Fenner picked up his hat from the desk.
“Say,” Bryce said abruptly, “did you get that about Morton and the Mercantile Bank?”
“I understood Borden to say that Mr. Morton went there. I don’t know that I ‘get’ anything from it,” Fenner answered, quite unexcited. “However, I’m going to stop by there right now. I’m going to pop in on Mr. Adolph Knoeckler, too, but I should be back in half an hour or thereabouts. If Mr. Dickson turns up, would you mind amusing him until I get back?”
Hanley was somewhat taken aback but Bryce only nodded and smiled wryly.
“It just means he’s got a little brain wave when he gets sarcastic like that,” he told Hanley.
Fenner had been gone only a few minutes when Christopher Dickson was ushered in, a little flustered but apparently enormously curious. He was a pudgy little man with a full, round face and a sort of foxy-grandpa air about him at first impression. He peered at them through thick-lensed, gold-rimmed spectacles.
Hanley, apologizing first, told him in a few words what had happened and introduced Bryce. Dickson thought a moment and then started to tell his story but Bryce stopped him.
“Might as well save yourself going over it twice,” he said. “Mr. Fenner will want it first hand, so we’d better wait a few minutes until he gets back.”
Dickson with a shrug of indifference settled back into his chair, though a momentary shadow of impatience crossed his face when he drew out his watch and perceived that it was well after four o’clock. Bryce went over to the window, seated himself on the sill, relit his cigar, and looked thoughtfully out. Dickson and Hanley fell into a desultory discussion of the new building which they carried on until Fenner returned.
The latter did not come in until shortly before five. He spread several afternoon papers out on Hanley’s desk and said to Bryce: “Your boys work fast, don’t they? Have a look at these.”
Across the top of one of the papers, a pictorial tabloid, there was spread the glaring legend: “$200,000 CONSOLIDATED AMERICAN BANK THEFT” and, in smaller letters, “Story-on Page 3.” Inside there was a brief quarter column to the effect that a shortage of $180,000 had been discovered at the Consolidated American Bank, that the police and bonding company detectives had formulated no theory as to the theft, that certain employees of the bank were being detained, and that members of a party of engineers who had visited the vault during the morning were “being questioned or sought for that purpose.”
“That ought to fetch Mr. Morton if he’s on the level,” Bryce remarked cryptically.
“If he sees it, you mean,” Fenner corrected.
“Of course. But if we don’t hear from him by morning I’ll get the boys to play it up more tomorrow. Looks to me offhand, though, as if he’s flew the coop—”
“Well, we’ll see.”
Dickson looked from one to the other. Fenner folded up the newspaper and sat down and Bryce returned to his place by the window.
“I’ve told Mr. Dickson why we asked him down,” Hanley informed Fenner. “We thought it better to wait for you before hearing what he has to say.”
“Ah, thanks.” Fenner seemed very gracious and quickly put Dickson at ease. “It’s the details we want, sir. We’ve no idea whether this is an inside job or what, but it’s just possible that something you may have seen or noticed will help us in some way.” Dickson described at some length what had happened during the morning, but could add nothing material to the facts they had already accumulated. When he had finished Fenner asked: “Mr. Morton didn’t by any chance leave with you, did he?”
“Why, no; that is, we left about the same time but not together. It seems to me I remember him starting up William Street with Borden. He was in a bit of a hurry—had to make a train for Detroit, I believe he said.”
“Ah; well, then of course you’d have no idea as to where he could be found now?”
Dickson shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid not.” He looked up suddenly. “Certainly you haven’t an idea he’s connected in any way with this!” he exclaimed, incredulous.
“Not necessarily,” Fenner was quick to reply. “Nonsense! It’s absurd! The whole business is ridiculous. Now all you’ve told me is that a shortage in the vault was discovered today, but I should think that in a bank the size of this, with all the people and red tape you have here, there must be plenty of more likely explanations of a shortage than to assume that your money was hauled out in broad daylight by a reputable engineer. Bah! It’s preposterous!”
