdrawals.

But the remark was unfortunate. Now there were anew rumblings among those in line, the teller's statement being repeated and passed back. "You hear that! They say they don't have any money."

"By Christ!" The poultry farmer leaned wrathfully forward, a clenched fist pounding.

"You just better pay those checks, Gatwick, or I'll be over there and tear this goddam bank apart." "There's no need for any of that, Steve.

Not threats or shouting either." Fergus W. Gatwick raised his own voice, striving to be heard above the suddenly ugly scene.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing a temporary cash shortage because of exceptional demands, but I assure you a great deal more money is on the way and will be here soon."