The Bank Vault Mystery

by Louis F. Booth

  “I suppose that is true,” Bryce agreed, “and the way things have turned out the state is saved the cost of prosecuting him, and—”

  “And I,” Fenner concluded happily for him, “am released for a much-needed tour of some Canadian countryside.”

  Bryce had no answer for that except an unintelligible grumble.

  4

  It was with a definite sense of relief that Fenner left Police Headquarters and headed for his own office. In the back of his mind he had a vague notion that he would clear up whatever odds and ends awaited him there and get away before anything new could turn up, although anything of that sort need hardly have been feared on a spring Saturday afternoon. He hailed a cab, though the distance was only a half dozen short blocks, and settled into the cushions lazily while the cab rolled through the quiet streets of the deserted financial district.

  He wondered if Bryce was satisfied and would regard the Consolidated Bank case as a closed volume. Of course Morton’s possession of the tag had not been satisfactorily explained, despite Borden’s dying testimony. The more Fenner thought of it the more he realized that the assumption that Borden had placed it on Morton could not be reasonably made. In the first place, according to Borden’s earlier claim, which was substantiated by Hanley, Borden had had no opportunity to do such a thing. Assuming that the opportunity had existed, however, Borden had had no way of knowing that the opportunity would present itself on that particular day; and, knowing himself to be under observation, he would certainly not risk keeping the incriminating tag upon his person except for a limited time and for a definite purpose.

  Then too, the fact that Borden at first selected that particular accusation to deny specifically kept recurring to Fenner. It was not unreasonable to infer that it was the one charge which, being erroneous, Borden knew could not be proved. He had probably picked it in the hope that when it was proved false doubt would be cast upon the other charges also.

  The cab drew to a halt and Fenner paid the driver and got out. He went up to his office, still musing, tossed his hat on the desk and settled into his chair. His combination stenographer, office girl, bookkeeper and telephone operator glided in with a sheaf of papers and notes but Fenner, with an absent, careless gesture, waved her away. He had Morton on his mind and knew he would not rest easily until he had made some mental disposition of him.

  The tag! If Morton had found the tag at Knoeckler’s, then Borden must have left it there. In the stress of having just killed the old man he must have lost his head and gone off without it. Then it would be the tag that Borden must have been looking for when he so anxiously scrutinized Knoeckler’s bench and desk the next day. But if Morton found it there, it must have been on that fatal Thursday evening when he waited for Elsa Knoeckler; for if Adolph had threatened Borden by means of it, and had gotten himself killed on the spot, there certainly would have been no opportunity for him to secrete it anywhere, and if it had been lying in the open the police or he himself would have found it after Knoeckler’s death.

  By the same reasoning, Fenner suddenly perceived, Morton idling about the place could not have failed to find it. Furthermore, Morton with an idle quarter of an hour to wait for Elsa, could not have failed to read the tabloid article spread invitingly on the counter as Adolph had left it. Morton would have remembered that Borden intended coming to the shop from the bank. It was even simpler for him to put two and two together than it had been for Knoeckler.

  Why had not Morton come forward with his find? But that was not all. Fenner suddenly realized that Morton, knowing himself to be wanted, or at least strongly suspecting it, for the newspaper article left little doubt, had deliberately absented himself until the following Monday. The question occupied Fenner for but a second; the answer was not far to seek. Elsa! She would be the answer. Morton had anticipated this trip with her; his heart was set upon it and he would naturally be reluctant to change his plans. Well, that was not a difficult thing to understand.

  Then with time to dwell upon the particular chain of circumstances which had thrown into his lap the opportunity to share in Borden’s ill-got fortune, he must have succumbed to the temptation to recoup his recent losses. He must have decided, quite unconsciously, to steal a leaf from Adolph Knoeckler’s book. There was no doubt Morton needed the money. Fenner wondered if Morton, knowing Borden to be a thief, suspected him also of being the murderer of Adolph Knoeckler. He suspected not, for Morton might then have thought twice before attempting his blackmail scheme—might even have dropped it and turned over the tag, for it would have been simple to say that he had found it among Knoeckler’s effects.

  But if Morton had attempted blackmail, Fenner realized, then Borden’s last statement must have been altogether false. This would not be a hard supposition to make; there had been an inspired air about it, anyway. Fenner recalled the words: “I didn’t brain Morton but I stuck the tag in his pocket when we found him. Tell him I owned up. Tell him to keep an eye on my mother.” Garbled and meaningless in any ordinary interpretation, but once assume that Morton blackmailed Borden, and the words become filled with significance. The tag had been found on Morton, embarrassing at best. This confession of Borden’s would let him out! But what object? “Tell him to keep an eye on my mother.” Obvious! Fenner recalled that Borden had lived alone with his mother. He twirled his pencil in silent amazement at the only reasonable inference. Throughout the case Borden had consistently lied to serve his own ends. Now he had simply gone out, true to form and with his wits about him, lying to indebt Morton to him on the long chance that the latter might repay the debt by doing something for his mother. He had not even bothered to depose one way or the other about Adolph Knoeckler or Coles because the denials would be purposeless, but had denied the attack on Morton for the same reason he had falsely admitted placing the tag upon him. Fenner felt a grudging admiration for the man’s adroitness.

