Mr. Penbloom's Treaty of Veracity

Mr. Penbloom was one of those annoying little guys. His daily routine was rote from the moment his alarm clock rang at six in the morning. His life was as predictable as each phase of the moon. His wardrobe was simple. Yet, his lifestyle was enormously complex. He wore a black bowler hat to top off his black wool suit and brushed silk waistcoat. He rarely left his modest suite of rooms at old Mrs. Dellingham's Rooms For Gentlemen without the ever-present umbrella with the heavy wooden gnarled handle. Punctuality was the other strong suit he wore obsessively. His intense distaste for tardiness was exceeded only by his inability to tell the truth.

Now, mind you. Mr. Penbloom wasn't a "liar." He just couldn't tell the truth. If you asked him a question, you'd get a response that had two meanings. Not really a lie and not really the consummate truth.

By 8AM, he took the tram from Mrs. Dellingham's rooming house to downtown Claston, a city rife with small shops, large mercantiles and numerous eateries. Not that Mr. Penbloom ever ate in town. He prepared his own lunch each evening and stored it in the refrigerator.  Each morning on his way out the door, he reached for his brown-bagged midday meal, usually a cucumber or watercress sandwich. This, he washed down with a small pint of milk the milkman left at his door long before he had awakened for the day.

Once upon the tram, Penbloom endured all manner of public humiliation from the great unwashed masses he loathed to call "business men." The shoving, elbowing, nudging, grunting and clearing of throats insured Mr. Penbloom would be pea green with nausea before he reached his place of business.

Penbloom was a man of accounts. His job was to maintain a handful of clients; daily accounts and produce a semblance of reports of grandiose prosperity per annum. Perhaps, this might not be an ideal position for a man born with the inability to tell the truth.

After three score and ten at his job, Lorcan Penbloom considered himself a successful businessman. Neat as a pin he was. Each number entered into general ledgers was remarkably legible. Just not altogether factual.

At this late stage of his career, Mr. Penbloom felt secure in the knowledge that his record-keeping and business acumen provided him with a relatively prosperous life. Not a man to adapt easily to modern business equipment, Mr. Penbloom ciphered and tallied as he always had...with pencil and pad.

Of late however, several of his clients had begun to purchase machines he considered a nuisance. These machines could calculate to the penny the exact number of invoices, purchase orders and cash receipts faster than he and his pencil and pad could. These machines were all too accurate and presented Penbloom with quite an unexpected conundrum. Now, his customers would have the ability to check every figure he presented in their reports at the end of each fiscal quarter. Not a good thing. Not a good thing for Mr. Penbloom at all.

With a few "additional numbers," Penbloom saved a tidy little sum for the retirement he hoped he'd enjoy by year's end.

Then his client, L. Rothenby, noticed a discrepancy, Lorne Rothenby immediately alerted banking authorities. Mr. Penbloom defended the shortage in the numbers of cash receipts as the bank's error. Another Penbloom client, J. R. Haspens Ltd., found some of their customer invoices were reported unpaid. Again, Mr. Penbloom indicated he could not verify missing customer payments in "his" record keeping.

Penbloom's complexities stemmed from his easy manner of waving away any knowledge of errors and then, making it appear they were unrelated to his accounting practices. This was a strategy that worked quite successfully for decades. If customers continue in pursuit of factual validation, Penbloom's skill and talent at covert conveyance of an error was always to change the focus of the inquiries.

The real kerfuffle began when Mrs. Dellingham discovered her "rents" had been posted to the wrong account. This resulted in "light" bank deposits. Penbloom, not wishing to cause dear Mrs. Dellingham distress, took the trouble to review her "accounts." For free, of course. "Free" was always a good mechanism to soften the distress clients were experiencing. Since he was not quite ready for retirement, he wasn't ready to suffer eviction from Mrs. Dellingham's establishment either. A free audit, particularly one in which only he had control of the true numbers, was more than worth a possible report to the law.

