Storm over the Caribbean

36. Mr Ambrose's Manoeuvre

Well, suffice it to say that, when a post had opened at a certain branch bank on the Islands of Bermuda, he had packed his things and, first chance he got, skedaddled off to a nice Caribbean island with sunny beaches and wonderfully warm weather all year round.

Suddenly, he heard the door creak open and felt a cold draught that sent a shiver down his back.

"Close the door," he barked at his clerk. Customers never came at this time. Well...they never really came at any time, period. What a lovely job! "It's draughty!"

"Oh, is it?" an unfamiliar voice rang out. An unfamiliar, icy voice that brought the temperature of the room down by twenty degrees. Jerking his head up from his adventure nove...ehem, important banking documents, Mr Hutchinson stared at the tall man with the stony face who stood in the doorway.

He blinked.

Could it be...?

Was it really...?

"A...customer?"

The man in the doorway cocked his head. "This is a bank, is it not?"

"W-why yes, Sir, it is." Rushing out from behind his desk, Mr Hutchinson pulled out the chair in front of his desk and inconspicuously tried to wipe the dust off the seat. "It most definitely is! What can I do for you today?"

"Cash this." Striding forward, the newcomer placed a small, white rectangle on top of the bank manager's desk.

With an energetic nod, Hutchinson snatched up the piece of paper. "Why, certainly, Sir. I'll—"

Then his eyes fell upon the cheque. Specifically, the number of zeroes.

"Cnglrx," he said.

"No," the customer corrected. "Cash."

Staggering back a step or two, Hutchinson slumped into his armchair. "Ehem...right. What is your name again, Sir?"

"Ambrose. Mr Rikkard Ambrose."

The manager frowned. He was slightly out of date regarding the latest financial news, but that name sounded rather familiar. Where had he heard...

All colour drained from his face.

"Y-you mean—"

"Yes. That Rikkard Ambrose."

Mr Hutchinson considered for a moment whether he should get up to bow and grovel. In the end, he decided not to. No matter how awe-inspiringly wealthy and powerful the man in front of him was, he himself was a distinguished bank manager of the Bank of England! He had his dignity! He also had legs that felt like noodles and would probably not hold him up at the moment.

"Cheque," a cold voice suddenly interrupted his inner musings. "Cash. Now."

He nearly jumped out his chair.

"W-why, yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!" Reaching for a bell that sat on his desk, he rang it loudly. "Cooper? Cooper, get in here!"

A thump came from the room next door, as if from a heavy object hitting the ground, or maybe a sleeping man falling off his chair. Moments later, the door opened, and a bespectacled young man stuck his head into the room, rubbing his bruised temple. "Yes, Mr Hutchinson, Sir?"

"Take this cheque and cash it!"

"Sure thing, boss. I'll do it right after my lunch brea—"

"Now!"

"Um...all right?"

Scurrying forward, Cooper snatched the cheque and dashed back to the door—where he stopped and glanced around. "Um, boss...are you sure I can't eat lunch first? If I take care of this now, my stew will grow cold and—"