The Bank Vault Mystery

by Louis F. Booth

  “Oh, I admit it’s getting a little shaking,” Dickson agreed; “but I don’t see how we can be expected to excavate four stories of solid rock without jarring things a trifle—and the damage so far is slight and easily repaired.”

  Thus the discussion went on—about the cracks and the settlement, the feasibility of cutting down the strength of the charges, the method of underpinning the vault, and so forth until Morton, glancing at his wrist, discovered that it was almost noon. He called attention to the time.

  “We’ve done about all that can be done now,” he suggested. “I suppose we all agree that the best course is to let well enough alone until the blasting is finished.” He looked around the group and, finding no dissent, continued: “I’m going to leave now. I’ve got to get my lunch and make a one o’clock train from Grand Central. Have to go to Detroit until Monday.” He added the last almost apologetically.

  The party filed out of the vault and through the basement to an employees’ exit where they paused. Borden stopped to collapse the telescopic legs of his tripod so that it would be less cumbersome to carry through the crowded streets. He said to Dickson: “The threads on this tripod head are so badly stripped it’s almost impossible to get the level apart or together. I think I’ll take it around to Knoeckler’s and get it put in shape.”

  “Good idea,” Dickson agreed.

  Morton glanced up.

  “Knoeckler’s? Is that in Fulton Street?” he asked.

  “Yes; east of William Street.”

  “Oh—I guess I’ve seen the sign. We need some work of that sort done once in a while. What sort of a fellow is this Knoeckler?”

  “He does good work, if that’s what you mean,” Borden replied. “He’s a queer duck, though.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, not in any particular way. He’s one of those old-school instrument men,—an old German. I don’t see how he pays his rent with the little business he gets, but somehow he seems to.”

  “He does, huh?” Morton led on.

  “Yes. But he’s an awfully stubborn old coot. Refuses to believe that anything’s different from what it was twenty years ago—sort of always resisting the changes of time. He’s far from dumb, though. I like to get him started talking once in a while when I’m in there—”

  They were interrupted at this point as Hanley and Dickson shook hands, the latter preparing to leave.

  “We’ll do nothing, then, until the blasting’s finished,” he was saying to Hanley; “and if any material change occurs in the condition of the vault, you can get in touch with me.”

  Hanley agreed. Morton also shook hands with him and, together with Dickson and Borden, went out. Outside, he declined Dickson’s invitation to lunch and the group broke up.

  3

  In silence Jeremy had watched the party file out of his vault. With a hollow clang the barred grille had swung closed in their wake. For some time he sat quite still, staring at it, lost in thought. Then he remembered he was hungry and phoned for his lunch. It was his custom to have a tray sent in each noon from the employees’ restaurant upstairs.

  He glanced at the money truck speculatively. After lunch there would be time enough to take care of it, he decided, and relaxed to wait for his meal. Soon it arrived, a savory tray. The doorman swung open the gate so the porter could bring the tray directly to Jeremy’s desk. Sometimes Jeremy asked Pat to step in and pass the time of day with him while he ate. On this particular noon, however, he did not. When he had finished his meal he ran through the morning paper for a few minutes. The waiter found him so engaged when he returned for the tray and soiled dishes.

  It was a little after one o’clock when Jeremy resumed his work upon the money truck, first racking up the packets to be stored, then checking off the sacks for the afternoon delivery. He checked them twice; then a third time, very carefully. Then he went over the bags he had racked up for storage. A little nervously he telephoned his son.

  “Are ye preety sure of the list ye sent in this marnin’, lad?”

  “Sure? Why, sure I’m sure,” Jerry replied cheerily.

  “Well, check it over again; then come down here, will ye.”

  Jerry was instantly alarmed. His father’s voice had sounded somewhat unsteady over the phone; but, more significant, he had dropped into the old vernacular, a certain sign of some sort of mental stress.

