The Bank Vault Mystery

by Louis F. Booth

  “Do you know what it is?”

  She looked at it again. “No.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. It’s an identification tag belonging to a dispatch bag containing a hundred and eighty thousand dollars which disappeared recently from the Consolidated Bank. This tag was found in Mr. Morton’s coat pocket after he was hurt.” The girl visibly flinched but soon regained her calm. She straightened up in her chair. “There must be some mistake. If what you say is true Mr. Morton will have an explanation for it when he recovers—if he recovers.” She added the last in a lower tone.

  “I hope you’re right. For reasons which I can’t go into at this time I believe you are. But in the meantime his position is an uncomfortable one.” Elsa nodded mutely. Fenner made a last appeal. “You’re still quite sure there’s nothing you can tell me to help us?”

  The girl only shook her head wearily.

  “If anything occurs to you, come to me.”

  Fenner got up and picked up his hat.

  “I suppose I need hardly tell you to say nothing of this.”

  Again she only nodded. Fenner saw that she could not trust herself to speak. He bent over her and murmured: “These things have a way of straightening themselves out. Keep a stiff upper lip.”

  Elsa Knoeckler, he reflected, had yet a bitter cup to quaff.

  VII. THURSDAY, APRIL 7th

  1

  A CLEAR, serene sky, pure molten turquoise, flawless, greeted the rising populace in general and our principals in particular as Thursday dawned upon greater New York. The air was fragrant, soothing, mild.

  The flawless sky held no meaning for Elsa Knoeckler when, the brilliant sun already three hours high, she came suddenly awake from tossing, fretful slumber and with but a glance at her unaccustomed surroundings reached anxiously for the bedside telephone. Nor held it meaning for Randolph Morton, who still slept on. Stephen Coles’ eyes were open but he did not see the sky.

  Jeremy Donegan might have seen it, but his haunted eyes were nowadays continually cast down. Jerry sensed the brilliance of it and sniffed the morning air, but his barred window opened on a gray stone court wall. T. Jerome Hanley noticed it as he stepped into his limousine and thought, strangely enough, of a South Sea Island and peace.

  Philip Borden, on the upper deck of an Erie Railroad ferry, bared his head to the fresh breeze and with keen appreciation watched the nearing skyline block out the translucent blue. Christopher Dickson, in the slatey atmosphere of the smoking cabin on a Staten Island ferry several miles down the bay, had real need of fresh air and blue sky, and morose desire for neither.

  Inspector Bryce glanced at it perfunctorily for a key to the weather and found it eminently satisfactory. Maxwell Fenner, who would have altogether failed to notice it under no conceivable circumstance, gave it a scantily appreciative glance with but half a thoughtful eye.

  It was shortly after nine when he knocked at the locked doors of Marten, Morton & Purcell, and as on the previous evening elicited no response. He went downstairs to the building lobby and telephoned Quinn from whom he learned that Coles was not at the job. Fenner went out of the building and turned toward the Consolidated Bank with a half-formed idea that he would spend an hour talking with Hanley and later try Morton’s office again, but before he had walked two blocks he faced about, impelled by an urge he could not have defined, and went back to seek Coles again. The place was still locked and quiet as a morgue.

  Fenner had given no particular thought to Stephen Coles and at first sought him hoping only to learn more of the details of Morton’s affairs, but this persistent, inexplicable absence whetted Fenner’s natural curiosity and set his mind to working in strange channels: Morton and Coles—partners in crime. Impossible? Elsa Knoeckler, too, might be involved. Preposterous! Still, could anything be considered unbelievable in this fantastic case? That brief visit to Knoeckler’s shop on Thursday evening might not have been only for Elsa’s clothes. What more innocent than to give Elsa a package to keep for him? And what more obscure, secure place than Knoeckler’s little shop to leave it temporarily? And what more plausible explanation of Morton’s solicitous assumption of the burden of the old man’s affairs? And what more hideous, mortifying finale than that Coles had taken advantage of Morton’s accident to run out with the loot—had even arranged the ‘accident’? And what more likely than that Stephen Coles was at the very moment lulled by the click-clack of rails rapidly putting miles between them, or standing in a stern somewhere watching a churning wake reflect the morning’s flawless sky and steadily add widening miles of water behind him while Fenner pondered before the locked door of Marten, Morton & Purcell?

