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The banker was the younger of them. He wore an expensive suit and a greasy smile, with small round spectacles and his slicked-down hair. The older man beside him didn’t seem to like him much either. He had a kind face and a quiet confidence. Albie liked him much better than the snake-oil man.
“Young Albert Bramwell,” the older man said fondly. “I knew your father. He was a good man.”
Albie got that a lot in this town. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t expect you to. You were just a boy last I saw you.” Then he turned to Percy. “I don’t believe you’re from around here.”
“Not originally, no sir,” Percy replied cheerfully. “But I call it home now. The name’s Percy Collins.”
“Nice to meet you, Percy Collins. I’m Arthur Stanton. And this is Phillip Matthews, our new banking manager. He’s from Melbourne.”
Albie nodded, smiling courteously, all while thinking this was far too polite.
Then Arthur gave Albie an odd glance before he turned to face the banker. “Albie is the neighbour of Royce McAllister.”
It wasn’t just the way he said that, but why he’d said that, Albie realised.
Phillip Matthew’s gaze cut to Albie’s and his demeanour changed immediately.
Typical of men like him.
“That I am,” Albie said, reading this play for what it was. “It was Mr McAllister’s recommendation that I bring this in. No safer place for it, he said.” He took the folded notes from his inside coat pocket and slid it on the service counter.
Mr Stanton gave a tight smile, pleased, and Albie knew he’d read the situation correctly. “Let me count that for you.”
Mr Stanton counted the notes and handed Albie a receipt showing his total sum. He checked the numbers for the second time that day and was able to see that they were correct.
He wouldn’t have been able to do that before Percy.
“Have yourself a good day, gentlemen,” Mr Stanton said.
Albie tipped his hat at Matthews but gave Mr Stanton a smile before they walked out. No sooner were they on the veranda, did Percy fix his coat. “What was that all about?” he asked quietly.
“Politics,” Albie replied. “More or less.” He felt some eyes on them. Some discreet, some not. Was it any more than last time he’d been here? Before they had any amount of money worth stealing? Albie couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was being paranoid.
But when they went into the stables, the horses were fine, but the saddles on the railing had been moved and Albie’s old gloves were on the stall floor. “What the...?” Percy said, picking them up and seeing the saddlebag was open.
Not so paranoid after all.
“There was nothing in the saddles,” Albie said. They’d made sure not to leave anything worth stealing behind.
“But they looked anyways,” Percy said. He was mad and wary. Maybe a little scared.
“The horses are fine,” Albie said. “Let’s get upstairs.”
There was quite the crowd in the saloon now. Men stood around drinking. The number of beers they’d had clearly indicated the volume in which they spoke, but a hush fell over them when they saw Albie and Percy.
He had to do something, say something.
Albie went to the bar, the older barman eyeing him cautiously. “Is Elsie not in?” Albie asked.
“She don’t work here no more,” the barman said brusquely.
“Oh.” Albie acted surprised. “Shame.” He took a few pence from his pocket and slid the coins onto the bar. “Can I order some bread for the room upstairs, please?”
“Rumour has it, you got more money than that, boy,” a deep voice behind him said.
Boy.
