The Case Against My Brother

by Libby Sternberg

  He closed a cabinet and turned toward me, file in hand.

  I stood. Now was my chance. I could just leave, mutter, “Sorry, I made a mistake,” and escape.

  He strode toward the desk, his face a worried grimace.

  Go! my mind screamed. Twisting the cap in my hand, I took one backwards step away from the desk.

  But I didn’t see the teller until it was too late. “Hey!” he cried as I bumped right into him, his stack of papers dropping to the ground, splaying around my feet like oversized confetti.

  “Watch yourself!” he said, bending to pick them up.

  Bernard was closer now, just one desk away. I had to go. He had to know I was only pretending. I had to move fast, but—

  “Could you help me, please?” the teller muttered at my feet. Bending, I scooped up papers at a furious speed. “Watch it!” he said. “You’re bending the papers!”

  Finally, the papers were in a neat stack. The teller stood and went on his way. Now was my chance to be on mine as well. I could escape into the cool morning sunshine and forget I’d tried such a ridiculous scheme.

  Too late! Bernard’s black leather shoes appeared before me. As I looked up, Bernard tapped a file in his hand, his jaw clenched.

  “Well, we have a problem here,” he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A problem? Maybe I could come up with an explanation—maybe say I was mistaken, and my aunt might have had an account at a different bank. But I wanted to talk to Reginald Jones because. . . because why? My mind went blank. Just get away,I thought. Just run—

  “Mary Miller on Pine Street, right?” Bernard asked in a voice smooth as syrup.

  Exhaling, I nodded. Thank God I’d chosen a common name for my aunt. I had no idea who Mary Miller on Pine Street was, but she would do.

  “And she has a savings account with us, I see,” Bernard said, still standing. “We have a record of an old loan her husband paid off before he died. Mr. Jones must have sent her a bill for that by accident. You tell her not to worry. Just tear up any statement she receives about a loan. I’ve taken care of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, nodding. I could breathe again, and as my racing heart relaxed, I wondered why Bernard had jumped to the conclusion that my aunt had taken out a loan, and that Jonesy had messed it up. I suspected it had something to do with the reason he no longer worked at the bank.

  “I’ll make sure she doesn’t receive any more statements,” he said. He held out his hand and shook mine. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Portland Bank wants all its customers to be satisfied.”

  He thought he’d solved a problem, but what was it? He wanted me to leave, but I had to learn more. I suspected the bank had let Reginald Jones go for doing something bad that Bernard knew about. Maybe it had something to do with the Peterson jewel theft. Glancing beyond him towards a pebbled-glass door with “Vice-President” written in arched black lettering, I said, “You’ve been so helpful. I’d like to thank your boss. Is that him?” I pointed to the door.

  Before I’d moved half an inch beyond his desk, Bernard Peterson clamped his hand on my shoulder, his nails again digging into my flesh. “That isn’t necessary. He’s a busy man. In fact, so am I. Thank you for stopping in and bringing this to our attention. I assure you that your aunt will have no further troubles.”

  With that, he sat down and pulled some papers out in front of him. But still his foot tapped, and his eyes blinked rapidly.

  Thanking him, I placed my cap on my head and walked away. Before I reached the railing, though, I saw him reach for the telephone on the corner of his desk. I pulled a slip of paper, a torn portion of one of the Sister Lucretia flyers, from my coat pocket and dropped it so I could linger. As I bent to pick it up, Bernard whispered into the phone.

  “Jonesy, we have to meet,” was all I heard before a typewriter’s clatter drowned out the rest.

  There was only one thing for me to do—follow him. He and Reginald Jones were up to something suspicious. Peterson hadn’t wanted me to talk to his boss, even to compliment him. It had something to do with loans from the bank, but how would that relate to the jewel theft? I didn’t know. I was getting close, but one important puzzle piece was still missing from the jigsaw. I had to find it.

  I’d hoped to make quick work of my visit to the bank, then head to the Academy to see if Lester had found something for me to do. Now I had to hang around the bank all day, waiting for Bernard to leave and meet with Reginald.