Mrs. Dellingham, a woman with hair nearly as blue as the sea and eyes to match, watched as Penbloom's unusually linear index finger ran through the columns of her banking report.

"Aha!" Penbloom exclaimed.

"Aha?" Mrs. Penbloom echoed in response.

"I've found the error in your accounts," Penbloom said.

Again, he ran his index finger down to the spot where a group of figures "appeared" to be duplicated. In truth, they had been. After all, it was Penbloom who made the deposits for the dear elderly lady, wasn't it?

For Penbloom, it was a simple matter of delaying a deposit to appear on a monthly bank statement as a duplicate. By posting it to a receiving account, he could later re-post it to the correct account causing the appearance of a "minor" error. The delay of the deposit was to advance a small sum of interest on the "doubled" larger deposit which Penbloom assigned to a miscellaneous account he titled, "PRF," or in more covert terms, Penbloom's Retirement Fund. This account, he could later claim, was part of "accounting services" from which he was paid by Mrs. Dellingham for regular oversight of her accounts.

Penbloom's Nemesis
The First Savings Bank of Claston, was managed by Aloysius Clendennon, a Scotsman of great financial expertise. Few things financial  in Claston passed by the attention of Clendennon. He ran his bank like the captain of a royal ship and with just as much aristocratic posture and comport as expected from a banking president of his status. In truth, Clendennon had a grave distrust for men of accounts like Penbloom. He knew how flexible some numbers can appear if ciphered with ill intent.

Clendennon especially disliked Penbloom. A man that punctual about his routine and his clients' deposits and withdrawals was bound to warrant suspicion. So it was, that Aloysius Clendennon personally reviewed every detail of Penbloom's clients' financial accounts. It was true.  Thus far, there had been nothing he could raise his unusually thick eyebrows over. But, Clendennon would take great joy in that final moment when he had exposed Penbloom as he always knew he would. He believed the people of Claston had a right to expect absolute honesty from their accountants, auditors and bookkeepers.

Perhaps, Penbloom was just a thorn in Clendennon's side because he was insular. Or, it could be his manner of shuffling about as if he was wearing ballerina slippers and dancing upon eggshells. He'd observed Penbloom entering his bank on numerous occasions. Penbloom's exacting manner of halting to a stop at the nearby patrons' area where the large desk allowed them one last opportunity to check their banking transactions was curious.

Penbloom stood counting the cash in the tawny cash bag he carried inside his briefcase. Then he proceeded in that peculiar gait to the next available teller. The entire process took Penbloom no longer than ten minutes before he was on his way and out the door.

Never a word spoken to tellers, Roger Smythe, Beatrice Middlemass or Anne Royce. Nor, to the bank security guard, old John Ratcliffe. Not so much as a hint of an expression on Penbloom's expressionless face. Clendennon watched this daily comic vignette with grave annoyance.

It was a Friday afternoon. Most of the banking transactions were done for the week. Customers at this time of day were mostly those who forgot to make their deposits or withdrawals and were in a hurry to have them recorded before the five o'clock bank closing. Clendennon always reviewed the last of the business accounts in that hour before the bank's closing.

Mrs. Eliza Regnye brought several bank clients' business reports to his desk.

"Rather light for this Friday, Mr. Clendennon," she said.

"Always a good thing before closing for the weekend, Eliza," he responded, with a bit of a brogue.

Clendennon was the kind of man who valued relaxation as much as he did hard work. He hoped clients' business reports this day would be "light," as Eliza had said. That way, he could be on his way home at the proper time.

He flipped to the first page of the bank report of L. Rothenby. Banking executives have an odd way of "eyeballing" numbers that seem to pop out in reports. He took note of the changed numbers in two columns of the Rothenby report.

