It was curious how, with no direct information available, everybody had a sense of approaching climax; even the remote subordinates in distant corners of HQ who seemed linked together by some psychic grapevine. In part it was perhaps an intelligent reading of events. Though Johnson had been found, he had not been proceeded against. Nor had Gently taken himself off to his hotel by the Castle, and as late at night as this he was prepared to summons Mallows. Unless he was hot on a scent, wouldn’t the morning have done as well? And would Walker, who liked his eight hours, be preparing for a nocturnal session?
This odd feeling of tension had extended itself to the press men, half a dozen of whom Gently found playing rummy in the waiting room. There was a rush and a scrambling for notebooks when they saw him come up the steps — they had had a handout already, but they wanted some live quotes.
‘Is it a fact that you don’t intend arresting Johnson?’
‘Isn’t there a woman in this…?’
‘Was the plane smashed deliberately?’
Even now there would be photographers bumping out to Rawton Aerodrome, and in all probability getting lost in the dark.
But the reporters were not satisfied with details of l’affaire Johnson. Their professionally developed instincts warned them that this was only secondary. After exhausting all their questions they didn’t rush off to the nearest phone, but instead returned to the waiting room, taking care to post a sentry. Then they picked up their cards again and automatically continued the game.
Having been through it once with them Gently had to repeat his performance for Walker, and the Super, like his man of parts, could see no alternative to the arrest of Johnson. Gently was masterful in his evasion, but he emphasized the salient point:
‘That letter must have been sent by the culprit — and Johnson couldn’t have sent the letter.’
‘But suppose you leave the letter out of it.’
Gently shook his head decidedly. ‘There are two factors concerning the letter which tie it directly to the crime. To start with, the paper was part of the same sheet on which Mrs Johnson painted her picture, and then the composer of the letter knew that Farrer had helped Johnson to escape.’
‘Johnson may have lied about his movements.’
‘I don’t think he did, not in his condition.’
‘You admit yourself that he’s a clever bloke…’
‘There’s a limit to the cleverness that I admit to in anyone.’
Hansom, uncharacteristically, kept out of the argument. His belief in his judgement had taken a bad knock. He lit a cheroot in pretended boredom, and looked at the pictures in the Super’s Forensic Medicine…
To avoid the reporters, Mallows was brought in by the back way, having been driven right round the block to evade passing the main entrance. He stalked fiercely into the office, a folded paper in his hand, but after some moments in the frigid room a lot of his starch seemed to go out of him. He looked tireder, older; there were dark semicircles beneath his eyes. His grey hair clung more limply over his distinguished forehead. But since nobody at first appeared to notice his arrival, he took a chair from the wall and sat down challengingly in front of the desk.
‘A fine time of the day to drag a man out of his home!’ His eyes rested on Gently reproachfully and without their customary twinkle. Then he glanced round the room at Walker, Hansom, Stephens, the stenographer, the latter busy sharpening pencils with a razor blade in a holder. The forces of society…! Suddenly, Gently saw it all much clearer — as though, in a flash of sympathy, he was sharing Mallows’s vision. They were arranged by accident in a crescent, resembling a primitive battle array; a formidable half moon of enemy figures who were no longer individual people. And at the focus, naked in his chair, the artist clutching that folded paper… Gently guessed that it was Mallows’s Times, the innocent copy delivered to his house.
‘We have some questions to put to you, Mr Mallows…’
Once more he was conscious of a painful symbolism. Always, the inquisition was started by the recitation of those words. He could hear Johnson’s mocking rejoinder, speaking for everyone subject to question. ‘Whacko…!’ Did one ever ask questions without implying an accusation?
‘I know why you’re after me — I saw what they found under my door mat. I was watching them, you can bet — you don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you!’
‘Would you like to make a statement?’
‘Damn it, yes, I’ll do your work for you! No, sir, you can put your questions, but here’s an answer for you to begin with.’
He threw his paper on the desk, making with it a stilted, jabbing motion; it was in fact the previous day’s Times, his name scrawled roughly across one corner.
‘You realize, naturally, that this proves nothing?’
‘Touche, my friend. It proves I’ve got one.’
‘Something suggested its use for a certain purpose… what would that be, except familiarity with the paper?’
‘The knowledge that I took it in, perhaps.’
