= A Matter of Interest
  by Stephen D. Rogers


Does the fact that I know that the word "private" is derived from the Latin "privus" and that the word "investigator" has five distinct meanings tell you anything about how slow business has been lately?

If my forays into the dictionary aren't proof enough, how about the fact that I took my last bank statement and calculated each day's balance so that I could confirm the average daily balance? How about the fact that I was even now walking into the bank with both my statement and my calculations to ask where I went wrong?

Since I have two accounts at this bank and time on my hands, I figure that I can ask them for a little assistance with my math. Actually, for what I pay them in bank fees, I could probably demand a cup of coffee before class begins.

With the business account, I pay a large monthly fee, and then additional fees for every check I write, every deposit I make, and every check within each deposit. And this is my friendly eighborhood bank. I shopped around, and the branch banks of the larger financial institutions had higher fees and also wanted a minimum balance larger than the annual budget of New York City.

Pausing in the bank lobby, I let myself be impressed at how they were spending my money. Whoever designed this place certainly knew how to make a statement, assuming that the intended statement was "We bankrolled the Creation."

Glancing past the rows of Corinthian columns, I saw three tellers in the distance chatting behind their gilded cages. By the light of the huge chandelier hanging above the center of the room, I could see that I was the only customer in the bank today. Everyone else was probably using the ATM or banking by telephone.

I gazed up at the chandelier, thinking that it was about the size of my car. If the chain ever let go, that light fixture was going to leave a crater large enough to suggest a life-ending comet to future civilizations.

I started across the lobby, mentally apologizing for stepping on carpeting that was more an ideal than something to walk on. If the chandelier did drop, this carpet might just be buoyant enough to make it bounce. Breathing deeply between steps, I soaked up the most enjoyable pedestrian experience of my life.

Slowly I came closer and closer to the three tellers.

The first teller was chewing gum, snapping it as if she was killing time in a cheap bar rather than residing in this temple to affluence.

The second teller had eyes so dimmed by boredom that I was afraid that she would lie to me just to spice up her day.

I approached the third teller, a Dawn Lawrence according to the name plate. How did I break the ice since I was here to ask for a favor rather than to bank? "My mother's name was Dawn."

"That's not my name plate. Someone stole mine."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Perhaps I had been too quick to judge the second teller.

"It's no skin off my nose. Can I help you?"

"I have a question about my bank statement."

"You'll have to see the Bank President." She simply stared at me.

After waiting a moment for instructions, or the Bank President to be buzzed, or something, I decided that I needed to initiate the next step. "I'd like to see the Bank President then."

The-teller-who-wasn't-Dawn pointed a long red fingernail past me towards a gleaming wooden door that was wide enough to drive an armored car through. "He's not in today."

It took me a moment to process the conflicting messages. "Is there someone else I can talk to?"

"There's the Vice President."

Remembering the previous awkward pause, I jumped in with the next line. "I'd like to see the Vice President then."

"He's at lunch."

"Oh." I had gone for years without paying much attention to my bank statements. It seems to have been a good policy. Just for the heck of it I continued, "There isn't a third person who might be able to help me, is there?"

"There's Miss Jenkins who handles New Accounts."

Again I took the lead. "Is Miss Jenkins at lunch?"

"No." The teller didn't appear drugged or insane, and I assumed--or had assumed--the bank wouldn't hire a moron to handle money. Perhaps she was new.

"Is Miss Jenkins out today?" Watching someone snapping gum could not be worse than this.

"No."

"Can I talk to her?" Maybe I'd learn to bank by telephone. Perhaps the whole trend away from customer service was a plot to drive us towards doing more business over the Internet.

The non-Dawn must have clicked into helpful mode because suddenly she asked "Would you like to open a New Account?"

I took a quick look over my shoulder to see if she was talking to someone else before answering. "No thanks. I already have two. I have questions on one of them. That's why I'm here."

"You could speak to the Vice President."

There were cameras all around us. Perhaps this footage would appear on a comedy show, or at the annual holiday party. "I thought that the Vice President was at lunch."

"That's him coming through the door now."

Turning, I saw a man entering the bank as though pursued by the Furies. Just wait until he had to deal with the three tellers.

I turned back to the woman who remained nameless. "Thanks for your help. I'll think I'll go talk to the Vice President."

"His name is Mister Kowalksi. Have a nice day, and thank you for doing your banking at Safe and Trust."

I nodded and nearly ran from the teller area, intercepting the Vice President as he opened his office. "Mister Kowalksi?"

"That's Kowalksi. What can I do for you?" He waved me ahead into his office. It was probably twice the size of the space I rented, and at that I sublet half of it to a dentist.

"Sorry about messing up your name. I must have misunderstood what she said."

"You should try working here." He sat down behind his desk.

Ignoring his comment, I told him who I was and that I had somehow bungled my average daily balance calculation.

"This is a business account, you say?"

"Yes. I have both my personal account and my business account here. It was my business account that I was checking."

He raised his hands as if to ask why. "Your business account doesn't earn interest. The average daily balance figure is meaningless."

I placed my calculations on his desk. "Be that as it may, business has been slow and I decided to decipher my last statement. If you could just show me where I messed up."

"But the number doesn't translate to anything. Even if it is listed incorrectly on your statement, it doesn't matter."

"No, it's not that I think that my statement's wrong. I assume that my calculations are off. Math was never my strong point, although it hasn't stopped me from running my own business."

The Vice President seemed determined that he wasn't going to look at my page of figures. "What line of work did you say you were in?"

"I'm a private investigator." I pointed at my calculations. "Did I round incorrectly somewhere?"

When he didn't answer, I looked up and saw that he had turned white as a ghost. "Are you all right?"

"You're a private investigator?"

"Yes. It's a maligned profession, but the title comes from the ancient Latin. We stole all our words from the Romans, but then we stole our numbers from the Arabs. Go figure."

Mister Kowalksi knocked his chair over as he stood. "I didn't steal a penny from the accounts. Your money was all back minutes after I transferred it out."

Sitting back in my chair, I raised a finger. "Are you saying that my calculations were correct?"

"No one was supposed to notice. The average daily balance doesn't matter to business accounts because there isn't any interest."

"You moved the money out for a short time, and it was enough to mess up the average daily balance." That's why my number didn't match the number on the statement.

Righting his chair, he sat back down, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face. "The balance is determined every day at three. At five of, I siphoned money from the business accounts into my personal account so that I would get the additional interest. By five past, all the money was back where it belonged, no one the wiser. At least I thought no one was the wiser."

"Why?"

"I needed to stockpile some cash. I have to get out of here." He leaned forward. "You don't know what it's like."

Remembering the horror of my recent experience, I nodded. "I'm afraid I do. Still, stealing from the bank is against the law."

He covered his face with his hands. "How did you...?"

I tapped my sheet of calculations. "You're the banker; you should know numbers don't lie."


When not setting down words of mystery and suspense, STEPHEN D. ROGERS is busy keeping http//www.stephendrogers.com nice for visitors.


Copyright (c) 2001 Stephen D. Rogers