  It was a boring way to spend a day, and I was tired. More than once, my eyes grew heavy as I leaned against a lamp post just down the street, waiting for Bernard to leave the bank. I wasn’t sure if he’d take off work-time to meet Jonesy or wait until the end of the day. I couldn’t take a chance. I had to wait.

  And wait I did. Except for a few breaks to heed the call of nature, I stayed outside that bank for five straight hours. Sometimes I pretended I was a passer-by, walking slowly past to glimpse through the big glass doors. He was still there. I sat in a nearby cafeteria, sipping at a cup of coffee, ever watchful, jumping up once when I saw a rich-looking man exit the bank. It wasn’t him.

  I waited until my legs were stiff and my head aching. When the bank closed, I hid in the shadows of another bank’s pillared entranceway across the wide avenue. But the tellers and clerks didn’t leave for still another hour, their heavy coat collars turned up against the cool air as evening’s fingers embraced the city. A few laughed and joked, their bowler-clad heads bobbing as they spoke. But where was Bernard Peterson? Was there a back door he could have used? How could I be so stupid not to have cased the joint and looked for all the exits? It was still more evidence of my weak planning.

  But then the front door opened, and there he was, glancing up and down the street, afraid, maybe, that someone might see him. Shrinking back behind a pillar, I watched him walk to the corner and turn right.

  Darting behind a moving car, I crossed the street and ran after him, careful to stay at least a half block behind. If I sensed he was going to look over his shoulder, I vanished into a doorway or behind a parked car. It was nerve-wracking work, but I couldn’t afford to lose him—or to be seen.

  Late afternoon shadows dimmed the streets. Clouds once again pressed in on the city, making it feel later than it was. The sun would set soon, but still I followed.

  Two blocks from the bank, Bernard Peterson stopped. Matching my pace to his, I halted as well, bending behind a big black Buick so he wouldn’t see me. Once again he glanced to and fro. Then he climbed into a new Model T. As the engine rumbled to life, all I could do was stare. With him in a car, I could never keep up. Bent over so Bernard wouldn’t see me, I ran toward his car as he pulled out into the street.

  In Baltimore, Adam had once shown me how to hitch a ride on the back of a delivery truck, standing on the fenders and hanging onto the handles for dear life. We’d only done it one time, though, because it frightened me so much I’d nearly peed my pants. Adam had laughed so hard that I’d had to laugh with him. He said he wanted me to learn to hitch a ride in case I ever needed to get somewhere in a hurry.

  Bernard’s car wasn’t as large as a truck, which posed a problem. How could I hang on without him seeing me? I was, after all, tall and gangly, and the car’s gently curving back met the canvas top with virtually no room for a handhold. The wheel-protecting fenders were thin and flimsy. I wasn’t sure they’d even hold me.

  But as the car picked up speed, I made a quick decision, grabbing onto a latch above the fenders and lifting myself up over the back right wheel. Doubling over below the window, I almost fell off as he veered around a corner and down an open road.

  My position was precarious. I couldn’t move an inch, or even adjust my grip, for fear of falling off. But if a passer-by, especially a policeman, saw me, he could warn Bernard that some vagabond was stealing a trip. Somehow, I had to shift positions and get inside the car if at all possible.

  The nip of fall was in the air and
I could hardly feel my fingers, cold from my several-hour vigil. I inched them along the rim of the back of the car between the roof and the chassis, and then lifted myself up to peer through one of the three rectangular back window slits.

  Focused on the road ahead, Peterson didn’t notice me. But getting into that car unseen would be like trying to sneak a whale onto an open dinghy. Though I was sure I could swing my body around, up, and over the open side, I couldn’t imagine a way to do it without Bernard catching me in the act, no matter how swiftly I disappeared into the backseat.

  Suddenly, his car picked up speed and careened to the left, down a dark street and over a bridge. Below, I saw the smooth water of the river and the winding railroad tracks beside it. If I lost my grip now, disaster awaited me. Colder air bit my face and hands, and I could barely breathe.

  Then my left hand slid down the smooth back, losing its hold!