  Jerry picked out his carbons of the lists covering the consignments of the morning, glanced hastily about, locked his cage and went to the vault. His father was awaiting him, seated at his desk. He shoved toward Jerry a list with checks and double checks after all of the items except one. “it stood out in the column like a soldier out of step.

  “There’s nothing like this on the wagon, Jerry,” said Old Jeremy gravely. He indicated with a pudgy forefinger the unchecked item in the column.

  One look at the list told Jerry that the item in question was the unusually large consignment he had packed that morning.

  “Why, it must be there! Good Lord! I spent a third of the morning getting it together. Are you sure? Have you gone over it again?”

  “I’m sure, all right, Jerry. I went over everything three times—and what’s more, not a shipment has left this vault since that truck came in. There can’t be any mistake that way.”

  “Something must be wrong,” Jerry said weakly. “Anyway, it went on the truck. I put it on with my own hands.”

  “That’s all I wanted to be sure of,” Old Jeremy replied enigmatically. He picked up the telephone and asked for Mr. Hanley. His voice was firmer now.

  “Can you step down a minute, sir? Right away? It’s important.”

  In a moment Hanley appeared. He glanced from Jeremy to Jerry inquisitively.

  “There’s something wrong, sir,” Jeremy said nervously. He handed Hanley the list. “There’s a bag missing.”

  Hanley’s eye running swiftly down the column stopped short at the unchecked item. “A hundred and eighty thousand!” He whistled his dismay. From the initialing he noted that the consignment had come from Jerry, and looked toward the younger man, though without suspicion or accusation. There was only bewilderment written on Jerry’s open countenance.

  “It went on the truck, sir. That’s all I can say. I loaded it with my own hands.” He looked up and added quickly, “In fact, it was the very truck that almost bumped you when you came in with those men this morning.”

  Hanley nodded. “I believe you, Jerry,” he said simply. “Why wasn’t the truck checked as soon as it came in, Jeremy?” he asked the older man sharply.

  “I had just started on it when you brought the engineers about the door, sir.”

  “Oh; it was that truck you shoved over into the corner, eh?” Hanley recalled. A sudden quick suspicion seemed to form in his mind. The same thought apparently occurred to Old Jeremy.

  Hanley reached for the telephone.

  “You’re both absolutely sure there’s no mistake?” he urged. “We don’t want to make fools of ourselves over this.”

  In unison Jerry and Jeremy desperately assured him that there could be no mistake. Hanley called a number and asked for Mr. Fenner. In a low voice he asked him to come to the bank immediately, giving no details but only urging haste. “You had better bring along a police detective, too. We shall possibly need the police. Of course it’s all strictly on the quiet until we find out more about it.”

  He hung up the receiver and turned to the Donegans.

  “You boys had better wait right here,” he said. “I’ll be down again when Mr. Fenner gets over.” Father and son simply stared at each other.

  4

  Maxwell Fenner met Inspector Bryce at the entrance to the bank. They shook hands warmly. Bryce and Fenner had been associated with each other on a number of important cases and together had shared a gratifying average of successes. Of late they had not been thrown into contact, so each welcomed the sight of the other.

  Bryce and Fenner were as different in temperament and
method as two individuals following the same calling could very well be, but this fact never hampered them when they were engaged together on cases; rather, the methods and tactics of each supplemented those of the other to perfection. Bryce was a detective inspector with a long record of police service, thoroughly steeped in the police method and imbued with the police point of view, “Action!” was his motto; and, given something to start from, he pursued his course with a relentlessness and vigor that left no stone unturned until he either arrived at an answer or reached an impasse that balked further inquiry. More often the former was the case.

  Fenner, on the other hand, had a languid, easygoing way about him, sometimes partly assumed but more often genuine, which, though it irritated Bryce, usually deceived their quarry and was almost invariably effective. “Give them time,” he sometimes said, “and they all make the breaks that hang them. The odds are so overwhelmingly on our side it shouldn’t be necessary to do more than to be sure that we miss no tricks.” His idea was to sit back with his finger tips alertly on all the aspects of a case, to prod gently here and there when things became too quiet, and to wait for the opening that experience had convinced him would inevitably occur.

