The Bank Vault Mystery

by Louis F. Booth

  “Why, this looks like the machine you had over at Knoeckler’s. It isn’t the same one, is it?” Fenner suddenly asked Borden.

  “No; same model, though,” Borden answered. “I suppose we won’t be able to get the other back for a few days. There’ll be formalities, I presume?” He looked at Fenner as if he would like to ask him more but thought it unmannerly.

  “Well, I shouldn’t think it would be long. The coroner’s verdict will be returned in a day or two. Knoeckler’s physician, it seems, reported that the old chap was a victim of ailments that would make a fatal stroke a likelihood at any time.”

  “Poor devil! Well, he’s just about as well off. I think his business had pretty nearly gone to pot. But I notice by the papers that he had a daughter. I didn’t know he had any family at all. Sort of had a notion he was all alone.” Borden strapped up his level box as he spoke. The others started out and Borden had to hurry after them before Fenner had a chance to reply.

  When Fenner felt sure they would all have had ample time to leave the bank he came up from the vault. To his faint surprise he found Morton and Dickson still in the entrance lobby. In a rapid, even voice, scarce above a whisper, Morton was addressing his companion. The latter, apparently much exasperated but not quite beyond control, seemed continually about to break into violent protest, but Morton gave him no chance to interrupt. Catching sight of Fenner’s approach, Morton stopped speaking instantly. Dickson, turning to ascertain the cause of Morton’s abrupt silence, unexpectedly encountered the detective’s gaze and crimsoned deeply. Neither Morton nor Dickson spoke and Fenner merely nodded and passed on up into the bank. The pair watched him out of sight but the interrupted discussion was not resumed. Instead, with a shrug of his shoulders and not a word of farewell, Dickson turned and went out into the street. Morton made his way up to Hanley’s office.

  “I want a little legal advice,” Morton began when Hanley had admitted him. “Perhaps you or one of the bank’s legal staff can give me a few pointers. As you no doubt gathered from yesterday’s—er—discussion, my secretary is the late Mr. Adolph Knoeckler’s daughter. His death, coming as it did, has been frightfully trying for her. I’m sort of looking out for her, and among other things I want to relieve her of all the troublesome details connected with winding up her father’s affairs and settling his estate; though I’m afraid it may develop that the estate is a negative rather than a positive quantity.”

  He smiled a little ruefully but went on, “Now first I want to find out the proper legal steps for taking over her father’s affairs or her affairs, or however you want to put it. For reasons of my own I’d rather not have my firm’s attorneys handle this.”

  Hanley pondered a moment. “I think the proper step is to apply to the Probate Court to have yourself appointed executor of Knoeckler’s estate,” he answered. “I’m not sure, and I’m not familiar with the legal and technical details. I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll put you in touch with a firm of very good lawyers who will be glad to take care of the whole thing for you. They are excellent, reasonable, and—er—discreet. Don’t you think that would be the best way to handle it?”

  Morton did, so Hanley wrote down a name and address on the back of one of his business cards and handed it to him. Morton pocketed it and went out.

  2

  As Morton left Hanley’s office, Fenner, entering, met him at the door. He stood aside to allow the engineer to pass. Inside he tarried only a moment. Hanley could not conceal his curiosity as to the results of the morning’s experiment, but Fenner would offer him no satisfaction. Instead, he questioned the banker shortly regarding Morton’s visit. When Hanley had briefly outlined Morton’s request, Fenner only grunted.

  From the bank he went to Police Headquarters where he closeted himself with Bryce.

  “Do you suppose that Morton or Dickson or

  Borden have any idea they are being watched as closely as they are?” he asked the inspector.

  “I don’t have any notion Morton suspects anything—unless he would just naturally expect it and think nothing of it. He’s given no sign he’s aware of anything, but we’ve only been tailing him since yesterday noon, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dickson and Borden are wise, though. The boys say both of them are getting a little self-conscious lately. Murphy caught Dickson looking at him rather queerly yesterday.”

  “That’s too bad. It defeats the whole object of watching them.”

