Before work on Friday morning, Alex went to the office of Credit Suisse at 11 Madison Avenue. By appointment, she met Christophe Chatton, whose card Joshua Silverman had given her at his office. Chatton was a thin young man with dark hair, about thirty. He wore a three-piece suit and spoke with a mildly irritating accent that suggested a year or two in British public schools. He met her in the bank’s vast lobby and ushered her to his private office.
The banker was up-to-date on why she was there. “I do congratulate you,” he said, “on your good fortune. An inheritance from a late gentleman friend.” He presented her with another business card and a brochure about the bank.
Late gentleman friend. His phrasing made it sound like she was an ex-mistress who’d struck gold. She let it go.
“I’m hoping that you’re here to open an account,” he said.
“That’s correct,” Alex said, “I am. So let’s get it done.” All in all, she thought, she should be happier about this than she actually felt.
“Excellent,” he said.
Alex placed the check on his desk.
“I have some forms for you to fill out,” he said silkily. “Applications for an account. Please be assured that we can handle all aspects of private banking for you. We like to build long relationships with our customers and tailor our various investment services to your needs.”
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I’m going to go slowly on this. I’ve only been wealthy for less than a week.”
Chatton laughed. “I fear that Swiss banks have long been thought of as exclusive and only catering to the very rich,” he said. “That is not a fact. Swiss bank accounts and private banking are available to those with less than one million dollars.”
“Paupers,” she said.
“You’re familiar with Credit Suisse, I’m sure,” he said. “Foremost, we have protected the wealth of our clients for nearly a hundred and fifty years. During the American Civil War, our headquarters in Geneva stood on the same spot where it stands now. Before the Suez Canal was completed, before man flew the first airplane, we were doing business. Continuity and security, Madame LaDuca. That’s what we stand for.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the bank,” she said, bemused.
“You know much about us?”
“I know that like most Swiss banks, ninety-nine percent of your private clients are wealthy law-abiding citizens. Another three quarters of one percent are tax evaders, bribe takers, and arms dealers. The rest are drug traffickers.”
“You have a delicious sense of humor,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. “And don’t worry. I’ll leave the money here for a while.”
“Let me explain the possibilities for investment,” he said. “Do gold bars interest you? Certificates of deposit?”
“I just want it in one insured account right now, earning interest. Nothing exotic.”
“Very well.” His tone conveyed a sigh of exasperation. He looked down and put his own signature on the documents. “Please wait for a moment,” he said.
Officiously, he was on his feet and out of his office, leaving the door slightly ajar. For several minutes Alex sat alone, surveying Chatton’s lair, the teak of the desk, the signed Miro print on the wall, the standing plant in the corner. Then Monsieur Chatton was back with all her documents fully executed and a book of temporary checks. “All done,” he said. “Your deposit is complete. Again, my congratulations on your new wealth.”
Alex smiled. If only she knew what to do with it.