‘Apart from your servants, who would have that knowledge?’
They were sparring like a pair of boxers trying to feel each other out: Gently instantly perceived his mistake, and let the next reply dangle in air. When the expected riposte failed to come Mallows stared at him, but maintained his silence. Walker, who was sitting at the end of the desk, also looked expectantly at Gently.
‘Earlier today you admitted to certain knowledge concerning the recipient of a letter I showed you. You explained it by saying that he had telephoned you, but this he denies having done.’
‘He might have very good reasons for that.’ Mallows said it briskly, inviting a reply. Now, however, Gently was on his guard, and once more Mallows was left without support.
‘Suppose I guessed it, knowing what I knew? One has a brain, and you can’t help it working! From the letter one might deduce that it was Johnson who had eluded you, and after a quick check of suspects… surely Farrer is the obvious one? Naturally, Johnson would go to the bank. It’d be the last thing he would do. From there he’d want to get away quickly — and he was pals with Farrer. You see? It’s deducible.’
‘According to witness, you were more than friendly with Mrs Johnson.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Is it true, or false?’
‘It’s true that people have different ideas of what is friendly — it’s not the same thing in Mayfair and Montmartre.’
‘You were more than friendly with Mrs Johnson.’
‘I don’t say you couldn’t prove it.’
‘She was your mistress for a time.’
‘I’m going to swear at you, in a minute!’
Mallows was visibly put out by this form of procedure, which left him nothing to aim at and pinned him firmly to the defensive. His forte, as Gently had observed, lay in smart repartee, but deprived of openings for this he quickly surrendered the initiative.
‘Derek Johnson suspected you of killing his wife.’
‘If he did, then this is the first time I’ve heard about it.’
‘He got in touch with you yesterday before he left the city.’
‘My dear fellow, you’re talking moonshine. I haven’t spoken to him for days.’
‘He got in touch with you from his office, and this is the gist of the conversation. In acknowledgement of his keeping his mouth shut, you were to pay him a certain sum of money. I’d better inform you that I’ve had an opportunity of talking to Johnson — at this moment he is lying in the West County Hospital, at Fosterham.’
Not only Mallows but the others also sat up at this outrageous statement, rolled out as it was with the most stolid conviction. Until then Hansom had continued his investigation of Forensic Medicine, but now he shut the book with a bang, his eyes opening wide.
‘This is an astounding accusation!’
Mallows had flushed and was really angry: his big eyebrows lifted until they were nearly horizontal.
‘It’s not only astounding but untrue! I have had no communication with Johnson. If he says that I have, then bless my soul! The man is a psychopathic liar, and you can tell him I say so.’
‘Then you didn’t promise to pay him?’
‘I tell you again, I haven’t spoken to him!’
‘He had no money from you?’
‘Good lord! Am I going mad?’
‘You didn’t advise him to leave the country, undertaking to pay him ten thousand pounds?’
‘A little more of this, and I’m going to insist on having a lawyer!’
‘And yet you knew who received that letter?’
‘It was only a guess… must I keep on repeating it?’
Gently paused for an instant, a gleam in his eye: now he had produced a good working sweat! His next aim must be to keep it beading, to give Mallows no time to appreciate his tactics.
‘Where did you have lunch on Monday last?’
‘Monday… at home. I had lunch at home.’
‘You had lunch with Mrs Johnson.’
‘That’s untrue. Until the evening…’
‘According to witness you were seen coming out of Lyons with her.’
‘Not on that Monday…’
‘On that Monday! You went up The Walk with her and drove her off in your car. Johnson had been watching you, and he saw it too — so there doesn’t seem much to be gained by denying it.’
‘This is a fantastic perversion-!’
‘Shall I tell you what followed? You told her that you couldn’t pay her demands any longer. She’d been blackmailing you, hadn’t she? Threatened to cite you as co-respondent! And for a time, till she got greedy, you thought it was worth your while to pay her.’
‘You can’t believe this!’
‘Was she never in your studio?’
‘Yes, several times, but-’
‘You gave her that half-sheet of paper. You can’t buy it in this country and only you had a supply of it — and precisely the same sheet was used for the painting and the letter! How are you going to explain that?’
‘I don’t have to — I won’t explain it!’
‘Yet you knew who received that letter?’
‘For the last time — I guessed about it!’
