A Time to Love

by Al Lacy

Suddenly Horace Dodges angry voice came from inside the vault, and Grainger stammered something Haman couldn’t make out.

  Dodge stormed out of the vault, carrying the metal box the canvas bag had been placed in on Friday. It was empty, and Dodge was swearing at the top of his voice as he roared, “Where’s Blake Barrett? I want to see Barrett!”

  Grainger appeared right behind him, his face drained of all color.

  Bank employees and customers turned to gape at the angry man.

  Haman left his desk and approached Dodge. “What is it, Mr. Dodge? What’s wrong?”

  “Somebody broke into my safe-deposit box, Haman! My money’s gone!

  The door to Blake Barrett’s office swung open, and Barrett emerged with a wide-eyed Hortense on his heels.

  When Dodge saw Barrett, he waved the empty metal box, bellowing, “Somebody broke into my safe-deposit box, Barrett! I put twelve thousand dollars in there on Thursday, and it’s gone!”

  Blake was stunned. “Mr. Dodge, I don’t know how anyone could have done that. There’s no way they could get into your box without your companion key!”

  Dodge shook the box at Barrett. “Well, look for yourself. The money’s gone! Haman can tell you, I put it in there on Thursday!”

  “That’s right, Mr. Barrett,” Haman said. “I took him in myself. He put a canvas bag in there that had the name of his company on it.”

  Blake turned to the head bookkeeper. “Hal, would you go get Sheriff Perkins, please? If he’s not available, bring one of the deputies.”

  Grainger nodded and ran for the door.

  “Mr. Dodge, come into my office. We’ll have the law here in a matter of minutes.”

  Haman stood beside Hortense as Blake ushered Dodge into his office and closed the door.

  “How could this happen, Haman?” Hortense asked. “It takes two keys to get into those safe-deposit boxes.”

  “I have no idea,” he said, shaking his head.

  “With only one key, the other lock would have to be picked, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but it takes a professional locksmith to do a thing like that. Or—”

  “Or what?” Hortense said.

  Haman wanted to plant a seed of doubt in the secretary’s mind. “Or a clever criminal who works right here at the bank, and nobody suspects him.”

  “Wha-a-at?”

  “Think about it. It would have to be someone in the bank. It couldn’t be a customer. Because no customer can go into the vault unless accompanied by a bank employee, or Mr. Barrett himself, of course.”

  Hortense was appalled at the thought. “Oh, Haman. I just cant believe there’s a thief—a criminal—amongst us.”

  “Then tell me how Mr. Dodge’s box was opened.”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “It had to be someone who works in this bank.”

  “But who?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m sure Sheriff Perkins will find out.”

  Inside Blake Barrett’s office, Horace Dodge was fit to be tied. He refused to sit down, instead pacing the floor while Blake stood by his desk.

  “Barrett,” Dodge breathed hotly, “will you tell me how this could happen? It takes two keys to open those boxes! I have one of the companion keys this bank issued to me, and my son has the other one. Neither one of us could have gotten into the vault without a bank employee going with us. We didn’t steal that money! Someone employed by you did!”

  Blake shook his head. “No, Mr. Dodge. None of my employees would do a thing like that.”

  Dodge moved up to him, put his nose close to Blake’s, and said with challenge in his voice, “Then you tell me how it was done!”

  While Blake was contemplating it, there was a tap on the door. “Mr. Barrett,” came Hortense’s voice, “Sheriff Perkins is here.”

  Blake opened the door. Sheriff Claude Perkins was a tall man in his late fifties. He had a heavy jaw, steel gray eyes, and a paunch that hung over his belt.

  “Come in, Sheriff,” Blake said. “Did Hal explain what happened?”

  “Yes, he did. Hello, Horace.”

  Dodge moved close. “What are you gonna do about this, Sheriff?”

  Perkins gave him a direct look. “I’m gonna catch the thief and get your money back,” he said flatly. “Just like Hortense was saying to me before she knocked on that door, it has to be one of the employees of this bank.”