  If Morton had stolen a leaf from Knoeckler’s book, Fenner reflected, he had also come perilously close to copying its concluding page. He wondered if that was not punishment enough, and found it easy to persuade himself that it was. Besides, there was the practical consideration that he, Fenner, had nothing but his own deductions to go on; and, in the face of Borden’s dying statement, it would be difficult to substantiate any accusation against Morton. Fenner was not sorry that this was true; he had always preferred that the dead or sleeping be let lie. Also, there was Elsa Knoeckler—But Bryce—Would he be content to let sleeping dogs lie? Fenner feared he might not, and that the inspector might by his more cumbersome mental processes sooner or later arrive at the conclusions he himself had just reached, Fenner believed not unlikely. Bryce might grill Morton without warning; it might work. Some sort of preventive was obviously indicated. Fenner was debating its most feasible form when his secretary tiptoed in and announced a caller. Close upon her heels followed Elsa Knoeckler.

  Fenner got up to offer her a chair, then resumed his place and waited gravely for her to explain her errand. Elsa sat for a short time silently twisting her gloves, then she began: “I don’t know quite why I came. It’s silly to be bothering you. I’ve been worried sick ever since our talk the other evening. Please don’t misunderstand me. I haven’t for one minute believed Mr. Morton was mixed up in that bank business. He’s always seemed—well—wonderful to me.” She spoke almost with reverence. “And he’s been so kind and thoughtful, especially since Father died. He’s had so much trouble—But anyway, I read in this morning’s paper that they’d arrested somebody and got the money back. Does that end it?” She looked up anxiously. “Practically,” Fenner admitted. “I hope so.” Elsa’s countenance visibly brightened. This was the reassurance she had come to hear.

  Fenner went on: “Now then, there’s one other thing I may as well tell you. You’ll read it in the papers tonight anyway. Stephen Coles was found dead at the job this morning.” Elsa blanched but said nothing. “His body was found in a concrete wall when they took the forms off—been there since
Wednesday. It was an unfortunate accident but we couldn’t keep it quiet. Now the tabloids have got wind of it and their reporters are swarming and snooping all over the place. It’s the sort of a thing they eat up. I’d advise you to lay low for a few days and keep out of their way.”

  “I will,” Elsa promised. “Poor Steve!”

  “How is Mr. Morton?” Fenner changed the subject.

  “He’s getting better all the time. The doctor says I can probably talk to him a minute on Monday.” Elsa smiled a little wanly.

  Fenner saw her eyes light up softly as she spoke. The mere thought of talking to Morton seemed to warm and animate her. He pictured Morton and wondered with a twinge he recognized as envy what there was about the man that could stir a girl to such devotion. Randolph Morton, a potential blackmailer I What could he bring her except ultimate unhappiness? Still—there was a chance. The experiences of the past few days might prove chastening. Fenner resolved to do what he could toward giving her that chance. It occurred to him that her visit at just this time was opportune. He said: “I’m glad you came. There is something you can do better than anybody else. You will possibly talk to Mr. Morton before anyone does except the doctors and nurses. Make it a point to do that. Then give him this message from me; tell him this: that he has never seen the fiber tag I showed you the other day; that he knows nothing of such a tag; and that if he is ever confronted with it he is to view it with natural curiosity ‘for the first time in his life.’ You see, Mr. Morton may have unwittingly made himself an ‘accessory after the fact.’ We may as well spare him embarrassment. I haven’t the slightest doubt that a certain ponderously efficient friend of mine will sooner or later—probably sooner—make it his business to interview Mr. Morton about the tag in question. Is that all clear?”

  “It’s not at all clear, but I understand what you want me to do,” Elsa answered.

  “Perhaps Mr. Morton will sometime make it clearer.” Fenner turned away, an almost curt dismissal in the gesture.

  Elsa rose and waited awkwardly. Fenner, too, got to his feet. He held out his hand. “I wish you every happiness.”

  Elsa accepted it timidly. “Thank you—uh—Good-by.”

  “Wait a moment; there’s something else.” It had suddenly occurred to him that Randolph Morton might suffer a change of heart. Fenner decided grimly that he would obviate that possibility. “Tell Mr. Morton that on the day he leaves the hospital he will hear from me.”

  Elsa nodded bewilderedly. Mystified but somehow reassured she left the office.