Had the others got an inkling of what he was up to? Two of them, at least, must be spotting the chaff amongst the wheat. Walker, on the other hand, was not so conversant with the details; he might be a little surprised, but he was probably swallowing most of it.
Under the glare of the strip light, his face looked frowningly intent.
‘You were the last person to speak to her?’
‘Have I ever denied it?’
‘At lunchtime you called her bluff, and you were in purgatory until the evening. You hoped it would put a stop to her, that she would draw back from her threat — but she was determined, wasn’t she? In a few words, she confirmed it. So you followed her, trying to soothe her, telling her that after all you intended to pay — that the money was in the car, that the car was in the park-’
‘But it wasn’t, it was in the Haymarket!’
‘How many of your servants sleep in?’
‘Two-’
‘Above or below you?’
‘Above!’
‘So they wouldn’t hear you go out!’
All the time he kept the tone subdued, never allowing his voice to rise: his face was entirely flat and gave no hint of the feelings behind it. He was like some impassive robot drilled to destructive accusation, turning it, twisting it to an implacable purpose.
‘Last night you didn’t sleep much.’
‘I admit that. I had indigestion-’
‘During the evening you concocted that letter, not to warn Farrer, but to make him tremble. At two a.m. you crept out of your house, carrying the letter and one of the knives. Where do you say you lunched on Monday?’
‘At my house — the servants will tell you!’
‘Why was your car parked in the Haymarket?’
‘It couldn’t have been!’
‘So it was in the car park?’
‘No!’
‘Then where was your car? I thought you had decided it was in the Haymarket.’
‘If you’re talking about Monday evening-’
‘Yes, Monday evening. Where was it then?’
‘I can prove it was in the Haymarket!’
‘And of course, you knew who received that letter?’
Mallows threw up his hands in despair. He needed time to recover his balance. He wasn’t beaten — not yet; not by a long chalk he wasn’t! — but Gently had got him persistently moving in the wrong direction. He badly needed a break to discover the pattern of this ruthless treatment…
‘Didn’t you tell me that Farrer was a friend of yours?’
‘Yes… yes…’ Mallows strove to hold him off.
‘Goes to the same club — plays golf — exchanges visits?’
‘Yes… that’s right… I’ve met his family…’
‘And this is the way you treat a friend?’
‘What do you mean by that? I’ve always done my best-’
‘If the positions were reversed, would he have treated you like that?’
‘My dear fellow, regarding Farrer…’ Mallows broke off with a hunch of his shoulders.
‘You treated him shabbily! There’s no denying that. The whole trick was despicable, the product of an inferior mind. And you had the effrontery to admire it — to stand admiring those damaged pictures! In front of me, of all people, you showed the pleasure it gave you. There was a spectacle to arouse disgust and anger in the meanest of intellects, yet you, a distinguished artist, could only look about you and gloat…’
‘Gently Iscariot…!’ Mallows gave him a reproachful look, but Gently returned a marble stare and hurried on with his assault.
‘Getting back to fundamentals — how long had she been your mistress?’
‘I didn’t admit that she had-’
‘Oh? But we can produce several witnesses.’
‘I categorically deny it!’
‘That is your privilege, but the facts remain.’
‘We were friendly-’
‘So I understand — to the extent of her visiting you alone in your studio.’
‘Twice — three times she came to my studio!’
‘And after that she started the blackmail?’
‘There was no blackmail-’
‘We have evidence of that. And then again, you knew who received that letter…’
Two hours later it was still going on, in an atmosphere slowly thickening with tobacco smoke. Not once had Gently paused in his steady flood of accusation, and his low voice, varied only in tempo, seemed stamped on the character of the room. All of them were tiring except, apparently, Gently. The stenographer, who was only window dressing, had given up his pretence at scribbling. Hansom was studying the ceiling, his umpteenth cheroot in his mouth; Stephens kept smothering yawns, and Walker was frowning harder than ever.
‘And so, you knew who received that letter…’
That was the text of the fearsome gospel. Again and again it was punched at Mallows, till it began to take on an almost mystical quality. Sometimes the artist would try to counter it, wearily producing his argument of deduction; but this was no use, it was contemptuously shrugged aside, and always after an interval the words came again:
‘But of course, you knew who received that letter…’
Hansom thought he would scream if he heard them any more. So the charlie did know who received the flaming letter! And what was so killingly funny about that?