  “I suppose so,” Bryce agreed discouragedly, “but it’s not an easy thing to shadow a man who suspects he’s being watched without having him wise up, at least, after a short time. I could put some new men on. That’s not so good, though, because these fellows have become accustomed to their habits and are quick to sense a deviation from them.”

  “But you think Morton is all right yet?”

  “I think so; yes.”

  “Well, how would it be to keep right on with him as you’re doing, and with Dickson and Borden you could simply switch your two pairs about?”

  “I’ll try that,” Bryce agreed.

  “Now, one other thing. Do you still have a man in Knoeckler’s shop?”

  “No; we took him off when the girl came back, but the place has been locked up tight since then and the man on the beat keeps an eye on it.”

  “Miss Knoeckler’s not staying there, of course?”

  “No. She took her clothes yesterday. She’s staying uptown with a sister of Morton’s—up near Columbus Circle.”

  “Oh, of course. You told me yesterday. I can’t say I exactly blame her for getting out of those quarters above the shop. It must have been a cheerless enough place before, and now it would be positively gruesome.”

  “Me either,” the inspector agreed.

  “Going to stay with Morton’s sister, eh? That rather puts a new light on our gay Lothario, doesn’t it? Maybe he’s going to ‘do right by our Nell’ after all.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Will you let me have the key to the shop?” Fenner requested, rising. “I’d like to poke about there a bit.”

  Bryce produced a key from his desk drawer. “Not quite satisfied, eh?”

  Fenner did not reply but only held out his hand for the key. “I’ll return it in an hour or two. Our friend, Mr. Morton, will probably be after it soon. But not this afternoon. He’ll be all tied up with Knoeckler’s funeral this afternoon.” Fenner took the key and left Bryce, accustomed to his eccentricities, only mildly astonished but more than mildly curious.

  In less than two hours, true to his promise, he was back. He tossed the key on Bryce’s desk with a brief “Thanks.”

  Bryce dropped it back into the drawer. He shoved the drawer shut slowly, looking at Fenner the while.

  “You’ve got something up your sleeve now. I can tell,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t spill it till you got ready so I won’t even ask, but if you should need any help let me know. The police might come in handy. We do cover a lot of ground, you know.” He swung his chair around as if to get back to work.

  Fenner felt the mild reproach in his attitude. He said: “I’ve got a hunch almost strong enough to make a pinch on, but hunches aren’t of much use in court. There are too many gaps in my theory to act upon it yet, and the most important missing link is the little canvas sack full of Uncle Sam’s promises. It wouldn’t do to be too precipitate and lose that.”

  “Hardly!”

  “To sit tight a while—that’s still our ticket; and to keep track of everybody every minute.” He broke off. “Now, ‘home and so to bed,’ as Samuel would say. I still have great faith in the efficacy of sleeping on all of these puzzling little matters. Things are dormant now—suspiciously so. The lull before the storm, you know. Watch out!” With this cryptic if theatrical admonition the investigator took his departure, homeward bound.

  Bryce was as much encouraged as puzzled. He knew from experience that this unwonted volubility betokened a discovery or development that put them many steps ahead. He knew, too
, that in plenty of time he would learn what it was all about.

  VI. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 6th

  1

  FENNER was awakened later than usual the next morning, Wednesday, by the bright sunlight streaming through the open windows. He bathed and, still sleepy, went downstairs to breakfast.

  He had gone to bed with a brain full of queries; his rest had been troubled and fitful; now his waking was haunted by the same puzzling questions, gaps in his theory that required spanning. Yesterday’s visit to Knoeckler’s shop had been fruitful enough, but there still remained wide openings to be bridged, whys and hows that demanded their answers.

  And then there was the major distraction of T. Jerome Hanley. There had not been what Fenner considered an opportune occasion to draw the bank manager out upon either the subject of Sunday evening traffic on the Belleville Turnpike, or the quaint un-American custom of covering brokerage margins with unexpected cash. It would require all his finesse, Fenner mused, but he would have to get it over with today.