  Blake’s features lost color. “Sheriff, I just can’t believe there’s someone on my payroll who went into that vault with the bank’s companion key and picked the other lock.”

  “That’s the way it has to be, Blake. Tell me of another way.”

  Blake felt sick all over, for he had no other answer. Wiping a palm across his face, he said, “How are you going to find the thief?”

  “I’ll start by questioning each employee one at a time. Sometimes I can trip ’em up. Sometimes I can detect guilt by their reactions to certain questions. You don’t have any objections if I question ’em, do you?”

  “Of course not. I want the guilty party caught and prosecuted. I also want Mr. Dodge’s money returned to him.”

  “I’ll do my dead-level best to make that happen.”

  “Sheriff,” Blake said, “I simply can’t believe I have an employee who’s a thief. And for that matter, one who could pick a lock on a safe-deposit box. That would take some know-how.”

  “That it would,” agreed Perkins. “If the guilty employee didn’t pick the lock, then he—or she—was somehow able to duplicate Mr. Dodge’s key.”

  Blake shook his head, totally baffled.

  “Tell me this, Blake,” said the sheriff. “Do all your employees have keys to the bank’s doors?”

  “Yes. We alternate on who locks up at the close of the business day. And sometimes different employees have to come to work extra early. They have keys so they can do that.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Perkins said, stroking his jaw. “And do all of the employees have the combination to the vault lock?”

  “Yes, so they can get into the vault if they come to work early and there’s something in there they need.”

  “And they all have access to the bank’s companion keys that go to the safe-deposit boxes?”

  “Yes. But only the depositors have the companion keys.”

  “Okay,” said Perkins. “Take me into the vault and let me look at it. I especially want to see Horace’s box.”

  Horace Dodge followed along as Blake led the sheriff into the vault. Haman pretended to be busy at his desk, but he watched them furtively as they walked past him. His mouth went dry, and his heart was still pounding.

  Perkins carefully examined the locks on the safe deposit. To Barrett and Dodge he said, “I cant find any scratches or marks that would tell me this lock was picked.”

  “So what does that mean?” Dodge asked.

  “One of three things. Number one, the thief somehow has a duplicate of your key. Being a bank employee, he would have easy access to the bank’s companion key. Number two, the thief is so good at picking locks that he picked the companion lock without leaving one little shred of evidence. Or number three, someone with a duplicate of Horace’s key is in cahoots with a bank employee, and they used their respective keys and stole the money in the safe-deposit box together.”

  Blake felt as if he were in a nightmare. He cleared his throat and said, “When do you want to question my employees?”

  “I’ll start right now. One at a time. In the privacy of your office, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course. I have a desk outside the office, too.”

  “All right. You bring ’em to me.”

  “I have to get back to my office,” Dodge said. “I’ll return in a couple of hours. I want to talk to you, Sheriff, after you’ve questioned everybody.”

  “Sure enough, Horace. Don’t you worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this. You can count on it.”

  11

  HAMAN WARNER HAD MANAGED to endure the sheriff�
�s pointed questions without flinching a muscle and stayed busy with paperwork throughout the long hours of watching each employee enter Blake Barrett’s office and come out again.

  It was now midafternoon, and Sheriff Claude Perkins had questioned the last bank employee.

  Blake sat at his outside desk with Horace Dodge seated facing him.

  Haman watched from the corner of his eye when Perkins came out and said, “Well, Blake, that’s all of them.”

  Dodge rose to his feet, his features like granite. “So which one is it, Sheriff?” he demanded. “Are you going to make an arrest?”

  Perkins took a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils. “No arrest, Horace. Not at this point. I’m completely baffled.”

  Blake started to speak, but Horace beat him to it. “You mean all this questioning has netted you nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about all this Don’t-you-worry-I’ll-get-to-the-bottom-of-this-you-can-count-on-it stuff?”

  Flustered, Perkins snapped, “I will get to the bottom of it, Horace! It’s gonna take me a little time! Just settle down!”

