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you. Now, part of that inheritance, real estate and some cash, is back home in New York and, for the foreseeable future, shall remain there. However, a substantial part is here in –’ He was about to say Switzerland but thought better of it. ‘Here in Europe, and it’s …’ He hesitated slightly for effect, now coming to the gamble. ‘It’s that amount that I would like to leave with you.’
    Ackermann remained unmoved. ‘And what figure are we talking about, Mr Clayton?’ he asked, poising his pen over his pad and avoiding Tom’s eyes. A first crack in the Swiss armour.
    ‘Ah, the sum,’ said Clayton, slightly raising his voice, then pausing until both men had to look at him. ‘I expect you gentlemen to be able to tell me that.’
    Hugo Alicona looked at Clayton, then at his superior, then back and forth between the two. He was lost.
    ‘Would you care to explain, Mr Clayton?’ demanded Ackermann grimly.
    ‘My family, Mr Ackermann, have kept their funds with you for a very long time. Most of this century, in fact. Those funds are now mine. I will want them transferred to the accounts you will now open for me.’
    ‘I see. Naturally I will need the details of these accounts.’
    Clayton produced a typed sheet of paper and passed it over to Ackermann.
    ‘The account was originally established by my grandfather, Patrick Clayton. Full name, address, account number, you can see here. I am unable, at this point, to establish when exactly it was first opened, but no doubt you will have that information. Around 1940, I would guess.’
    ‘Well of course, Mr Clayton, neither Mr Alicona nor myself would necessarily have knowledge of this account –’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And the account,
if
it exists, you must appreciate, is governed by Swiss law. I mean no offence, but my hands are tied. I must be governed by procedure.’
    ‘I would not want it any other way – for my own protection , since I intend to leave the money with you.’ Tom emphasized that last point and watched it sink in. ‘As to these procedures, perhaps you could elaborate.’
    ‘You say this account was opened by your grandfather?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Whom we may assume is no longer with us?’
    ‘He died in 1944.’
    ‘And the rightful ownership of this account would then have passed to …?’
    ‘My father, who died last week.’ This was the one area Clayton wanted to avoid, the fifty-four-year gap. He had to create the impression, without actually spelling it out, that this deposit was known to the family all along. ‘But given that, at the moment, you cannot even acknowledge the existence of the account, perhaps we could concentrate on the “procedures” you mentioned, and so save time.’
    ‘Was this alleged account specifically bequeathed to you by your father or grandfather?’
    ‘Yes. The will makes specific reference to all the balances of all his bank accounts.’
    ‘Then of course we would need to see the will, which would need to have been legalized by the American and Swiss authorities in your country. These things take time.’
    Clayton opened his briefcase, removed all the documents he had brought with him and placed them on the desk. Then, one by one, he started passing them across to Ackermann. His grandfather’s will and death certificate, duly legalized. His father’s will, birth and death certificates, duly legalized.
    ‘All in order,’ Tom said with finality.
    As Ackermann pretended to examine each document before handing it over to Alicona, Clayton knew what their next move would to be: the Big Stall. The Swiss men suddenly out of their depth; Tom’s turn to take the initiative.
    ‘I expect that you gentlemen will wish to study these documents carefully,’ he said, lifting his briefcase onto the table and making a point of locking it, as if to indicate his impending departure. ‘I can assure you, however, that you will find everything in order.’
    ‘Of course,’ replied Ackermann, rising gratefully,