Next, he reviewed the report on the Dallenby account. Again he noticed numbers changed from one posting to the next. It wasn't until he looked at the J.R. Haspen account that he sat back in his big, overstuffed leather chair and realized he was looking at a template that appeared almost the same in all three reports: changes to posting of numbers, always in the last week of the clients' bank reconciliation forms.

On all three accounts? How was that possible. His bushy white eyebrows hunched over his leaden grey eyes as the furrow in his forehead grew deeper.  He rang up Eliza. Then, he remembered she'd already left for the day.

Clendennon stood up in his chair and walked to the stairs on the second floor where his office was located high above the bank lobby. He hurried down the stairs to the active bank files and thumbed through until he found three he wanted. He walked over to Eliza's desk and plopped the files down to the opened page where each of the most recent month's records of deposits and withdrawals had been posted. Next, he searched these deposit records to check the depositor's name and date and time. All were deposited late in the afternoon and all by the same person: Penbloom.

Clendennon was a man who'd leave no stone unturned when it came to solving a financial mystery. He often told himself he might have been a policeman had he not been so excellent with numbers as a young man. He pulled out another file on Penbloom. Clendennon's face bore the smile of a Cheshire cat. Given the late hour and the final banking day of the week, he knew it was not possible to pursue this matter with Penbloom until Monday. But,  on Monday, Clendennon would pursue it, come hell or high water.

Penbloom was so perfunctory that his Friday afternoons were like a blur on the page of calendar. He ate his Friday supper in Claston even though Mrs. Dellingham always tried to convince him to take his meals in her dining room. Mrs. Dellingham offered supper only to certain of her rooming house guests. For a modest price, of course, However, Penbloom's utter disgust for the trams packed with business people and shoppers hurrying home for their weekend encouraged him to take his supper at the same small establishment every Friday.

He walked one block to Marston's dining hall. He took the same place he always had each week: an inconspicuous table at the far end of the room nearest the long, wide display window. From here, he could see the situation of crowds on the streets and near the tram station. He had closely calculated how long it would take him to eat his supper, walk to the station and arrive home at the shank of early evening. All, with the benefit of having avoided the busiest hour of the week.

He sat eating his supper in silence. The silence was broken only by the advancing of his waiter who refreshed his glass of water.

"More water, sir?" the waiter asked.

Penbloom responded with a silent nod.

When he looked out the window, he saw Mr. Clendennon locking the bank door and pulling the iron gate across. He watched Clendennon lock the grate. Something occured to Penbloom. He looked at his watch. It was one hour past the bank's usual closing time. He saw Clendennon hold tightly to some files under his arm. Penbloom shifted in his seat. What if those files were Penbloom's client accounts?

Penbloom wiped his chin, pushed his chair under and walked toward the line where people paid their bills. He waited patiently until it was his turn. He handed the cashier his bill and payment for his meal. He walked out of Marston's, adjusted his bowler and tucked his cane tightly under his left arm. He started to cross the street. As he did, he saw Clendennon also crossing at the intersection. The two men nearly brushed past each other. Clendennon stopped with an abrupt halt.

"Oh, Penbloom. Glad to have caught you before you are off for home," Clendennon said.

Penbloom thought this a most unusual meeting. He had a strange feeling about the whole scene.

Penbloom remained silent.

"Yes. I would like for you to come into the bank on Monday morning, if you please. I have some questions I would like to discuss with you," Clendennon said.

"I'm sorry. I am not able to meet with you. Monday is a very busy day. Can this meeting be rescheduled for a more convenient time?" Penbloom said.

Penbloom kept his eyes keenly on Clendennon's face.

"No. I am afraid it is not possible. I will see you on Monday earliest," Clendennon said.

Penbloom saw there was no option to continue to protest. Before he could affirm the meeting, Clendennon was gone. Penbloom felt a peculiar knot in his stomach.