  “Settle down? I’m missing twelve thousand dollars! What do you mean, settle down? What are you gonna do now?”

  “I’m not sure just yet. I’ve got to think on it.”

  “Well, while you’re thinking on it, the thief is gloating because he’s got my money and he’s gotten away with his crime!”

  “I’m telling you, Horace, I’ll catch that thief! Have a little patience, will you? I’m the sheriff this county elected to do a job, and I’ll do it. Just give me a little time.”

  “Okay, okay,” Dodge said. “You know where to find me when you’ve got something to tell me.” With that, he bumped open one of the small gates and stomped out of the bank.

  The next morning, Sheriff Perkins arrived at his office ahead of his deputies. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Before he stepped inside, something on the floor caught his eye.

  He bent down and picked up a white sheet of paper that had been folded and slipped under the door. The message was scrawled in large letters:

  I saw Blake Barrett carrying a strange-looking package when he left the bank and climbed into his buggy last Friday afternoon.

  I have placed a note identical to this one under the door of Carl Stokes, editor-in-chief of the Sacramento Gazette.

  Perkins gritted his teeth as he stepped inside and closed the door. “This is preposterous!” he hissed. “Whoever wrote this is barking up the wrong tree! Blake Barrett wouldn’t steal a drop of water from the Pacific Ocean!”

  The bank had been open for only a few minutes when Haman looked up from his desk and saw the sheriff come in. He had been disgusted when Perkins hadn’t put Blake through the questioning like everyone else. But now he knew the whole picture was about to change.

  Perkins approached Sandy Benton, who smiled and said, “Good morning, Sheriff. Any clues yet?”

  “Morning, Sandy. I’m working on it. Is Mr. Barrett in his office?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I need to see him. It’s very important.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  While he waited, Perkins glanced at the bank’s vice president. “Morning, Haman.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff. How goes the investigation?”

  “Can’t comment at the moment, but I’m on it.”

  Haman smiled pleasantly. “I’m sure you are.”

  Sandy reappeared at Barrett’s door. “You can come in, Sheriff.”

  Haman felt a thrill rush through his body His scheme was working perfectly, and right on schedule.

  As Perkins passed through the gate, Hortense Reed came from a side room and greeted him. He returned the greeting and stepped into Blake’s office to find the bank president standing behind his desk.

  Blake studied Perkins’s solemn features. “You look upset, Sheriff.”

  “I am.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Sit down, Blake.”

  Blake did as he was told and said, “What’s wrong?”

  The sheriff held the paper so Blake could see it but kept it folded. “Before I show you this note I found under my office door when I arrived this morning, I want to say something.”

  Perkins looked Barrett square in the eye. “Blake, you and I have known each other a long time. Since you were a kid and I was a greenhorn deputy sheriff.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have absolute faith in your honesty and integrity. Not for a moment do I believe what this note implies. Got that?”

  Thin lines penciled themselves across Blake’s forehead, but he said nothing.

  Perkins reached across the desk. “Here. Read it.”

  Blake’s face blanched as he read the note. “Sheriff, this is a lie! I carried no package out of this building when I left at the close of the day on Friday. Haman could testify to that, and so could two of my tellers.”

  “I know it’s a lie, Blake. That’s why I told you how I feel about you before I let you read the note.”

  “Have you talked to Carl Stokes?”

  “Yes, and he doesn’t believe it, either. He told me to tell you so.”

  “That’s good. We have the newspaper’s checking accounts and Carl’s personal accounts.”

  “He mentioned that.”

  “So, what now? The person who wrote this note is obviously the thief.”

  “Well, since the writer of the note involved Carl, I have to search your house. That will clear you should more accusations appear around town somewhere.”

  “Fine. I want you to search my house. Let’s not give this underhanded culprit any leverage.”

  “All right. I’ll let both of my deputies help me do the search. It’ll go faster. How soon can you come to the house and let me in?”

  “I’ll give you a key, and you can go in right now.”

