you will go round saying you've been poisoned...'
It was a persuasive argument and with the doctor's promise that he'd soon be as right as rain again provided he didn't overdo things with his missus, Wilt emerged into the street feeling, if not on top of the world, at least half-way up it. The sun was shining on autumnal leaves, small boys were collecting conkers underneath the chestnuts in the park, and Dr Scally had given him a doctor's certificate keeping him away from the Tech for another week. Wilt strolled into town, spent an hour browsing in the second-hand bookshop, and was about to go home when he remembered he had to deposit Miss Mueller's advance in the bank. Wilt turned bankwards and felt even better. His brief infatuation for her had evaporated. Irmgard was just another silly foreign student with more money than sense, a taste for expensive cars and young men of every nationality.
And so he walked up the bank steps airily and went to the counter where he wrote out a deposit slip and handed it to the cashier. 'My wife has a special account,' he explained. 'It's a deposit account in the name of Wilt. Mrs H. Wilt. I've forgotten the number but it's for an African tribe and I think it's called...' But the cashier was clearly not listening. He was busy counting the notes and while Wilt watched he stopped several times. Finally with a brief 'Excuse me, sir,' he opened the hatch at the back of his cubicle and disappeared through it. Several customers behind Wilt moved to the next cashier, leaving him with that vague sense of unease he always felt when he had cashed a cheque and the clerk before stamping the back glanced at a list of customers who were presumably grossly overdrawn. But this time he was paying money in not taking it out, and it wasn't possible for notes to bounce.
It was. Wilt was just beginning to work up some resentment at being kept waiting when a bank messenger approached him.
'If you wouldn't mind stepping into the manager's office, sir,' he said with a slightly threatening politeness. Wilt followed him across the foyer and into the manager's office.
'Mr Wilt?' said the manager. Wilt nodded. 'Do take a seat.' Wilt sat and glared at the cashier who was standing beside the manager's desk. The notes and the deposit slip lay on the blotting pad in front of him.
'I'd be glad if you would tell me what this is all about,' said Wilt with growing alarm. Behind him the bank messenger had taken up a position by the door.
'I think we'll reserve any comment until the police arrive,' said the manager.
'What do you mean 'the police arrive'?'
The manager said nothing. He stared at Wilt with a look that managed to combine sorrow and suspicion.
'Now look here,' said Wilt. 'I don't know what's going on but I demand...'
Wilt's protest died away as the manager eyed the pile of notes on the desk.
'Good Lord, you're not suggesting they're forged?'
'Not forged, Mr Wilt, but as I said before when the police arrive you'll have a chance to explain matters. I'm sure there's some perfectly reasonable explanation. Nobody for one moment suspects you...'
'Of what?' said Wilt.
But again the bank manager said nothing. Apart from the noise of traffic outside there was silence and the day which only a few minutes before had seemed full of good cheer and hope suddenly became grey and horrid. Wilt searched his mind frantically for an explanation but could think of nothing, and he was about to protest that they had no right to keep him there when there was a knock on the door and the bank messenger opened it cautiously. Inspector Flint, Sergeant Yates and two sinister plainclothes men entered.
'At last' said the manager. 'This is really very awkward. Mr Wilt here is an old and respected customer...'
His defence died out. Flint was staring at Wilt.
'I didn't think there could be two Wilts in the same town,' he said triumphantly. 'Now then