What could be so important to Clendennon that necessitates my leaving my work on the busiest day of the week? Penbloom realized it could be only one thing. He had to think clearly and act quickly. He wouldn't allow his entire working life to be abruptly halted by the snooping of a banker. He knew the files Clendennon had under his arm had to be Penbloom's accounts. Why else would a banker take work home on a Friday?
Penbloom believed he was smarter than any banker. He managed numerous clients' financial accounts for years. He had been able to put aside a tidy sum for his retirement. He had to think about this new situation seriously.

He boarded the late evening tram for home. He was able to find a seat at this hour. He sat staring out the window with a million thoughts running through his mind. What if Clendennon had figured out how he'd been managing those accounts? This particular thought replayed over and over in his mind until he felt as if his brain would burst.

As he walked to Mrs. Dellingham's, he had already fashioned an idea. He had been able to avoid all notice for decades of how he had tucked away. He considered taking retirement before Clendennon could report his findings to the police. He realized that wouldn't work. It would only serve to prove he felt quilty. Penbloom would never admit his guilt. Not under any circumstances. He felt an enormous justification for what he had done. He refused to allow a sense of guilt to destroy all he had worked so hard to accomplish. Who was Clendennon to question him anyway?

Penbloom felt a deep sense of indignation. For Penbloom, indignation was the first step to assuaging wrongdoing. On Monday, he would express outrage and indignation if Clendennon dared to blame him for any minor indiscretion. What difference did it make if he amassed the interest on clients' deposits? The bank collects interest on these deposits all the time. Why shouldn't he have the same entitlement?

He ran all of the possibilities over in his mind. Once home and in the solitude of his room, he sat down at the writing desk and made a list of all the things he could use as proof that he had done nothing wrong. This list was a kind of treaty of veracity.

Penbloom knew if he believed it was true strongly enough, that's all that mattered to prove it was. All he had to do was insist he was telling the truth. He always used this strategy if ever questions of a somewhat
"delicate" nature arose about his financial practices. Until Clendennon's scrutinizing, he never had to use that strategy. Now for the first time, it appeared he would have no alternative. He would keep insisting his was the only possible true version of the status of these accounts. He would insist until Clendennon believed it.

Penbloom was sly enough to know that an innocent man protests the loudest and longest. He knew the surest sign of guilt was silence. His treaty of veracity was to strenuously insist on his "innocence" should Clendennon try to lay blame at his doorstep.

He realized he couldn't continue his financial practices now that Clendennon was suspicious. He also knew that retirement was imminent. He would withdraw his "funds" as soon as the meeting was concluded. He always wanted to live near the sea. He would check on accommodations in Toringham in the  Claston Herald. He would visit Toringham and place a deposit on a small cottage.

Penbloom slept fitfully that night. He hurried off to the news stand to purchase a paper. He sat on a park bench nearby and searched for accommodations in Toringham.

"Cottage for rent," one advert said. Penbloom looked up absently. The bus stop was a few feet from the park bench. He walked toward it and waited. He heard the grinding roar of the bus heading to the stop. The sign at the front of the bus said, "Toringham, Delwinton and Maplethorpe." Penbloom climbed aboard.

The transit bus deposited him on Main Street in Toringham one hour later. Penbloom walked as if in a trance. He had no idea why he had felt so compelled to come to Toringham. It was as if something force inside him was propelling him onward.

He could smell the sea air immediately. The cottages must be near to the beach, he thought. He followed the scent of sea air until it was nearly overpowering. He heard gulls calling to each other in the distance. Now and then, he heard the sound of a boat horn. He found Lyme Avenue. These cottages were located about three blocks from the sea wall. He walked along Lyme Avenue until he found the rental office.

"I'm interested in renting one of these cottages," Penbloom said.

"Yes, sir. We have only two available for rent at the moment. The models are all the same inside and out. I can show you one of them," the woman behind the desk said.

"That would be fine," Penbloom said.

"When would you want your rental to begin?" she asked.

"As soon as possible," Penbloom said.

"Since there are no occupants, you could begin your rental tomorrow," she said.