An interruption came at last in the form of a buzz from the phone, and so absorbed had they been with Gently that everybody gave a start.
‘Superintendent Gently here…’
Horrocks was ringing him from Chelmsford. He had discovered the lodgings where Johnson had claimed to have spent the night, and was able to confirm with near certainty that he had actually spent it there.
‘It’s only a small house with a spare bedroom to let. Johnson was in by half past ten and didn’t leave again till after breakfast — round about eight-thirty; a taxi called for him.’
‘Could he have left the house without their knowing?’
‘Not without a load of luck he couldn’t. The bedroom door sticks, there’s a loose board in the landing, the stairs squeak like mad and the landlady has insomnia. Apart from that he could have jumped from a first-floor window, but if he did, he landed lightly enough on a bed of geraniums.’
‘Did you get on to the cinema box office?’
‘Yes. She remembers him by his tash. Also, we’ve got a record of two trunk calls to Lordham exchange.’
Thus Johnson was finally eliminated as the possible author of the letter and slashings — saving a miracle, he could not have been on the spot at the time. From the beginning Gently had not considered his claims very seriously, but while he remained, a credible door had stood open…
‘Suppose we have some coffee now?’
The stenographer departed with alacrity. According to the office clock it was now past one a.m. Mallows, haggard, looking bemused, sat hunched and sprawling on his chair; his brilliant eyes were drooped and hooded, his finely boned hands hanging down beside him. How much further to go for the breakdown? Another hour? Another two, or three? Surely, by now, the artist could grasp its inevitability, could sense the undeflectable intent of his antagonist. He had nothing at all to gain: was it merely pride that made him hold on?
‘Where are you spending your leave this summer…?’
Over the coffee, Walker roused himself for a chat. For ten peaceful minutes there was conversation in the office, with Mallows, ignored, sitting listening or not listening. This was the usual thing, an acknowledged sleight of interrogation; you gave your subject a whiff of the normal life outside his nightmare. They were ordinary people, that was the gambit, they were only doing a job, it was foolish to give them trouble…
‘Didn’t I see that you’d won a prize in last year’s angling competition?’
‘I had a roach of just on three… it won it, against the national average…’
Stephens was showing Hansom his watch, an expensive self-winder of which he was proud: ‘It was my passing-out present at Ryton… all the family clubbed together.’
For ten minutes — and then it was over, with everyone turning their eyes back to Mallows. How could he fail to have been impressed by such a performance? Now let him cooperate, and they could all go home to bed…!
‘Don’t you think it would help if you agreed to make a statement?’
Mallows shrugged his shoulders feebly, then shook his massive head.
‘Very well, where did you have lunch on the Monday of last week?’
‘At home. I lunched at home. Why don’t you ring up and ask the servants…?’
And so they were off again, on the second leg of the serial, with Mallows still game though obviously very tired. As a form of defence he began answering at random, apparently without caring what admissions he made. Perhaps he had noticed the inactivity of the stenographer. The latter was still engaged in drinking his coffee. After drawing a few responses which were tantamount to meaningless, Gently jolted the artist awake by introducing a fresh angle.
‘Do you recall our conversation on Saturday?’
‘On Saturday…? Yes, I recall a conversation…’
‘You made a number of suggestions to me relating to the crime.’
‘Yes… that’s right… I did make suggestions.’
‘Knowing them to be false and completely misleading!’
‘Hold on… my dear fellow! I was trying to help you.’
‘You drew a plausible character of the murderer of Mrs Johnson, knowing, I repeat, that it was false and misleading.’
‘No! You’ve got it wrong…’ Mallows straightened his sagging shoulders. ‘I gave you that in good faith, I wasn’t trying to mislead you. At that time, without knowing…’
‘Without knowing what?’
‘I don’t know… but I felt positive that Johnson hadn’t done it.’
‘You knew that he hadn’t done it!’
‘No, I didn’t know that…’
‘But you thought you would give me a will o’ the wisp to chase after?’
‘It was an intelligent appraisal-’
‘From personal observation?’
‘Yes, in a way… all appraisals stem from that.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Who did you have in mind for that character?’
‘It was imagined… a purely synthetic creation…’
‘Designed to mislead me?’
