I could tell that Ivanhoe loved my idea.
He didn’t say much, but that’s what gave it away. He sat back in quiet contemplation, the dark corner of the empty Playhouse Theater bar hiding us from the passersby at the top of Leith Walk.
“It could work,” he said at last.
“No,” I countered. “The Tree of Liberty will work. We pass the ‘master copy’ to each outlet with a blank space for local news. The small-town presses then go to work; they produce a single sheet with international, national and next-door news. But it’s not going to be puff-pieces like I’m allowed to write today. This will be accurate, up-to-date stuff, backed by radio broadcasts…” I steeled myself for my big ‘ask’. “…and hopefully some real news from the African Front too Canada, Singapore. You could get that for us.”
To my surprise, there was no immediate denial, just an obsequious remark “Oh, I could, could I?”
“Yes.” I said with blossoming determination. “The Tree only succeeds because of the no-bull truth of it; the news from the troops. Maybe even letters from men in the area, I mean, come on, Ivanhoe. This is good stuff. You want to kick the morale up a notch; this would do just that.”
I was now making it up as I went along, but still he didn’t give me an outright ‘no’. “I’ll have to take it upstairs for a bit.” I looked at him, still in obvious deep thought to the matter. “Canada will have to be asked about the letter thing; that could get dicey.”
“Dicey?” I shook my head. “How the heck is that dicey? It’s a no-brain good idea. The men get to write home, and the folks get communication.”
He rose, his eyes still somewhere else. “Okay, you’ve got the green light from me on a local level.”
I almost jumped up cheering. But I didn’t; I sat very still, my mind raced, but I forced my body to stay at rest.” Thank you. The people of Scotland will thank you one day.”
“No letters to begin with, July wasn’t a good month in the desert. This idea is good, but it’ll take some selling to the top brass.”
There was never going to be a better moment to ask. “What’s going on in Africa?”
“Oh,” he screwed up his face in pain, as if he’d already gone too far. “Jerry has taken charge, bumped the Italians back to reserve areas. Rommel has now got free reign in North Africa.”
Rommel. How well we knew that name. He’d beaten our boys in France, then a couple of months later he’d done the same in Britain. He seemed the Jerry commander of choice when it came to getting something done.
Ivanhoe gave me a way-too-official salute, then turned and left by the stage door. I gave him five minutes, and left by the front door as arranged. I walked out into a balmy July afternoon, then set off for my next appointment.
On his visit to the newspaper office, the owner of The Scotsman, Sir Edmund Findlay, had told me to ‘present myself’ in the Bank of Scotland in St. Andrews Square, but due to my unscripted incarceration in Carstairs, I hadn’t been able to. I now walked along York Place to get another box ticked in my head. I had my mind on the Tree, my now shortened term for my fledgling ‘pirate’ newspaper, and didn’t give much thought to what would transpire at the bank.
St Andrews Square is a 100 yard square of grass and trees at the end of George Street, just a stone’s throw from Princes Street. In the centre of the grass area stands the Melville Monument, a huge penis of a column, with a statue of Henry Dundas, a huge influence in the Scottish Enlightenment in the early 1800’s, and a big influence in building the New Town; we’d studied him at the University. The actual Square, with its huge buildings, is the prestigious home of all banking headquarters in Edinburgh.
The Bank of Scotland is on the southern edge of the east side, a huge building of gigantic marble blocks, yet the door is small and business-like, avoiding all thought of ostentation.
Inside, I expected a huge hall like the Royal Bank of Scotland next door, but was disappointed. I was met by a greeter at the door. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Eh, I hope so.” Suddenly faced with my task, I tried to dispel all thoughts of the Tree, and concentrate. “I was asked by Sir Edmund Findlay to present myself here, and give both his name and my own, James Baird.”
If the man thought my introduction sounded somewhat vague, he did not show it. “Certainly sir, please wait here.” He indicated a row of high-end chairs, more like loungers, all finished in studded green leather.
I parked my backside in the nearest one and ‘waited’.
Two minutes later, an elderly man approached. “Mr. Baird?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Mr. Murdoch will see you now.”
I rose, and followed him. “Thank you.”
I’d never been in a more grandiose office. Thirty-foot ceiling complete with plaster decoration, huge paintings, all originals, and some of the oldest book-ends I’d ever seen.
Mr. Murdoch rose to greet me from behind the behemoth that he presumably called a ‘desk’; I’d seen smaller houses. “Come in, Mr. Baird, we’ve been expecting you for some time.” His tone managed to be both welcoming and fawning in equal measure.
Yeah, I got holed up in an extermination camp. “Yes,” I crossed the room to meet him. “I’ve been out of town for a couple of weeks.”
We shook hands over the vast surface of his extremely tidy desk. We both had to stretch.
