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  “Merde!” he said, and turned his attention back to the croupier.

  “Put it all on 13,” said the young man.

  The croupier glanced across at the deputy manager, who nodded. He spun the wheel and released the ball, feeling for the lever once more. It landed in 13, but only for a moment before it popped back out and settled in 27. The young man let out a piercing scream, and as he stood up and left the table, yelled at the woman, “You’ve left me with no choice.”

  Maxine collapsed into the nearest chair and burst into tears, as her husband ran out of the back of the casino and onto the terrace. The manager left his desk and walked quickly out onto the balcony. He watched as the young man ran out onto the beach, and continued running toward the sea. The manager looked more closely, and could have sworn he was holding a gun in his right hand.

  He quickly returned to his desk and was trying to get his security chief on the phone, when he heard a single shot ring out.

  “Get back up here,” said the manager when André came on the line. “And quickly.”

  The manager walked over to a large safe embedded in the wall. He entered an eight-digit code and pulled open the heavy door. “How much did he say would solve his problems?”

  “Three hundred thousand francs,” said Duval, as André burst into the room.

  “Take this money,” said the manager, handing over an armful of cash, “and carry out the boss’s orders.”

  The security chief slipped out of the room, walked down the back stairs and out of a rear entrance onto the beach. He quickly identified a set of fresh prints in the moonlight, and followed them until he came to a body lying in the sand, blood pouring out of his mouth, a pistol by his side. The head of security looked up to check no one was watching him, before he began to stuff wads of cash into the dead man’s jacket pockets, and then his trouser pockets, finally leaving a few francs scattered in the sand by his side.

  André double-checked to make sure no one had seen what he’d done, before he got off his knees and made his way back toward the casino. Once inside, he ran up the back stairs and into the manager’s office.

  “Job done,” was all he said.

  “Good. Now no one will be able to suggest he committed suicide because he lost heavily at the tables.”

  * * *

  Maxine waited until the head of security had disappeared back into the casino, before she made her way out onto the beach. She kept glancing back to be sure no one was watching her.

  When she found the body, she knelt down on the sand, and began to extract the francs from his pockets, before placing the bundles of cash in a large empty handbag. She even picked up the few stray ones that were lying by his side.

  Maxine knelt down and kissed her husband gently on the forehead. “The coast is clear, my darling,” she whispered, glancing back up toward the casino.

  Jacques opened his eyes and smiled. “I’ll see you and François back in Paris,” he said as his wife picked up the bag and slipped quickly away.

  THE SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT

  1

  ARTHUR DUNBAR STUDIED Mr. S. Macpherson’s account with some considerable satisfaction, bordering on pride. His eyes returned to the bottom line: $8,681,762. He checked it against last year’s figure, $8,189,614. An increase of 6 percent, and one mustn’t forget that during the past year his client had spent $281,601 on personal expenditure, which included all his household bills, and a quarterly payment to a Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw, who, Arthur assumed, must be his long-serving staff.

  Arthur leaned back in his chair, and not for the first time thought about the man who hailed from Ambrose in the Highlands of Scotland. When Arthur had first been given the responsibility of handling the account, some eighteen years ago, all his predecessor had told him was that a man, not much older than Arthur was at the time, had turned up at the bank and, having made a fortune on the railroad, deposited $871,000 in cash, and announced he was going home to Scotland.

  It made Arthur smile to think that anyone who turned up with $10,000 in cash today would be subject to an investigation by their recently formed money-laundering team, and if they didn’t tick all the boxes, their file would be handed over to the Toronto police’s special investigation squad.

  Arthur had long ago stopped trying to fathom why Mr. Macpherson still did business with the National Bank of Toronto, when there were so many Scottish banks that were just as competent and considerably more convenient. But as he had conducted his affairs in an exemplary fashion for the past twenty-five years, the subject no longer arose, and in any case, NBT wouldn’t have wanted to lose one of their most important customers.

  Although Arthur knew very little about his client other than that they both shared the same heritage, one thing he had learned over the years was that he was unquestionably a shrewd, intelligent businessman. After all, he had multiplied his original investment tenfold, while at the same time withdrawing enough money to live an extremely comfortable lifestyle. In fact, only once in the past eighteen years had he failed to show a profit, despite stock market collapses, changes of governments, and countless skirmishes around the globe. He appeared to have no vices, and his only extravagance was purchasing the occasional painting from Munro’s, a fine art dealer in Edinburgh—and then only if it was by a Scottish artist.

  Arthur had long ago accepted he didn’t have Mr. Macpherson’s flair for finance, but he was quite happy to sit at the feet of the master and when any new instructions came, he would invest a portion of his own money in the same shares at a level no one would have noticed. So when the bank’s senior vice president checked his own account at the end of the quarter, it stood at $243,519. How he would have liked to thank Mr. Macpherson in person, because retirement was fast approaching for Arthur, and with his little nest egg and a full pension, he looked forward to ending his days in a degree of comfort he felt he had earned.

  If there was a Mrs. Macpherson there were no clues to suggest it, so Arthur rather assumed that, like him, his client was a bachelor. But like so many mysteries surrounding the man, he didn’t know for sure, and assumed he never would.

  However, something had been worrying Arthur about the account for some weeks, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. He opened the file again and noted the figure, $8,681,762, before checking every entry meticulously. But all seemed to be in order.

  He then studied each check that the different individuals and companies had presented during the past month, before checking them against the entries in the ledger. Every one tallied. All the usual household expenses and utility bills, food, wine, gas, electricity, even Hudsons, the local newsagent. But he still felt something wasn’t quite right. And then, in the middle of the night, it hit him like a thunderbolt. Less, not more.

  On arrival at the bank the following morning, the first thing Arthur did was to take Mr. Macpherson’s ledger out of the bottom drawer. He turned the pages back to the previous quarter, and was able to confirm the most recent bills were considerably less than those for any other quarter. Had they been considerably more, Arthur would have spotted it immediately, and become suspicious. The fact that they were less, aroused his interest. The only entry that remained consistent was the monthly banker’s order for his long-serving retainers, Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw.

  He leaned back in his chair and wondered if he should inform the manager of this break in routine, but decided against it for two reasons. It was coming up to quarter day, when he would receive his new instructions from Mr. Macpherson, and with it no doubt a simple explanation as to why the bills had fallen, and second, he didn’t care much for the new manager of the bank.

  There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Arthur had considered the possibility of being appointed manager himself, but his hopes were dashed when that position was filled by a Mr. Stratton from their Montreal branch, who was half his age, but a graduate of McGill and the Wharton Business School. Arthur on the other hand had, to quote his late father—a former sergeant in the Seafort