“Not too fast, Mr. Dickson,” Fenner interrupted placatingly. “In all fairness I confess a little more explanation is due you. This money, packed tightly in a small canvas sack, was removed from a hand truck in the vault some time between ten-thirty this morning and one P.M. Your inspection of the vault consumed a sizable portion of the two and a half hours elapsed. Now you must admit that everyone who went into that vault during that time is naturally tied into this inquiry by what you might call pure coincidence, if by nothing else.”
Dickson thought this over for a minute. “That of course, includes me,” he said somewhat testily, “though I wish you had been a little more explicit to begin with. I remember the hand truck you speak of. It ploughed into me, hell bent, at the door of that office we looked at first. I’ve got two Charley horses yet.” He rubbed his thighs. “However, that’s neither here nor there. Well, fire away. If there’s any more I can tell you I’ll be glad to do it.” He made his air of resignation very obvious.
“Do you mind telling us where you went from here this noon?”
“I went around to the India House for a bite to eat. After that I went to the office and looked over a few papers.”
“What time did you get to your office?”
“A few minutes after one, I think.”
“And then?”
“I went to my brokers, Halstead and Rice, and stayed there until the market closed. Then I went back to the office. When I found Borden’s note of course I came down here.”
“Oh; I say, how was the market today?” Fenner asked the question with such bright irrelevance that a tiny bond of common understanding was instantly established.
“Pretty rotten! Everything was off badly—a flock of new lows for the year.”
“Ah, well; it’s got to end somewhere, and it certainly ought to be soon,” Fenner consoled.
“I hope you’re right,” Dickson said fervently. Fenner got up and extended his hand, terminating the interview. “Sorry to have put you to so much trouble. I’m sure we’re grateful for the time you’ve given us. If anything turns up I presume we can get in touch with you at your office?”
“Certainly; and don’t hesitate to do so if I can be of any further help.”
“Thanks. Oh, now; one more thing. How long have you known Borden?”
“About five years, I guess. He’s worked for me three years and I knew him for two years before that.”
“I see. Always quite satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes, indeed; a fine lad in every way. Thorough. Dependable—“ Again Dickson looked incredulous. “Why, he’s no more connected with this business than I am,” he assured Fenner when he realized the implications of the question.
“Probably not,” Fenner agreed.
When Dickson had gone Bryce grunted, “Not much help from that fellow! Morton’s the only one left now, and that makes it begin to look just too bad for him. What’d you find out?” The last was to Fenner.
“I saw the. manager of the Mercantile Bank. Morton drew a substantial portion of his checking balance this noon. Also he visited his safe deposit box. He took it to a booth, so they have no idea whether he had removed or added anything. I also went around to Fulton Street and saw Mr. Adolph Knoeckler. He bears out Borden’s story in every detail.” He waited a moment, then suggested: “We seem to have reached somewhat of an impasse until Mr. Morton turns up—or is turned up. Any ideas before we adjourn for the day?”
Hanley replied first. “Our auditors
and Department heads are going over everything with fine-toothed combs. By midnight I think I’ll have a pretty definite idea as to the possibility of this being an inside job involving anyone but young Donegan; though I may as well say that I don’t expect to find anything. As for Jerry, I simply can’t reconcile his character or conduct since the loss with the idea of his being involved.”
Fenner made no comment but looked toward Bryce.
“If Mr. Hanley doesn’t uncover anything, my hunch would be to concentrate on Morton,” he said tersely. “But, in any case, Borden and Dickson and old man Donegan and the boy won’t be lost sight of for a split second until this thing is cleared up, if it takes six months. Same way with Morton, as soon as we do get hold of him.”
“That’s right,” Fenner said, “but I hope your boys tread softly. The whole purpose is defeated the moment they even suspect they are being watched.” He paused. “Perhaps we’ll know more tomorrow. I shouldn’t be surprised if Morton turned up.”
All three got to their feet.