  The fabric of theory, born during the impatient moment of waiting, crystallized in a twinkling and galvanized Fenner into action. He sprang into the hallway and pushed the elevator button. In the lobby below he telephoned Bryce.

  “Coles hasn’t showed up yet,” he told the inspector curtly. “I’m worried about him. He’s not at the job, either; I talked to Quinn.” Over the wire Fenner heard Bryce’s perplexed grunt and went on: “Why don’t you hop over here to Morton’s office? The building superintendent will admit us. Maybe we can dig up something. In the meantime I’ll try to get the girl down here.”

  Bryce agreed.

  No sooner had he hung up the receiver than doubts sprang into Fenner’s mind. The idea of Morton’s having committed the theft ran so directly counter to Fenner’s conception of the man’s psychological makeup that he still found it hard to accept. Equally, his other theory, while far from complete, so logically fitted the human equations involved that he was reluctant to abandon it. Nevertheless, Coles’ mysterious flight at this particular time certainly could not be overlooked, and, taken together with the discovery of Morton’s possession of the tag, might properly be considered conclusive circumstantial evidence against the pair.

  For several thoughtful moments Fenner stood in the telephone booth weighing these pros and cons. Absently he dialed the number of Morton’s sister’s uptown apartment. Elsa was just about to leave for her vigil at the hospital when Fenner’s call came in. Puzzled and vaguely worried she agreed to go to Morton’s office instead.

  Arriving there she found, in addition to Fenner whom she expected, Inspector Bryce whom she did not; and her uncertain doubts increased. Fenner had outlined his idea to the inspector while they waited, and, inasmuch as it once again fell in with his preconceived notion of Morton’s guilt, Bryce found it easy to accept.

  “Good morning. We’re looking for Stephen Coles,” Fenner opened abruptly when Elsa came in. “Thought you might be able to give us some help.”

  “Why, isn’t he here?” It was then ten o’clock.

  Fenner glanced about the room and replied good-humoredly: “It seems that he isn’t.”

  “He should be. That is, he’s usually in by this time. Did you call his house?”

  “His name’s not listed. I’ve been fishing through his desk looking for an address but haven’t yet run across one.”

  “He has a room in the Bronx.” Elsa went to her own desk, took a small address book from one of the side drawers, leafed through it for a moment, and read off Coles’ address and telephone number.

  Fenner called the number and asked for him. He learned from the proprietress of the boarding house that Coles had not been there at all during the previous night. It was very unusual of him. She was surprised and mildly grieved. Had he contemplated going away? No; not that she knew of, and he usually advised her. There was nothing secretive about Coles. He was one of her steadiest boarders. Who was calling? Oh, Mr. Coles’ employer. But wasn’t he at work? Well, she was sorry but she didn’t know where he was nor where he was likely to be found. Presently Fenner disconnected and turned to Bryce with a shrug.

  “Gone,” was all he said.

  Elsa had listened, first with interest, then with bewilderment, then with quick, cold dismay. Her last conversation with Stephen Coles, which in the excitement of subsequent event
s she had almost forgotten, came quickly to mind. Steve’s mood, his jealous, impotent rage, his thoughtless threats, assumed a new and hideous significance.

  “Did you want Steve—Mr. Coles—about Mr. Morton, or what?” She gasped the question. “Is anything wrong about—him?”

  They could not fail to observe her agitation, and Fenner particularly was puzzled. He was not yet convinced of any guilt on her part.

  “‘Wrong about him,’ Miss Knoeckler,” he led her gently. “I’m not quite sure just what you mean.”

  “Are you looking for Mr. Coles because you think he had something to do with Mr. Morton’s injury?” she asked frankly.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give you a direct answer to that. We naturally want to find out what he knows. Also, it’s an odd time for him to disappear.”

  “There’s something—I haven’t told you.” She was addressing Fenner haltingly now, feeling her way along. “Believe me, I had simply forgotten about it. It didn’t seem important at the time and it didn’t occur to me until just now.” She stopped.