‘No — in good faith!’
‘And since that time — Sunday morning, for instance?’
‘That — that confirmed what I had suggested…’
‘Confirmed it in what way?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?… A pronounced psychopath.’
‘An artistic psychopath?’
‘Yes — I suggested that all along.’
‘And you admired the way he’d treated the pictures!’
‘No! You can’t contend that seriously…’
This line being started, Gently kept on repeating it — to the irritation of Hansom, who couldn’t see it tending anywhere. It became almost as ubiquitous as the question about the letter, and appeared in a number of shapes and variations.
‘You are well acquainted with Allstanley?’
‘Yes… well acquainted…’
‘You see a lot of him, do you? Outside the group meetings?’
‘I wouldn’t say a lot… he visits the studio.’
‘How long have you been acquainted?’
‘Oh… nine or ten years.’
‘So you know him pretty well.’
‘Yes, yes, pretty well…’
‘Answer me yes or no! Is he the original of that character?’
‘No — certainly not!’
‘Where did you say you had lunch on Monday…?’
Then, after a rest, the blackmail angle was resumed, urged with a venom and apparent authority that shook Mallows again from his apathy. At times, as the questions battered him, he seemed almost convinced of their justness: he had lost the will to protest, the truth could be whatever Gently cared to make it.
‘Why should Johnson try to blackmail you?’
‘I don’t know… I can’t think…’
‘There could be only one reason!’
‘Yes… I see that, of course.’
‘You may not know it but he’d been following you — he had the necessary evidence.’
‘Yes, I think it probable…’
‘When did Mrs Johnson become your mistress?’
‘She came to the studio… I don’t know…!’
They had a second coffee break, the office clock now pointing to three. Hansom, who had got through his case of cheroots, had borrowed a packet of Players from Stephens. From the desk came a buzz for Gently — was he at liberty to talk to the press? The reporters were sweating on a break in time to catch the London editions.
‘Tell them they’d better go home to bed!’
For the first time, he was lighting his pipe. The taste of it was bitter, it had an early-morning harshness. Soon, now, a wintry light would begin to soften the black window panes, and down below in the street a laden milk lorry would clatter by. Then the solitary cyclist and a pedestrian, his boots echoing, the mysterious early risers who began to wake the city; a greeting shouted out, the yelping bark of a dog, and far away, over the river, a cock’s disembodied crow…
Mallows was offered a cup of coffee and he drank it in a sort of stupor; this time, there was very little effort at conversation. They were tired, and to be frank, discouraged; Gently’s pressure was getting them nowhere — Mallows had been beaten into mental numbness, but seemed as far from a confession as ever. And what was even more discouraging, two of them knew that Gently was bluffing. Most of his reckless accusations had no evidential basis. He was applying sheer, brute force, and not, it seemed, with too much intelligence: it was a policy of obstinacy, savouring a little of despair.
And he was intending to go on with it — you could read that in his face. Out of the perfect, masking blankness had grown a pertinacious expression. He was going on to the end, however far ahead it lay: he was locked in a struggle with Mallows which could only be finished by the collapse of one of them…
‘Let’s reconstruct the whole of last Monday. What time do you say you got up in the morning?’
Mallows had barely time to drink his coffee before Gently was pounding away at him again.
‘I don’t remember…’
‘Was it eight? Was it nine?’
‘No… half past seven… you’d better ask Withers.’
‘I’m asking you! Now, when did you read her letter?’
‘Her letter…?’
‘Yes — the one demanding money.’
‘I never had such a letter-’
‘Oh? Then how was it found in your bureau? It was dated as from the previous Sunday, and asks for an immediate advance of fifty pounds.’
‘I repeat, I never had such a letter!’
‘It is scarcely worth your while to deny it. Our handwriting expert will check it and there will be no question about his verdict. So having read it, of course, you rang her up, and suggested that she should meet you at lunch. But, in the meantime, you came to your decision: you weren’t going to pay Mrs Johnson any more. Where did you park your car, by the way?’
‘At the Haymarket-’
‘At last, you admit it! I thought you were going to deny it again, and to go on swearing that you lunched at home. Then at what time did you meet her?’
‘I didn’t… I didn’t meet her!’
‘Then why were you seen together?’