  I hung on with only my right hand—and with the weakest of grips. My fingers pressed along a tiny ledge of metal where the roof met the car’s carriage. My body swung outward, and the water loomed far, far below, frigid and deadly.

  Pushing my feet back toward the car, I winced as burning pain from my tenuous grip moved up my fingers. With all my might, I swung my body back toward the car, slamming into it with a thud I felt through my elbow and up my arm. But it was enough—I grabbed the back rim again as the car left the bridge and returned to land.

  I gave up on the idea of getting into the car and hung on for dear life. I’d just have to hope no observer cared enough to alert Bernard to my presence. . . and that I wouldn’t freeze to death before he stopped.

  I didn’t know where Bernard was headed, and I lost all track of time. Occasionally, I recognized a landmark, like the Burnside Bridge, as dusk settled in. My hands and feet were so icy they didn’t feel like part of me any longer. I was so cold and tired I hardly cared anymore what Bernard had to say to Reginald Jones. Maybe he wasn’t meeting him. Maybe he was driving somewhere else—to a friend’s house perhaps. Then what would I do? How would I get home?

  What a stupid idea this had been. Adam was right. I couldn’t play detective. My head ached from the cold and my legs felt like lead.

  Miserable, hungry, and frozen, I decided to jump off the next time Bernard slowed or stopped. If he went over another bridge, I’d be finished for sure. I’d have to find Reginald Jones another day. Now, the most I could hope for was a safe and quick route home.

  As I waited for an opportunity to leave the car, Bernard turned once again, doubling back, this time heading towards the Willamette River. The car slowed as he entered a narrow street between a field of weedy bushes and a warehouse, finally coming to a stop at the water’s edge. Stiff and cold, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to unbend myself and get off the car. But as soon as it jerked to a halt, I fell with a soft thump to the ground. As he pulled up the handbrake, I rolled into a patch of tall weeds near the water.

  Blowing quietly on my hands to warm them, I listened for Bernard to exit the car. I heard him rummaging in the backseat for something, and uttered a wordless prayer of thanks that I’d been unable to find a way into the car interior, where he would have discovered me at journey’s end, and that he’d stopped before I gave up.

  At last, he got out, shoving something into his coat pocket and peering up the street we’d just driven down. He walked a few steps and waited, humming into the shadows, his voice shaky. Pulling a flask from his pocket, he took a quick swig.

  Seagulls called to each other and a tug boat let out a foggy whoop. Waves gently slapped against the shoreline and the air smelled of dead fish and brine. We waited together, Bernard and me, but I wasn’t quite sure what I was waiting for. Throughout our silent vigil, Bernard took several more sips from his flask, his figure barely visible in the light of a distant street lamp.

  In a few minutes, another car crunched along the road and came to a stop. A door slammed shut a few seconds after the motor’s hum died away, and a man’s voice called out a greeting.

  “Bernie, is that you?” Then, closer: “A fine place for a meeting! Did you bring the money?”

  Bernard answered him, “Yeah, I’ve got it, Jonesy. I didn’t want to meet anywhere we could be seen.”

  Reginald Jones. . . was here.

  “Well, hand it over, old boy,” Jonesy said. “It’s blasted cold tonight. And I don’t like this neighborhood, if you know what I mean.” He coughed. “What the. . . what’s that?”

  Had I been found out? What had suddenly been noticed?

  Raising my head, I looked through the underbrush. Darkness made shadows of each man, but light glinted on something in Bernard’s hand. A gun!

  “You’re too much, Jonesy,” Bernard said in a tight, nervous voice. “First, you louse up your job by helping yourself to the cash drawer. Then you blackmail me for having a smarter operation than you. But you made one big mistake, Jonesy.”

  Bernard’s voice was not only frantic but slurred.

  Jonesy held his hands up in front of him. “Listen, Bernie,” he said, “we can solve this like gentlemen. I know you’re upset. I. . . I won’t bother you again, all right? Let’s consider your debt settled. I’ll just go along home now, okay?” Slowly, Jonesy started walking backwards to his car. But Bernard stopped him by raising the gun.