  Aside from possessing a trained, reasoning brain in a strictly intellectual sense, Fenner was blessed with a deep insight into the mental and psychological processes of his fellow men, and it was more often by the application of this insight to specific situations than by any marvels of deductive reasoning that he produced the remarkable solutions for which he was known.

  Fenner had served his apprenticeship with the New York City Police years before, but the driving pressure one moment alternating with political hampering the next had irked him until he had resigned to initiate a practice of his own. His success and reputation (among a limited circle permitted to know of his exploits) had grown slowly and steadily until, after twenty leisurely years, he was regarded by some as a leader in his particular held. Fenner specialized in larceny work and confidence cases, and was retained by several of the larger insurance companies and bonding houses. In his experience, however, he had also been called upon from time to time to investigate murders and other crimes of violence, and was an ardent student of criminology in all its phases.

  Fenner was acquainted with the manager of the Consolidated American Bank though he did not know Hanley intimately. The Consolidated was so managed that services of the type he offered were not often in demand.

  After a quick exchange of greetings Fenner and Bryce turned into the bank. Bryce compared his watch with the clock in the lobby. It was half past two when they entered the elevator.

  “What’s the story?” he asked with his customary impatience.

  “I only know what I told you on the phone. Hanley wants us posthaste,” Fenner replied. He pictured Bryce as a great, penned stallion, chafing at his bit, pawing the turf, anxious to charge ahead.

  Bryce’s appearance lent itself well to this characterization. He was a powerful man, heavily featured, his head set aggressively forward on a thick bull neck, his black eyes peering keenly—fiercely when it was expedient—from beneath bushy, overhanging brows. In a word, he looked steely hard and this aspect of his appearance so overshadowed all else that one hardly suspected the astuteness that lay beneath.

  They found Hanley pacing the floor of his office, awaiting them. Another man, who from Hanley’s deference they inferred was one of the higher officers of the bank, sat in an easy chair at one end of the desk, quietly smoking. He was introduced simply as Mr. Mortimer.

  “I’ll give you the facts quickly,” Hanley began, barely acknowledging Fenner’s introduction of Bryce. “When you’ve heard them I think you’ll agree with me that speed is the essential thing at this stage if we’re to get anywhere.”

  “True of all cases all of the time,” remarked Bryce. Fenner smiled and crossed his knees in a leisurely fashion.

  “This morning about ten-thirty,” Hanley continued, ignoring the interruption, “one of our cashiers—assistant cashier, to be literal—packed a consignment of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in currency for one of our uptown branches. He sent it, together with half a dozen other consignments, by hand truck in our usual way to the vault to await the afternoon delivery. A few minutes after the truck reached the vault, and before the custodian had been able to check up the load, a party of three engineers conducted by myself went in to look at the vault and stayed there until about noon.

  They’re blasting across the street and the vault has been settling. The vault custodian, who, by the way, is the father of the cashier who packed the shipment, delayed checking up the truck until he’d eaten his lunch. He discovered the sack missing and called his son. Then they called me.”

  Bryce started to say something but changed his mind and looked toward Fenner for his cue. The latter extracted from his pocket a small gold pencil which he twirled idly between his thumb and forefinger for a moment.

  “Inside job?” he asked rather than suggested, quite casually.

  Hanley shook his head slowly.

  “Of course anything is possible,” he admitted, “but if you mean the Donegans—that is, the custodian or the boy—I’m inclined to feel they’re both above suspicion.”

  “Who were the men you took into the vault with you?” Fenner asked.

  “There were Mr. Morton, Mr. Dickson, and a helper of his—I forget the name. I suppose they would seem above suspicion—at least the first two. Morton is consulting engineer for the foundation work across the street; quite an eminent man. Dickson is chief engineer of the construction company doing the building, and also pretty well known. Of course the other fellow I know nothing about.”