  At Police Headquarters he went straight to Bryce’s office and reviewed the latest additions to Bryce’s cumulative biographies of the principals in their case. The inspector had little to tell him but Fenner was not surprised. He settled down on the edge of Bryce’s desk and lighted a cigarette.

  “I switched the men about on Dickson and Borden last night,” Bryce presently said. “I think they’ll be all right now. These are some of my best boys. Neither Hanley nor Morton have given any sign they’re wise. As for old Donegan—he’s too broken up about his boy to notice anything.”

  “How’d Knoeckler’s funeral go off?” Fenner asked.

  “All right. Miss Knoeckler and Morton were the only mourners. It was all very brief and to the point. By the way, you were right about the key to Knoeckler’s. Morton phoned about it already this morning. He’s going to be co-executor, along with the girl, of the old man’s estate—if there is any such thing.”

  “Hanley said that Morton was planning something of the sort.”

  “I bet his wife would be tickled to hear that,” Bryce remarked grimly.

  “Have you met her?”

  “No; but I talked over the telephone with her—last Thursday, you know, when we were looking for Morton—and if she’s as bad as she sounded, I’m not sure I blame the man for taking the air.”

  Fenner only smiled. Marital difficulties were things of which he had only indirect acquaintance.

  “That may be part of the reason,” he said. “Miss Knoeckler is a damned attractive girl; at least, to my way of thinking, she is.”

  “I think so, too; but if Mrs. Morton is as much a shrew as she sounded, it makes the old boy’s lapse a little more excusable.”

  “It makes it a little more understandable,” Fenner corrected. “How about the girl? Where does she get off in the long run?”

  “Maybe Morton’ll get a divorce and marry her,” Bryce suggested cheerfully. “He certainly has made no effort to conceal the fact that he thinks enough of her.”

  “Maybe he will, but I’m not sure I’d bet that way.” Fenner slid off the desk and stretched himself, complaining through a sigh: “Ho-hum; I suppose I’ll never get rich sitting here chewing the fat. I’m going to my own office for a while. Then I’ll drop in on Hanley after lunch. You can reach me in one place or the other, in case any of our super-exemplary candidates should forget himself.”

  A slow, sardonic smile broadened on Bryce’s face as he watched his friend depart. “I can just picture you hanging over the phone waiting,” he flung after him with good-humored sarcasm.

  2

  Several hours later this same morning in Randolph Morton’s office Stephen Coles found his first opportunity since her return to confront Elsa Knoeckler alone. She had been in the office for a few minutes on Monday afternoon, but Morton had been awaiting her and they had shortly gone out together.

  Morton had previously told Coles of Mr. Knoeckler’s death but had communicated just the bare fact.

  It had been a strange conversation, Morton speaking quite impersonally of Elsa as if there was nothing whatever between himself and the girl, Coles wondering if he was actually expected to believe this or if Morton simply chose to put that face on the matter as the least embarrassing way for both of them. Certainly the latter, Coles had concluded, inwardly boiling; and had thought to himself furiously: “If the son of a —— really thinks I’m that dumb he’d have fired me long ago!”

  On Tuesday Elsa had not come to the office at all, nor on Wednesday until now—almost noon. If the shock of her father’s death had affected her much, it was not reflected in her appearance. To Coles she seemed more desirable than ever.

  “Hello, Steve,” she said simply upon entering the office.

  “Hello, Elsa! How are you?” Coles got slowly to his feet. He wondered, incredibly, if she too would take the line that nothing had happened. He hurried on: “The boss told me about your father. I was awfully sorry to hear it.”

  “Thanks!” Elsa made no other reply, but looked away. She was half sitting on the edge of her desk, peeling off her gloves. Coles could not take his eyes off her. He thought of Morton and his smoldering anger flared up.

  “You were away, weren’t you?” The question was natural enough, but there was a bitterness in the tone she could not miss.

  Elsa ignored the query. She asked casually: “When do you expect Mr. Morton back?”

  “At noon. Don’t worry; he’ll be back in time to buy you a lunch!”