“We’ll meet here in the morning to compare notes,” Bryce suggested.
“I’ll be able to tell you more then, as far as the bank’s concerned,” Hanley promised.
Fenner and the inspector went out. It was late March but the warm sun declining in a faint haze indicated the end of one of those premature May days that are sometimes sprinkled among the last days of the calendar winter and the first days of spring.
Fenner sniffed the air. “Glorious weather!”
“Weather be damned!” Bryce countered. “What do you make of this case?”
“Ah, yes.” Fenner reluctantly brought himself back. “We have to watch our step. As things now point it would be easy to go off half-cocked.”
“As things now point?”
“Of course. Young Donegan, you know. He told us he ate his lunch right after twelve o’clock and wandered around the Battery for an hour. According to that super-observant doorman he came in ‘picking his teeth’ at quarter after one. And then there’s that gloomy, stuffy place he’s cooped up in for eight hours a day in weather like this. Motive, what? Put yourself in his shoes, man!”
Bryce thought over this angle. “But this fellow, Morton, who seems to have disappeared?”
“That’s why I say we have to go carefully. For that matter, Mr. Dickson, too, was using his words to conceal his thoughts this afternoon. Does it strike you as odd that he should have at once recognized that the truck we spoke of as in the vault was the same one which bumped him at the door of Jerry’s cage? Not only that, but consider the testimony of that same efficient doorman to the effect that Mr. Dickson went into the bank wearing his topcoat, but came out with it draped over his arm. Nothing criminal in that, yet—”
Bryce was in a brown study.
Fenner went on: “Well, you’ve got them all under your eye now—all but Morton. We’ll mull things over and watch these fellows and see what turns up. Whoever turned this trick must give himself away sooner or later. We’ll simply have to be there when it happens. I only hope he doesn’t keep us waiting too damned long!”
II. FRIDAY, APRIL 1st
1
BRIGHT and early the next morning Bryce waited for Fenner opposite the employees’ entrance to the bank building in almost the identical spot where Old Jeremy and his son had stood the day before.
The creaking of derricks, the rattle of buckets and cable, the hammering and shouting of the men below in the excavation for the new Consolidated Building, all fell on deaf ears as far as Bryce was concerned. The morning crowds were streaming to work; fresh, eager faces; worn, tired ones—something written on all of them; youth, age, fear, hope. To Bryce on this Friday morning they were just people.
His glance fell upon the Donegans rounding the corner and he faced about and gazed into the excavation; turning around only after out of the corner of his eye he had seen them disappear into the entrance of the bank. With grim satisfaction he watched a workman who had come along a half block behind them but had increased his pace to close up the distance. The man glanced into the entrance after the Donegans, then sauntered over to where Bryce stood. He asked for a match and, receiving a pack, lit a cigarette, mumbling the while,
“Nothing special, chief. It’s all written out.” He handed back the matches and a small folded slip of paper. Bryce thrust both into his pocket as the man went on.
Presently Maxwell Fenner came along, gay, debonair, immaculate even to pearl gray spats, a prim carnation and a walking stick.
“Well, old man, what’s new?” he greeted Bryce.
“Nothing startling. No sign of Morton. Shall we go inside?”
“Might as well,” Fenner agreed cheerily. “Maybe Hanley’s got everything worked out and we can go play golf today.”
Bryce only grunted. Golf was not one of his accomplishments.
They found Hanley at his desk, his face careworn, his eyes bloodshot, his whole bearing reflecting dejection. He looked up at them a little hopefully. From his dispirited air and drawn appearance they gathered that he had been there all night. When they had sat down Fenner looked at him curiously and said: “You found nothing; right? But you didn’t expect to, so I don’t know why you should be so forlorn.”
Hanley looked up quickly. “Oh, yes; we found something. We found everything in gratifying order. To anybody bred in a bank that’s immensely satisfying.” There was no mistaking a certain pride in his voice. He went on: “I am satisfied of one thing: that the money, bag and all, is no longer within this bank. I’m quite convinced of another: that old Jeremy Donegan had no hand in this; and I’m almost as sure of his boy.”