  Perkins lifted a palm toward him. “No keys. I’ll want you with me when we do the search.”

  “Well, let’s go right now and get it over with.”

  Deputies John Findlay and Vance Ohlman followed the sheriff into Blake Barrett’s house after Blake opened the door and stepped aside to let them enter.

  When they were all inside, Blake said, “Anything I can do, or any questions I can answer, you gentlemen feel free to holler.”

  “Thanks, Blake,” Perkins said. “You boys take the upstairs, and I’ll search on this floor with Mr. Barrett by my side.”

  The deputies went up the winding staircase, and Perkins said, “I’ll start right here in the parlor and work my way toward the rear of the house.”

  “It’s all yours, Sheriff.”

  Some twenty minutes passed, and Perkins and Barrett were in the library. The sheriff was taking books from the shelves, flipping the pages, and replacing them when Vance Ohlman’s voice called, “Sheriff, we need you up here!”

  Perkins looked at Blake and frowned as he said, “Come along.”

  They mounted the stairs two at a time.

  Ohlman was waiting at the top of the stairs with a solemn look on his face.

  “What is it?” Perkins asked.

  The deputy pointed down the hall. “John will show you.”

  Blake eyed Findlay, who stood at the open door of the walk-in storage closet next to his bedroom. He glanced down and saw the open lid of his old trunk.

  “We didn’t touch it, Sheriff,” Findlay said. “We thought it best if you took it out.”

  Blake was shocked to see his old mementos, toys, and clothing piled next to the trunk, and a canvas bag on the bottom of the trunk with lettering on its side that read Sacramento Stockyards Company

  “Sheriff,” he said in a quavering voice, “I have no idea how that got in there.”

  Perkins leaned over and picked up the bag. Pulling the snaps loose, he took out a thick wad of paper money and said, “We have to count it.”

  Blake stood in silence as the sheriff divided up t
he money between himself and the deputies.

  After a few minutes, Findlay said, “Three thousand nine hundred and fifty, Sheriff.”

  A minute or so later, Ohlman reported four thousand three hundred, and Perkins’s portion brought the total cash in the bag to exactly twelve thousand dollars.

  Perkins sighed as he stuffed it all back in the bag.

  “Sheriff,” Blake said, “I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t do this thing. Somebody got into that safe-deposit box, took the money, then somehow got into this house and put it in the trunk.”

  “Blake,” Perkins said with a weary voice, “I know that. What I told you earlier still stands. But you must understand that the evidence makes it appear that you are the thief. At this point, I have no choice. My hands are tied. By law, the evidence against you is cold and hard. I must arrest you.”

  Blake stared at Perkins as if he were seeing him for the first time in his life. “Sheriff, I cant believe this. I’m innocent! I know how it looks, but I did not steal that money! I have a bank to run. You can’t lock me up in jail!”

  The sheriff’s jaws clamped hard. “I have to, Blake. But you’ll get a trial.”

  “A trial? But if you have to arrest me on the basis of what looks to be evidence of my guilt, a jury will convict me with the same evidence. It’ll be a long prison term. Twelve thousand dollars makes it grand theft.”

  “Who’s your attorney?”

  “Dan Laymon. But neither he nor his partners are criminal lawyers. The best one I know in town is David Rice. He banks with us.”

  “Then he’s your man. And a plenty good one, too. Rice will be swift to point out to a judge and jury that as owner of the bank, you are worth a substantial amount of money. Twelve thousand to you, I’m sure, is a very small amount. Why would you go to all the trouble of breaking into Horace Dodge’s safe-deposit box for that measly amount? And why would you be so foolish as to hide it in your house in the Sacramento Stockyards Company bag so it could convict you?”

  “You’re right, Sheriff. I wouldn’t. But like you said, the evidence is right here, cold and hard.”

  Horace Dodge was returning to his office from the stock pens, the familiar sound of bawling cattle in his ears. As he came near the office building, he saw Sheriff Claude Perkins guide his horse off the road and trot toward him.