They walked to a white beach cottage with clapboard siding and a short cobblestone walk to the front door. Penbloom noticed the swing on the gated front porch.

"You can see the ocean from the porch," she said.

Penbloom remained silent as they walked into the cottage.

It was well maintained and impeccably clean. Although, there was a slight musty odor in the living room. He sniffed and then sneezed.

"The room has not been aired since it was unoccupied," the woman said.

Penbloom barely nodded. She noticed he hadn't spoken more than a few words since he had walked into her office.

"It will do nicely," is all he said.

They walked back to the office. Penbloom signed a rental agreement. He scrawled the James L. Brattenton. He paid the deposit and the first two months' rent in cash. He waited at the bus stop in Toringham that would return him to Mrs. Dellingham's. His plans were now in place.

Penbloom was a master of details. He deftly maneuvered around any sticky situations with ease. He had never failed to proceed without maximum success. Once in Toringham, he would be completely out of the jurisdiction of any trouble Clendennon could muster against him. He felt reassured that by Monday evening, he would be safely tucked away into his rental cottage with decades of his retirement funds secure.

On Sunday, he began packing for his relocation to Toringham. There wasn't much to pack. He could fit nearly all of his clothes and personal effects into a large valise without a problem.  There was just one thing left to do. He rode the late afternoon tram downtown to Claston. He hurried to his office.

He hastened to the safe where he kept most of his valuable documents and stuffed them into a leather case. He put the black ledger inside his vest pocket. He glanced around the office. Perhaps, for the last time. Now, Clendennon could investigate every last sheet of paper in the office. He'd find nothing to incriminate Penbloom. He felt his chest swell with pride at the accuracy of his planning down to the last detail.

When Monday morning came, Clendennon awaited the meeting with Penbloom with a little more than self-satisfaction. He'd spent the weekend comparing the Rothenby, Haspen and Dallenby accounts. They were amazingly alike in the way Penbloom had been reporting them. Clendennon hurried to the bank's client accounts. There was just one more thing Clendennon needed to make an accusation of fraud against Penbloom: Penbloom's personal account records.

He studied the dates and times of Penbloom's deposits into an account listed as PRF. What was PRF? Clendennon wondered. There it was! The amounts of deposit matched the amount of interest collected on the Penbloom clients' accounts. Penbloom was hiding the accrued interest in his personal account. This was unlawful.

Clendennon turned over in his mind the possible reasons Penbloom might give for transferring client interest into a miscellaneous account. Penbloom could say it was part of the fees he charged his clients. He could say that.

Clendennon placed three phone calls to Rothenby, Haspen and Dallenby. He spoke directly to their chief accountants. None recalled these large amounts being paid to Penbloom. In fact, all three accountants stated that they felt Penbloom's fees were unusually inexpensive by comparison to others' fees.

So that's it! Clendennon thought. He offered low fees to his clients in exchange for amassing interest on their deposits. Clendennon knew he had to move quickly. He alerted the local constable's office of his meeting with Penbloom.

By eleven o'clock, Penbloom had not arrived. Clendennon knew he wouldn't. He decided to walk over to Penbloom's office. It was barely possible he might have been detained client business. He arrived at Penbloom's office. He saw the office was still closed. He hurried back to the bank.

He checked Penbloom's account to see if there had been any withdrawals. His face went white when he saw the account was closed by a single check written on Saturday by  Penbloom. The entire account was wiped out. The check was cashed at another bank. Penbloom knew banks would never question a check written against the First Bank of Claston, the town's oldest and most reputable bank.

Clendennon was furious. It was as if Penbloom slipped away like a thief in the night. The Constable checked the Penbloom office. It had been scrubbed clean of all possible evidence linking Penbloom to bank fraud.

The day was bright and beautiful in Toringham. There was a gentle breeze. A smallish, thin man sat in a lounge chair on the beach. Yes, he thought, Toringham was a wonderful place to retire.