Fenner and Bryce exchanged glances. “If what you say were true, though I don’t necessarily subscribe to it,” the former remarked, “our field would be limited to three people. I had hoped Morton would turn up, but if he is going to I suppose we should have heard from him by this time.” He looked at his watch and then at Bryce. “I’ve some people to see and also some looking around to do here,” he remarked suggestively.
Bryce flipped open the small notebook. “All right; I’ll make it snappy.” He settled into his seat and started: “Plenty of details but no nourishment in any of them. First, Morton: No sign of him nor word from him at his office, his apartment, or his club. His wife, from whom he is separated, has not heard from him for two weeks but is not disturbed because she says that she sometimes does not hear from him for a month at a time. In other words he dropped out of sight yesterday at noon.”
“Or rather, yesterday at half past twelve,” Fenner supplied. “Don’t forget his stop at the Mercantile.”
“Twelve-thirty, then,” corrected Bryce, and went on: “Now Dickson: Went home from here—Staten Island by ferry, then by train—lives near Stapleton. Had dinner home; not out of the house all evening. About eight-thirty his next-door neighbor came in; left at ten-thirty. Lights out shortly before eleven. No telephone calls either way. Left house about seven-forty-five this morning and went to his office. “Now Borden: Went to his office from here late yesterday afternoon. Received several phone calls, all business. Got a call about four-thirty and from what tapper could gather went out early in response to it and stopped at Knoeckler’s shop in Fulton Street. Stayed there from five to five-fifteen; from there went home. Lives out in Bloomfield, N. J., with his mother. Had dinner at home. Made no phone calls and received one—from the local Y.M.C.A. Went out with his mother at eight-forty-five to the Strand Theater; home at eleven. Left his house this morning before seven; went direct to office but stayed only a few minutes and then came down to the job across the street.”
Bryce shut up the book and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
“Now, the Donegans: Left here together late last night—about ten-forty-five—”
“That’s right,” Hanley confirmed.
“Went home together. Lights out at midnight. Left house—Brooklyn, by the way—about eight o’clock this morning and came straight to the
bank.” When he had finished Bryce looked around.
“Certainly nothing overt in any of that,” Fenner said dryly.
Hanley looked from one to the other and commented: “You fellows certainly are thorough. I should hate to have you turned loose on me.” Bryce looked up at him queerly but made no answer.
Fenner and Bryce went out together, the latter to go to headquarters, the former to utilize certain sources accessible to him for obtaining information about the financial affairs of the men he was investigating. They agreed to meet for lunch.
Fenner reached the appointed place a little early. He secured a table and sat down to wait, turning over in his mind the various aspects of the case. It was all very baffling. He could not recall a larceny case in his experience in which so many and such a variety of people were in a position to have accomplished the theft. To make matters worse, his morning’s investigations had yielded the fact that any one of them might be considered to possess sufficient financial motive.
If it was an inside job, he meditated, the perpetrator had received the screening benefit of an almost unbelievable chain of outside circumstances. Certainly neither Jeremy nor Jerry Donegan knew until the event that the vault was to be visited by the party of engineers. Fenner was almost persuaded that such a theory put too great a strain upon the possibility of coincidence, but he tried to keep his mind open on the subject.
And yet if the inside job theory were rejected it meant that the theft had been accomplished on the spur of the moment and without preparation of any sort, for neither Morton nor Dickson nor Borden had known a half hour before they went to the bank that they were going to be called there at all. The job required a “cool customer” and an opportunist to a high degree. Could Dickson or Borden answer to that description? Fenner had his doubts.
As to Morton, from what he had been able to learn of him and from what he knew of him by reputation, he intuitively found it difficult to reconcile him with thievery, even to the tune of $180,000, though of course there was no denying that his ill-timed disappearance justified Bryce’s suspicions, and then some!
The Bank Vault Mystery Page 5