  “Well, what is it?” Bryce snapped.

  Fenner waited patiently.

  “It’s about Steve and Mr. Morton. Oh, I don’t quite know how to put it. You see, Steve thought he was in love with me. When he found out about us—Mr. Morton and me—he was—well, quite upset.”

  “And so—?” Fenner suggested.

  “That’s all. But I thought I ought to tell you.”

  “Coles made threats against Mr. Morton?” Fenner suggested shrewdly.

  “I don’t think he meant what he said, but he seemed to feel pretty strongly about it,” Elsa admitted.

  “When did you last see Coles?” Bryce put in. “Yesterday, just before noon—here in this office.”

  “Is that when he made the threats?”

  “They weren’t exactly threats,” Elsa demurred. “Can’t you recall exactly what he did say—his words?” Bryce insisted.

  Elsa hesitated. “I’m afraid not. You see, he raved on so—”

  Bryce waved an impatient hand. Fenner cut in sharply: “Tell me this, Miss Knoeckler: Do you yourself think it likely that Coles had anything to do with the accident which befell Mr. Morton?”

  “Why, no. I can’t say that I do; unless—“

  “Unless what?”

  “Why, unless he went crazy.”

  “But you do think it’s possible or you wouldn’t have told us anything,” Fenner finished.

  Bryce got to his feet and announced savagely: “We’ll go after him!” The black book opened in his hand as if by magic. “This is as good a place to begin as any. Let me have that address again, will you?” To Fenner he said: “I’ll send a couple of men out to that room. Maybe we can pick up a picture.” Bryce relit his cigar and the man-hunt was on.

  Elsa excused herself to go to the hospital. No sooner had the door closed behind her than Bryce started, a drawer at a time, methodically going through the contents of Coles desk. Fenner watched for a second, then proceeded in the same manner to go through Randolph Morton’s. Primarily Bryce was looking for any sort of a clue or paper which might give him an inkling as to Coles’ probable whereabouts or the direction in which he would most likely flee. Fenner was seeking he was not sure what. When they had finished with the desks they tackled the files, then the bookcases. Two hours later they left the office.

  “It seems,” Fenner remarked caustically as they walked away, “that we’ve taken the proverbial one step forward and two steps back.”

  “What d’ye mean?”

  “Well, for a brief moment after it became apparent that Coles had ‘taken it on the lam,’ as some of your estimable colleagues might put it, I thought that we might be on a pretty tangible track. Now it appears that Mr. Coles, even if guilty of violence toward his benevolent ex-employer, was subject to motivating influences of a different sort of which we were hitherto unaware. In other words, our smart calculations seem to be knocked galley-west.”

  2

  It was just after noon when Fenner and Bryce walked up the slight ramp to the timekeeper’s shanty at the new Consolidated Building job. They found Quade alone.

  “Anything new?” Bryce asked.

  “Not much. From what I can gather, that argument Morton had yesterday was about leveling off pier bottoms. Dickson and Borden and Quinn were all peeved at him—thought he was too particular and was wasting time and money. It seems Morton finally hung around down there himself because he was afraid they might not do things the way he wanted.”

  “Find out any more about Coles?” Bryce had telephoned Quade as soon as he had learned from Fenner that Coles was missing.

  “He was last seen by the night timekeeper a few minutes after eight last evening. It seems he came back after dinner to have a last look around. Quinn saw him, too. He told him that you and Mr. Fenner had been looking for him. Coles made some wisecrack answer about tomorrow being another day. Quinn says Coles might have been a little the worse for having had his dinner in one of those speakies in Pearl Street.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Oh, not badly.”

  “You’ve seen nothing of him today, of course?” Fenner put in.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, keep your eyes peeled.” Bryce’s gruff parting admonition was more from force of habit than from intent.

  “He seems to have beat it, all right,” the inspector meditated aloud as they reached the street. “I wonder where he got the guts to brain Morton. I’d never have put him down as the violent type.”

  “He isn’t. He’s anything but, if my judgment, based on two brief interviews, means anything. But a person crazed with jealousy steps beyond his type characteristics.”

