1. Vanishing Ink
“Well, what has Hendra done now?” I wanted to know.
“It all relates back to the consolidation of his accounts. You see, Peter, we have just received a remittance of S$500,000.”
“Why not set the amount off against his debt?”
“He has further instructed that S$400,000 be remitted to a numbered Swiss bank account. If we do so, the debt remaining after the consolidation and the remittance to Zurich will be some S$250,000,” advised Freddie.
“Better than a debt of S$650,000,” noted Norbert.
“I agree. But Peter, can we set-off?” asked Freddie.
“Why ever not? Surely, the set-off letter is airtight. I have a copy on file!”
“Have a look at the original.”
When Norbert produced the original, which had been kept in the Bank’s vaults, my eyes opened wide. The text typed on the Bank’s premises had remained fresh and clear. The signatures, in contrast, had vanished. Hendra, Norbert explained, had used his own pen to sign the document. The Bank’s secretaries, who had witnessed his signature, had used the same pen. Mesmerised, I breathed on the blank paper, held it up against the light, and let my fingers travel over it: all to no avail. The signatures did not reappear.
“We tried all that, Peter. We even summoned a specialist. He was prepared to give it a try. But the outcome is questionable. There are too many types of disappearing ink around. The signatures might be obliterated altogether if he went ahead.”
“How did this trick happen?” I asked, bewildered.
“I offered Hendra my own pen. He declined and insisted on using his, which – so he said – was the pen used by Sukarno when he executed the Treaty of Independence. I fell for it!”
“I, too, would have fallen for it,” admitted Freddie. “The question is: what shall we do?”
For a few minutes I was lost in thoughts. To clear the picture, I asked Norbert whether he had been present when Hendra had signed. When he nodded, I wanted to know whether he could identify the secretaries who had witnessed the signatures. It turned out that both had left the Bank. Still, their signatures as witnesses were displayed in full in the copies.
When I had digested the facts, I advised them to effect the set-off. If Hendra wanted them to remit any funds out, he would have to apply for a fresh overdraft. Norbert would know how to handle him.
“But how about the blank original?” asked Norbert.
“Freddie: what do you do when a document is lost or destroyed by accident, say, by fire?”
“Under Australian law, we can ask for the court’s leave to prove it by submitting a copy verified by us as true.”
“Our law is the same. I have a photocopy, and Norbert can confirm its authenticity. So go ahead and set-off!”
2. The Verification Clause
“And if Hendra makes a fuss?” asked Freddie.
“Surely the Bank sent him monthly ‘statements of account’. I’m sure they include a ‘verification clause’.”
“They do. The clause is further spelt out in the terms and conditions executed by him.”
“If the worst comes to the worst, we can rely on them,” I assured them.
The verification clause referred to was a standard term and condition used by most banks in Singapore. Under it, the customer was given a period of seven or ten days to object to any incorrect or false entry. If he failed to so, the statement would become conclusive evidence of the existing balance. The validity of the clause had been upheld by local courts.
“I think Peter’s right, Norbert. In any event, do you think Hendra would dare to unveil the nature of his business practices? Nobody would touch him with a bargepole if he became known as a conman. Unfortunately, there is a separate problem. We have discussed it. And you, Norbert, can’t ask a compliance officer to close his eyes to it.”
“Another problem?” I wailed.