  Fenner seated himself again before his desk. He drew a blank white card before him and poised his pen over it for a moment, formulating his message; then he wrote rapidly, nearly filling the card. From his pocket he drew the fiber tag and enclosed it with the card in an envelope which he sealed and addressed to Randolph Morton.

  He rang for his secretary and when she appeared held out the envelope and said: “Now listen carefully. This is the only important thing you’ll have to do while I’m away. First, put this envelope in the safe; then every morning before you do another thing call up the hospital and inquire about Mr. Morton. On the day when he is to leave there take this envelope and deliver it to him personally. Deliver it to him alone. Clear?”

  The girl nodded.

  Fenner’s tone lightened. “All right, then. Now bring on that other stuff you waved at me when I came in. I want to get out of here.”

  EPILOGUE

  A WEEK rolled by; a leisurely, unforgettable week for Fenner who had driven past the blue waters of the St. Lawrence and wandered up into the Old World of Quebec, passing old landmarks, viewing with sleepy interest the scenes of romantic legend.

  For Bryce in the city it had been just another week; a week crammed with a little more than its share of bustle and activity; a week in which he begrudged himself even the solitary hour he had wasted in going to the hospital and interrogating, quite futilely, Randolph Morton.

  For Elsa Knoeckler it had been a lagging week but blessed in that each day brought a steady betterment in the condition of the man she had, from blended admiration, pity, and her own need, learned to love.

  And for Randolph Morton it had been a peculiarly enlightening week, for he had discovered how lonely and unhappy and restless he could be by himself, and how secure and calm and contented he could be by simply having Elsa near him. More and more his convalescent days divided themselves into the happy, living periods of Elsa’s visits and the shadowy periods of only anticipation or remembrance.

  On this, his last day, he struggled into his clothing. For several days he had been sitting up; the day before he had walked the corridors; today he was to be discharged. The surgeons assured him that with a few weeks of rest he would be quite himself again.

  Morton was glad to get out. In his heart he knew that he was lucky to be out—out and a free man. Fenner had perceived the truth about the tag. Morton wondered how, but much more he wondered why the investigator, through Elsa, had warned him. It was a warning well taken, he reflected, for Bryce had been curiously insistent with his questions. Even yet Morton dared not feel absolutely sure that the inspector was wholly satisfied. But why? What had he ever done for Maxwell Fenner? For the hundredth time he put the perplexing question from his mind, unanswered. He would see Fenner at the first chance and try to find out. That was all he could do.

  They had refused to disturb his mind with details, but he had learned that Borden, arrested for the bank theft, had been killed in an attempt to escape. That was all he knew and he was not unnaturally consumed with a tremendous curiosity for more details.

  There was a warning tap on the door and it was pushed cautiously open. A girl, a stranger to Morton, thrust her head through the opening and, seeing him alone, asked: “Is this Mr. Randolph Morton?”

  “Yes,” Morton affirmed, curious.

  She crossed the room and held out an envelope. “Mr. Maxwell Fenner instructed me to hand you this.”

  Morton looked at the envelope, then at its bearer. She nodded and without another word backed out of the room, closing the door softly as she left. Morton held the envelope on his knee for a moment, then slowly slit open the flap. He drew out first the fiber tag and, seeing what it was, thrust it hastily into his coat pocket. Then he drew out a white card and read:

  RANDOLPH MORTON—

  You are on the road to recovery.

  I am returning a certain article recently appropriated from among your effects. You and I alone know where and when it got there.

  Before he died of gunshot wounds at the Police Station a short time ago, a mutual acquaintance left the following message for you: “I DIDN’T BRAIN MORTON BUT I STUCK THE TAG IN HIS POCKET WHEN WE FOUND HIM...TELL HIM I OWNED UP...TELL HIM TO KEEP AN EYE ON MY MOTHER.” You and I alone know what he meant.

  Blackmail is a hideous thing and not infrequently incurs its own punishment, yet I unhesitatingly resort to it in, I hope, a subtler form when I tell you that this note and all its implications are tendered as a wedding present to you and another of our mutual acquaintances.

  Best wishes,

  MAXWELL FENNER.

  Morton read the cryptic message slowly, then again, then a third time. A slow frown darkened his brow but gradually faded. Uncertainly he smiled. He smiled to think that Fenner, with all his astuteness, had believed the message necessary.

  He tore the card into tiny bits which he dropped into the wastebasket. When Elsa came to see him a short time later she found him standing before the window gazing serenely out.

  THE END

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Thank you so much for reading our book, we hope you really enjoyed it.

  As you probably know, many people look at the reviews before they decide to purchase a book.

  If you liked the book, could you please take a minute to leave a review with your feedback?

  60 seconds is all I’m asking for, and it would mean the world to us.

  Thank you so much,


  Phocion Publishing