  “I asked a civil question. There is no reason for being nasty. You might at least give me a civil answer.”

  “No reason! No; I suppose not. You take me for an awful sap, don’t you, Elsa?”

  “I don’t take you for anything. Let’s not argue.”

  “Oh! Let’s not argue! No; of course not. Look here—you went home Thursday because you ‘didn’t feel well.’ You must have improved a lot by evening. I stopped in to say Hello. I was going to chin with your dad, too, but I didn’t see him around. I suppose he approved of your little jaunt?” Coles leered over her.

  “What do you mean?” Elsa gasped.

  “Aw, can it! Let’s quit stallin’. You went away with Morton. I’m not blind.”

  Elsa slid off the desk to her feet. “If I did, what of it? It would be my own affair.”

  “Oh, God! Elsa, you know how I feel about you. It breaks my heart to see you taken for a ride by that dirty has—“ His anguished protest was cut short by a strange shadow that passed over Elsa’s face, a blending of anger and hurt and pride. She started toward the door.

  “Wait a minute, Elsa. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  “I love you; I always have. But right now I’m only think of your own good. He’s married; he’s too old for you anyway. Can’t you see he’s only playing around and—”

  “Stop it I Stop right now! You don’t know what you’re talking about and it’s none of your business, anyway. I’m perfectly capable of leading my own life.”

  “You think you are now. When he gets tired and gives you the air you’ll sing a different tune. Hell! When I think of it I could strangle him with my bare hands.” Coles paced the room to work off his fury, waving his clenched fists melodramatically. He rambled on: “For a while you and I got along pretty well—till he started handing you his smooth line. Then I wasn’t good enough. Oh, God!” He covered his face with his hands.

  As Elsa watched him, her mounting anger gave way to compassion.

  “I’m sorry you feel as you do, but it’s not my fault,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll get over it if you try. Don’t worry about me. Besides—“ She paused.

  To Coles her sudden pity was more galling than her anger.

  “Besides what?” he insisted savagely.

  “Randolph and I are going to be married as soon as he’s free. I shouldn’t have told you that, I guess.”

  “Oh, it’s ‘Randolph’ now, and he’s going to marry you?�
� Coles sneered. “Well, I’ll say you shouldn’t have told me that. It hurts me when I laugh! Oh!

  I could kill the dir—”

  A metallic clank outside warned them that the elevator had stopped on that floor. They heard footsteps in the corridor approaching the door. Coles sat down quickly and picked up a pencil. Elsa slid back onto her desk and started searching in her handbag for a compact. Thus Morton found them when he opened the door.

  He beamed at the girl, apologizing. “Sorry to have kept you. Been here long?”

  “Only a moment.”

  Morton addressed Coles: “There’ll be a lot of pier holes ready to inspect at the Consolidated job this afternoon. Are we pretty well cleaned up here?”

  “I think so.”

  “Meet me at the job, then—say, at two-thirty.”

  “Two-thirty. Right.”

  Morton held the door for Elsa and they went out. Coles watching them half rose from his chair, gripped the arms of it, white-knuckled, rigid—pulled himself down again. As he relaxed, a great wave of self-pity rose from within him, blinding, suffocating, engulfing his reason. For a long moment his dull eyes stared at the closed door; then mechanically he resumed his tasks.

  3

  At the Consolidated Bank, as had seemed to happen often lately, Fenner found that Hanley was not in his office. A secretary informed him that the manager had gone across the street to conduct several members of the bank’s directorate through the site for the new building. He was expected back momentarily so Fenner decided to wait.

  He perched himself on a window sill and lit a cigarette. From where he rested Fenner could look almost straight down into the excavation for the new building. From that height—Hanley’s office was on the ninth floor—the narrow street separating the new site from the old building seemed narrower than ever.

  The cross-lot bracing divided the lot into neat little squares. The men working in the bottom were out of Fenner’s view but there were a few whose duties kept them up on the bracing or on the edge of the excavation. Fenner watched the tiny figures interestedly. Most of them were signalmen who guided the dirt and stone buckets as they were hoisted or lowered.