‘We weren’t…’
‘You were — I have witnesses to prove it. Your appearance is unusual, you know, and you’d be foolish to gamble on people not noticing you. And the whole thing fits so neatly. Later on, we have other witnesses.’
‘I swear before God that I lunched at home!’
‘Though admitting that you parked your car at the Haymarket?’
‘That was later-!’
‘Not by the accounts we have. You were parked there between one and two-thirty p.m. You occupied that time in having lunch with Mrs Johnson, and finally, according to witness, you drove off with her in your car…’
The clock marched on from three to four. Drably, the buildings across the way crept into relief. Mallows’s condition grew worse than ever, and he seemed scarcely able to sit on the chair; he had come to the state when Gently’s voice was growing meaningless, when the sharpest of questions evoked little response.
And Gently himself, he looked in little better shape, sitting hunched and small over Walker’s desk. He was keeping his head propped up with his hands and his voice, usually clear, had become hoarse and thick.
‘What reason could you have for trying to mislead me?’
‘No… no… you don’t understand…’
‘You knew quite positively that Johnson was innocent?’
‘No… I didn’t… didn’t know… not positively…’
‘Was Seymour the person you meant?’
‘No…’
‘Aymas…?’
‘Didn’t fit… couldn’t fit…’
‘Wimbush, perhaps… perhaps Baxter?’
‘Not Baxter…’
‘Wimbush?’
‘Him neither…’
‘What about Watts?’
‘That too… ridiculous…’
‘Yet you knew about the letter.’
‘Yes, I knew… of course I knew…’
‘How did you know?’
‘I told you… guessed it.’
‘How did you guess it?’
‘Easy… easy…’
‘Tell me how.’
‘I’ve told you already.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘No… not again…’
‘But I want to know how you guessed it.’
‘Yes… I know… you want to know how…’
‘What reason did you have for trying to mislead me?’
‘Didn’t mislead you… meant in good faith…’
Ponderously Gently relit his pipe, his movements seeming to come from some slow-motion film. For at least a minute he sat silently puffing, puffing, too exhausted, apparently, to form his usual smoke rings. Hansom watched him, bleary-eyed, Walker was unobtrusively napping; Stephens, to keep awake, was staring with eyes unnaturally wide. The stenographer, his pencils arranged fan-wise in front of him, lay back in his chair, his lids narrowed to two slits.
Gently rose to his feet and walked round to the front of the desk. He leant heavily against it, dropping a hand on Mallows’s shoulder.
‘It’s time, perhaps, that I spoke more frankly…’
Mallows, with an effort, lifted up his head. Through the settling smoke of Gently’s pipe Hansom could see the pair of them, eyeing each other.
‘How did the letter prove that he’d done it?’
‘You bastard, Gently… you out-and-out bastard…!’
‘But it did prove it, didn’t it? The paper was yours.’
‘Yes… and you’ve known it all along… you devil!’
‘How did he get it?’
Mallows gestured, feebly, helplessly. ‘It was pinched from the studio… he studies papers, you know. I don’t suppose he knew that I’d seen him take it, but I had… so as soon as you showed me the letter
…’
‘But you knew something before that?’
‘Yes… everything… I told you. Then he wasn’t at his car, though he left the cellar before me…’
‘Why wouldn’t you tell me?’ Gently leant back on the desk: he neither knew nor cared whether the others could fathom this moment of truth.
‘You may not understand it, but he’s a decent fellow, at the bottom… I was probably his nearest friend… with me, he was like a child.’
‘Yet you knew he couldn’t go free.’
‘It’s not enough to know these things. You don’t betray your friends because of the logic… only by blunders. That’s how you betray them.’
‘The blunders imposed by your conscience.’
‘No, my dear fellow… no phrases…’
‘You knew, and you knew you must tell.’
‘I knew he was decent… who was I to condemn him?’
There was silence. Nobody stirred in the hazy, thickaired office. The only motion was of the smoke which curled in tendrils from Gently’s pipe. It seemed an age before Mallows, drawing his head up again, said:
‘What happens now — are you going to pull him in?’
Gently slowly shook his head. ‘Not now… he’ll keep a while. I’ve had a man outside his house since yesterday morning.’
‘He’s a family man, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Gently pulled on his pipe. ‘Perhaps, after the bank opens… myself, I’m not in a hurry.’