  They trudged to the Police Station where Bryce assembled the last reports of his various aides and read them off for Fenner’s benefit. Randolph Morton had spent the largest part of the previous (Wednesday) forenoon in Knoeckler’s shop in Fulton Street. In the afternoon he had gone to the job where later he had been hurt. He still hovered at the brink of eternity, but today the doctors held forth a faint ray of hope. Elsa Knoeckler was spending most of her wakeful hours at the hospital. Dickson and Borden were going about their daily tasks in quite the usual prosaic way, both being at the Consolidated job a great deal of the time. Hanley had been to the theater last evening. Jeremy, together with a young lady, presumably Jerry’s fiancée, had visited Jerry at the jail. It had been the usual session of mutual condolences and reassurances, with Jerry showing most courage of the three. Nothing had been learned from it. There was the whole story.

  “A lot of chaff but not an ounce of grain in it anywhere,” Bryce concluded; then added hopefully: “When Morton wakes up maybe we’ll get something.”

  “When Morton wakes up?”

  “Well, I’m still thinking that tag is going to be hard for him to explain.”

  “Suppose he simply looks at it and tells you he’s never seen it before?”

  Bryce had no ready answer.

  “Have you uncovered anything more in connection with Morton’s affairs?”

  “Not so far. We went through his apartment last night. Two of the boys are out at that camp of his in Jersey today but I haven’t heard from them yet.” They were silent for a moment.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Bryce presently resumed, “why couldn’t everything we supposed this morning about Coles and Morton be true and this ‘jealousy’ slant be just additional reason for Coles giving Morton the works?”

  Fenner did not reply at once. His instincts had from the start apprised him of some intangible fallacy in the whole idea. Now that he had found another explanation for Coles’ disappearance he was glad to drop the other. Presently he suggested: “If that was the case I don’t think Coles would have taken a chance on getting drunk last evening—even slightly. Neither do I think he’d have come back to the job at all. He’d have cleared out, pronto!”

  “Maybe so.”

  3

  The day wore on. A
bout mid-afternoon Bryce went to the hospital. Morton had taken a turn for the better.

  Fenner made his way to the Consolidated Bank. There were still one or two matters which he felt duty-bound to discuss with T. Jerome Hanley. Curiously, he was vaguely relieved to find the manager gone for the day.

  With hardly conscious guidance, Fenner’s steps carried him across the street to the truck platform overlooking the new building excavation. For no reason he could define, the job attracted him like a needle drawn by a powerful magnet. He leaned over the rail and gazed down into the busy lot, peering as if to discover somewhere therein the key to his confusion.

  His instant reaction upon learning of Morton’s injury, he reflected, had been that the engineer had met with foul play. This notion he had not for a moment abandoned. All the circumstances surrounding the accident were unnatural. Most startling of all was the fact that every one of the people under suspicion in connection with the vault looting except the Donegans was on the job and without a real alibi at the time Morton was hurt. He ticked them off on his fingers: Dickson was on his way up from the bottom, Borden was somewhere about the job bringing his records up to date, Hanley had left his guests and gone down to look for Morton. The obvious explanation for any attempt to kill him would be that somebody wished to silence him. If Morton was not himself involved in the bank theft, he must have known or suspected who was. Therefore, when—if ever—he was able to speak, he could disclose his suspicions and name his attacker. This had been Fenner’s first conclusion and hope.

  Now it appeared that Morton might have met his misfortune at the hands of his own assistant and for a reason in no way related to the Consolidated Bank. It seemed almost incredible to Fenner that events should conspire to produce this particular distracting effect at this particular time; yet if this was not the case, then why should Coles have fled? And if this was the case, then whence and wherefore the tag in Morton’s coat?

  Once again Fenner took himself back to the beginning, retraversed the case as it had unfolded step by step, reconstructed the nebulous theory his intuition had prompted and which had seemed to be filling in until today, and once again he arrived at the same impasse: Morton, by any reasonable deduction, was attacked by the perpetrator of the vault theft and the tag left upon him to direct suspicion to him. Yet Coles, who had equal opportunity but an independent motive, was gone. Mildly at first, then devastatingly, a horrible suspicion obtruded itself...