  “Let’s get them down here—the quicker, the better,” Bryce suggested, fidgeting in his chair.

  “Where are your Donegans now?” Fenner asked.

  “They’re in the vault waiting for us,” Hanley answered. “We’ll go down and you can get the whole layout direct.”

  “But let’s round up the others first,” Bryce insisted. “These fellows of yours will keep.”

  Fenner nodded agreement. Hanley turned to the telephone.

  “I’m afraid we might not get Mr. Morton,” he said as he jiggled the receiver rest. “He was in a hurry to leave this noon. I believe he said he was catching a train for Detroit. I’ll try his office, though.”

  At first he was informed by Morton’s assistant there that Mr. Morton was out of the City and would be back Monday.

  “This is Mr. Hanley at the Consolidated Bank. It’s very important that I get in touch with Mr. Morton immediately. Do you have any Detroit address where he usually stays. There must be a way of getting hold of him. What train did he take? Who is this speaking?” Hanley rattled off the questions impatiently.

  Presently he hung up and said to Fenner and Bryce: “Chap named Coles there; has no idea where Morton would stop—he doesn’t go there often. Coles says he spoke of a one o’clock train from Grand Central that he intended making.”

  “A one o’clock train, eh?” Bryce repeated, biting off his words. “Tell me what he looks like and, if you can, what he wore. We’ll get him!”

  “But you can’t arrest a man of his position simply on suspicion,” Hanley protested.

  “Of course not; but this is only Thursday. We can pick him up and tail him between now and Monday,” Bryce explained impatiently. He went on: “Let me tell you one thing: In a case of this kind no one is above suspicion. Everybody has got his price and damn’ few of them are above a hundred and eighty grand. You’ve got to assume that right from the start. Now what’s he look like?”

  Hanley gave him a brief description of Morton. Bryce jotted down notes on a slip of paper which he tucked into his vest pocket. “Now, how about the other two?”

  Without replying Hanley again picked up the telephone, this time calling the construction company’s offices. When he asked for Dickson, Borden replied. The latter was unable to say where Dickson could be locate
d. When he, Borden, had come into the office early in the afternoon he had found a note saying that Dickson would be back late in the day. Borden had no idea where his chief had gone but if it was important Borden would be glad to canvass the Company’s various building operations by telephone and endeavor to locate him.

  Hanley told him to do that and to have Dickson come to the bank and then to come down himself as quickly as possible. Then he settled back into his chair with a sigh.

  “Have you got a phone not connected through the switchboard?” Bryce asked when Hanley had finished.

  The bank manager indicated a second instrument on the desk but, observing a slight hesitation on the inspector’s part, told him that there was also another in the adjoining room. Bryce excused himself and closed the door behind him, and in a moment they heard the steady rapid rumble of his voice as he issued instructions over the wire. Hanley looked curiously at Fenner, as did also Mr. Mortimer from his chair at the end of the desk.

  “He’s just setting a few of the wheels in motion,” Fenner explained at the unasked question in their look.

  After a short wait Bryce returned, pausing to light a cigar as he joined the group. There was a certain grim satisfaction in his manner.

  Hanley got to his feet, suggesting: “Shall we go downstairs now?”

  Fenner rose but the elderly bank executive remained in his chair. He had not uttered a syllable except when Fenner and Bryce had been introduced. Now he said shortly: “I’ll not go down. Keep me posted, Hanley.”

  5

  When they got to the vault they found Jeremy Donegan seated at his little desk staring silently into space. His son, half sitting on a corner of the desk, smoked nervously. He straightened up when Hanley brought in Fenner and Bryce, and dropped a cigarette butt to the floor, grinding it out with his sole. A half dozen others littered about the usually spotless linoleum, each in its tiny whorl of ash dust and carbon, bore mute testimony to Jerry’s disturbed state of mind. His father seemed serene by contrast.

  Hanley spoke first, presenting Fenner and Bryce, and concluding with: “They’re going to help us.