  “I knew it would come to this, Jonesy, as soon as you started putting the squeeze on me. You’d have to go. And I’ve been thinking and thinking about just the right way to do it, but I can’t wait any longer. You’re greedy. And clumsy. I’ll never get out now. You tried to imitate me, didn’t you? You set up your own loan scheme, except you opened a loan account for someone who really does have an account at the bank—”

  “Bernie, you’re talking nonsense! I didn’t do anything of the kind!” His voice trembling, Jonesy took another step backward.

  “Stop lying, Jonesy. I know what you did. Some fellow came in today because his aunt was getting loan bills—she’d paid off her loan years ago. You stupid, stupid idiot. It wasn’t enough that you were blackmailing me. You had to get in on it. How many others are there, Jonesy? How many other loans do I have to fix so nobody comes snooping around?”

  “I swear, Bernie, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!” Jonesy’s tinny, small voice shook. His shadow trembled in the night air. “I only stole a little cash from my drawer. That’s all. And I’m willing to forget the rest. You don’t owe me a thing—not one red cent. That was all a mistake. I was stupid. I’ll get out of town and forget I ever knew you.”

  “Tell me the names, Jonesy. Who else did you set up accounts for? I’ll have to clean it all up.” Bernard waved the gun in the air and Jonesy stepped back again.

  “There are no names! I didn’t do any loans!” Jonesy sounded like he was going to cry.

  “Walk over there!” Bernard pointed the gun toward the river. “I knew it would end this way,” he muttered under his breath. “When you first came after me. . .”

  “What?”

  “Over there! Now!” Bernard shouted.

  Jonesy obeyed, walking toward the water, pleading with Bernie to let him go, just as he’d let Bernie’s “debt” go. I lost sight of them as they stepped down an embankment. Their voices became muffled, so all I heard was the angry tone, but it had to be more of the same—Bernard speaking of things Reginald Jones couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit to. At one point, I heard Bernard yell, “Here’s your last payment, you selfish rat,” and then a grunt and struggle.

  Their voices rose in pitch and strength as they argued in the darkness. I wondered what to do. Should I try to help Reginald? Would Bernard really shoot him? No, he couldn’t—he came from a good family and had a good job. Taking the jewels was one thing, but this was different. Yet he’d clearly thought of doing this, only later.

  I had to do something. I rose from my hiding place, ready to run for the police.

  Then I heard a shuffling sound and shouts of anger until finally a sharp crack s
plit the air, followed by a thud.

  My heart took off on a wild gallop, and my thoughts became a blur of fog and sound. The seagulls and the toot of the tugboat blended into a ghostlike symphony ending with the hard clap of the gun. It couldn’t be. Bernard Peterson, respectable citizen, wouldn’t. . . No, he couldn’t have. Not him. How could he?

  A pitiful curse floated over the weeds.

  A rustling and dragging sound was followed by a muted splash. Despite myself, a gurgle of disgust escaped my lips as I grasped the rosary in my pocket. To keep quiet, I shoved my fist into my mouth.

  Dear Lord! Bernard Peterson had just murdered a man!

  Chapter Fifteen

  More than anything else in the world, I wanted to get away from that spot. Sick to my stomach over what I’d just heard, I wanted to run as fast as my legs would carry me—away from Bernard Peterson, and away from his awful deed.

  But I crouched again behind swaying weeds, inching toward the road, stopping suddenly when I heard heavy breathing and swift footsteps come back toward the cars. Holding my breath, I waited for Bernard to drive away. A figure slipped into the Ford and started the engine. But instead of backing out and turning around, the car pitched forward and veered straight for the water!

  A few seconds later, another splash echoed off the warehouse walls. What had just happened? After doing Jonesy in, had Bernard just killed himself? I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t comprehend it. I had to leave.

  Standing erect, I walked to the road, trying to get my bearings. Barely able to walk on my shaking legs, I felt drunk. First, I had to find my way home. And then what? Call the police? Tell Uncle Pete? Get in touch with Bernard’s sister, Rose? I had to do something.