Not My Thing

Felder was a tall bulky man in his late fifties, always immaculately dressed, balding and, as Jamison knew, one of the shrewdest and most knowledgeable Swiss in the country. What Felder didn’t know about big business, industry, banking and big money wasn’t worth knowing.

‘I have a personal problem,’ Jamison said abruptly. ‘I want to know everything there is to know about Banque Bovay. What can you tell me?’

As Felder sat behind his desk, he lifted his bushy eyebrows.

‘A small, private bank. There are, of course, a number of these in Zurich, Bern, Basle and Geneva. These small banks give individual service, don’t ask awkward questions and extend the recognized banking secrecy to foreigners. This particular bank has been in the hands of the Bovay family for the past fifty years. Henri Bovay who had been running the bank for the past twenty years has just retired. His son, Paul, has taken his place. I understand that Henri Bovay suffered a stroke, and now has nothing to do with the bank. Paul Bovay seems to be doing a good job. The bank, in a small way, is prosperous. Its assets are acceptable.’ Felder paused and regarded Jamison. ‘Is this the kind of information you need, Mr Jamison?’

‘When did the son take over the bank?’

‘Only last month.’

‘Tell me more about the father.’

Felder, aware that he had an important board meeting in twenty minutes’ time, smiled his humourless Swiss smile.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough first to tell me what the problem is, Mr Jamison, and why you are interested in a small concern like the Bovay Bank. I could then give you direct information without wasting your time.’

‘Or wasting your time,’ Jamison said with a nod of approval. All his dealings with Felder had been excellent. Felder was one of the few men that Jamison considered a top-class executive.

Felder lifted his fat hands.

‘Yes, Mr Jamison. I have a board meeting.’

‘Right. Here’s the problem. My wife has been kidnapped.’

Felder stiffened.

‘I am sorry to hear this, Mr Jamison. So…?’

‘The ransom of five million dollars is to be paid to the Bovay Bank. The kidnapper whose name is Ernie Kling has an account at this bank. Kling is an American citizen. Unless the ransom is paid, he tells me he will murder my wife. He has given me his account number at the Bovay Bank. I need to prove to him that this sum has been paid into his account before my wife is set free.’

Felder sat for a long moment, pulling at his underlip, then he picked up the telephone receiver that connected him with his secretary.

‘The board meeting is to be cancelled,’ he said. ‘I don’t wish to be disturbed,’ and he hung up. ‘Yes, Mr Jamison, this is a problem.’ He looked directly at Jamison. ‘Tell me your thinking.’

‘I want my wife free,’ Jamison lied.

Felder nodded.

‘Of course.’

‘But I’m damned if I’m going to pay this kidnapper five million dollars,’ Jamison went on.

Felder again nodded.

‘There is always a solution to any problem. May I ask you to leave this with me? I believe you are staying at the Baur au Lac?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suggest we meet there for dinner tonight,’ Felder said. ‘Would eight o’clock be convenient?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have this man Kling’s account number at the Bovay Bank?’

‘I have it.’ Jamison took from his wallet the scrap of paper Kling had given him. It was in a plastic envelope. He passed the envelope to Felder who wrote down the number, then returned the envelope to Jamison.

‘By this evening, I hope to have found a satisfactory solution.’ Felder got to his feet. ‘Please be patient, Mr Jamison, this isn’t going to be easy, and I will need a little time.’

‘I understand. Thank you, Felder.’ Jamison got to his feet. ‘I have every confidence in you.’ Then, lying, Jamison went on, ‘I don’t have to tell you that my wife’s life must not be at risk.’

‘That, of course, is understood. As you are here, would you care to inspect the factory? I can arrange a conducted tour.’

‘No!’ Jamison barked. ‘I’m not in the mood. Then at eight o’clock tonight.’ Shaking hands, he left.

Felder sat at his desk and snatched up the telephone receiver.

‘Get me Mr Paul Bovay of the Bovay Bank,’ he told his secretary.

***

Lepski burst into Chief of Police Terrell’s office and slid to a standstill.

‘Chief! I’ve found her!’ he bawled.

Terrell, with a mass of papers on his desk, looked up with barely suppressed impatience and regarded Lepski. ‘Found who?’ he asked.

‘Mrs Jamison! Who else?’

Terrell pushed back his chair.

‘You have found Mrs Jamison?’

‘I got a hunch,’ Lepski said, loosening his tie. ‘I’m willing to bet she’s stashed away in Lucy Loveheart’s whore-house!’

Terrell rubbed his nose.

‘Sit down, Tom. Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

Briefly, Lepski made his report. How he had seen Lucan leave the brothel, how he had this hunch, how he had sat outside the brothel and seen the slim Vietnamese drive down to the garage, how he had seen the elevator go to the top floor.