“Ah, well, glad you’re back. Sit down, please.”
Another thousand quid chair. “Thank you,”
“Eh, did Sir Edmund mention any specifics about your account?”
“No. I have an account in Bruntsfield. I take it we’re not talking about that one?”
He smiled quite naturally. “No, I’m referring to the one at this branch. Sir Edmund set up the account on his last visit to the city.”
I shook my head. “In that case I know nothing about it.”
He studied a small passbook in front of him, and a letter on Bank of Scotland headed notepaper. “Well, he had us set up what we call an ‘Artisan’ account, drawn directly on Sir Edmund’s line of credit in our London branch. You, Mr. Baird now have a line of credit here, available at any time. The only stipulation is that you give a written reason for each withdrawal.”
That knocked me back a bit. “What’s the limit on the account?”
Murdoch looked surprised. “Why, Mr. Baird. It is a line of credit, and therefore has no limit.”
“What?” I blurted. “What happens if I want a thousand pounds?” It seemed my imagination had set a limit for me.
“Then we would honor your request.”
Holy strewth and buckets of hellfire. Thoughts sprang to mind of my new project, and how much quicker it would turn into reality with a few quid to grease any rusty cogs. “In that case, I will require a hundred pounds today, please.”
“Certainly.” He pressed a buzzer on the edge of the desk, and I swear the side door opened immediately. A young lady, no more than twenty entered without knocking, coiffured hair, very slick business suit, tidy in every way. “Miss MacDevon, please bring me a hundred pounds please, small bills,” he suddenly turned to me, his face filled with concern. “Small bills, right?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
Murdoch began to write in the passbook, then looked up, the happy toadying expression back. “The reason for the withdrawal, Mr. Baird?”
“Can I just cite day-to-day expenses?”
“Certainly, I’m sure that will do for the first time. You may be required to be more forthcoming in the future.”
I could see that. “I will write to Sir Edmund personally and provide more detail.”
His raised eyebrows gave an unbidden sign of surprise. Yes, I did have his personal address. Despite no bad impression on our meeting, I could not help feeling a slight repugnance in Murdoch’s attitude. Too bad; I now had a hundred quid.
First thing? Buy a new watch.
I really missed my old Omega. I’m quite sure MacManaman, the Scottish gestapo I’d shot in the Burke & Hare would have been wearing it, probably stripped from my unconscious body. I regretted not searching his wrist as he bled out in the bar, but stealing it from him would have both given the Germans a clue in my identity, and slowed my escape.
I looked at the large clock on the wall behind Murdoch; three, fifteen. I had plenty of time to visit Cockburn Street and find a suitable timepiece.
My first stop was Brown’s Emporium, but he had nothing in stock to my requirements. He sent me down the street to Abe Millers, a silver dealer, not commonly known for being in the watch trade.
To my surprise, he had hundreds.
But it took my trained eye just a few seconds to locate the only one familiar to me. I picked it up, feeling its weight, knowing its crocodile strap.
“Twenty,” the assistant said.
I shook my head, putting it on my wrist, the strap fitting snugly.
“It’s an Omega…”
“I know.” I raised my hand. “I want to know where it came from.”
“Oh, sir, we get watches from many places.”
“You see,” I began, “It’s mine, stolen from me. I want to speak to the proprietor, thank you very much.”
A thick red curtain to the back shop parted and a small man strode through. He wore glasses with a magnifying eyepiece attached.
“Mr. Miller…” the shopkeeper started.
“It’s okay, Billy, you go out back, have a smoke. I’ll deal with this gentleman.” He waited until he heard the back door close. “How can I help you?”
“This watch,” I lifted my wrist for him to see. “It’s mine, stolen.”
Mr. Miller shook his head. “It might have been yours,” his tone was matter-of-fact. “But now it’s mine, and I mean to sell it.”
It felt good on my wrist, and also stopped my search for a replacement. “Where did you get it?”
“Police,” he admitted candidly. “I buy the lost and found from time to time. This came in yesterday, stuff taken from dead folk.”
Oh. That shook me. I’d just admitted a link from me to a dead person. The scene I’d planned to make in the shop dwindled in seconds. But I still wanted the watch. “How much?”
I expected him to remain firm on his ticket price, but he reached for an old brown notebook, filled with pages of catalogued lines. Being on the last written page, he took no time to find the entry he needed. “Omega, Croc strap. Looks like I paid three quid for it.” He closed the book with a snap, and looked up. “Fiver, it’s yours. If you don’t come up with the cash, you don’t leave the building.”
It certainly was a drop from the initial twenty asked for. I swallowed my pride, handed over the first fiver from the St Andrews Square money, and pissed off smartish.
I had my old watch back.