Mr. Avery nodded. “But it was handled through a local dealer on a commission basis. Such sales usually are.”
He wrote the address of Fox’s shop on a scrap of paper and handed it to Vern.
As they left the building, Chet said darkly, “That explanation of why he didn’t make a police report sounds fishy to me. I think he’s the one who swiped the coin.”
“We’ll need more evidence before we make any accusations,” Frank said.
They drove to the address on Wilshire Boulevard. There was a barred plate-glass window with FOX COIN AND STAMP COMPANY lettered on it. Inside, two long counters ran from front to rear on either side of the store. A fussy-looking little man with gold-rimmed eyeglasses stood behind one of them, waiting on a fat woman.
“Be with you gentlemen in a minute,” he said as the boys came in.
“No hurry,” Frank told him.
The two counters were glass-topped. The one on the right contained displays of postage stamps. The left one was devoted to coins.
Chet studied the display. It consisted mostly of single coins, but in some cases there were complete collections in flat, plastic-covered folders.
“You know,” Chet said, “this is a hobby that could be a lot of fun.”
Joe whispered to Vern, “Here we go again. Chet’s going to develop a new interest.”
“Does he do that often?”
“About once a month. He gets all enthusiastic about something, then drops it.”
Looking over his shoulder, Chet asked, “Are you guys talking about me?”
“I was just betting your cousin that you’re about to become a coin expert,” Joe replied.
“Not in a big way. I thought maybe I’d just collect some ordinary coins, like this penny collection here.”
He pointed to a pair of three-section folders lying open. When the other boys crowded around to look, they saw that they were Lincoln Head pennies.
“There can’t be more than a hundred and fifty pennies there,” Chet said. “I can afford a dollar and a half.”
Vern said, “You don’t get a collection like that at face value, Chet. Count on it costing a lot more.”
“I suppose coin dealers have to make their profit,” Chet conceded. “I don’t mind paying a fair premium.”
The woman customer left and the fussy little man came over to them.
“I’m Everett Fox,” he said. “How may I help you gentlemen?”
Pointing to the penny collection, Chet said, “I’m interested in that.”
“A fine collection,” the coin dealer said, rubbing his hands together. “That’s the Lincoln penny with wheat ears on the reverse, minted from 1909 to 1959. One hundred and forty-three coins altogeth er.”
Frank said, “It was only fifty years from 1909 to 1959. How come so many coins?”
“There are different mint marks, because they were struck at different mints. For instance in just the first year there were four: the 1909 V.D.B.; the 1909 S, V.D.B.; the plain 1909; and the 1909 S.”
“What do all those letters mean?” Chet asked.
“V.D.B. are the initials of the designer, which appeared on only two issues. S is the San Francisco mint, and when there is no mint mark, it means the coin was minted in Philadelphia.”
“I see,” Chet said. “How much for the whole collection?”
“These are all either proof coins or uncirculated,” the dealer said. “Sold individually they would cost you about eight. As a complete collection, naturally their value increases. I’m asking eleven.”
“Eleven dollars?” Chet said dubiously. “For only a dollar-forty-three cents worth of pennies? I don’t know.”
“Not eleven dollars,” the coin dealer said, elevating his nose. “Eleven thousand.”
Chet gulped.
Frank chuckled. “I can loan you ten bucks, Chet. You could put the rest on your credit card.”
Joe said to Vern, “That’s a record. He had this hobby for less than five minutes.”
Frank addressed Mr. Fox. “Actually, we came in to talk about a 1913 Liberty Head nickel.”
“Oh, are you making a bid?” the dealer asked.
“A bid on what?”
“The nickel currently being offered for auction by the DuBois estate in Paris.”
“We hadn’t heard about that,” Frank said. “When did DuBois acquire the coin?”
“Oh, it’s been in his collection for over fifty years.”
The boys looked at each other. “I guess that rules out it being Uncle Gregg‘s,” Vern said.
The coin dealer said, “If you want to make a bid, I will be glad to forward it.”
“How much would we have to bid?” Frank asked.
“The last auction for such a coin was eight years ago, and a man named Gregg Nelson got it for a hundred thousand dollars. He outbid the next-highest bidder by only two thousand.”
“Who was that?” Joe asked.
“A local banker and avid coin collector named Barton Laing!”
19 The Big Boss
“Barton Laing!” Vern exclaimed.
“You know the man?” Everett Fox asked.
Vern nodded grimly.
“Strange thing,” the coin dealer said. “Naturally, I contacted him when this auction was announced, and he expressed no interest at all.”
“Maybe because he already has a Liberty Head nickel,” Joe muttered under his breath.
“Beg pardon?” Mr. Fox asked.
“Just talking to myself,” Joe replied.
Frank spoke up. “What would you do if someone walked in and offered you a 1913 Liberty Head nickel?”
“Have him arrested,” Mr. Fox said promptly. “There are only five known to exist, and I know who the owners of all of those are. It would have to be stolen.”
“Any other dealer would have the same reaction?” Frank persisted.
“Any honest one.” After a pause Mr. Fox said reflectively, “I doubt that even a dishonest dealer would take a chance. The moment he offered it for sale, he would be arrested.”
“Then actually there wouldn’t be much point in stealing such a coin, would there?”
“Not for profit. An unscrupulous collector might steal one for his own collection.”
“Thank you for the information,” Frank said. “Let’s go, fellows.”
Outside, Joe said, “Seems pretty obvious who stole Vern’s coin. I don’t think we have to waste time visiting any other dealers.”
“But how are we going to prove it?” Chet asked.
“I have an idea,” Frank said. “I noticed a little park only about a block from here. Let’s go sit on a bench and talk about it.”
“That’s Pershing Square you’re talking about,” Vern said. “Down that way.” He pointed left.
They walked to Pershing Square and found a vacant bench.
“Okay, guru,” Chet said to Frank. “We await your words of wisdom.”
Frank smiled. “Barton Laing has never met me or Chet. Suppose Chet phoned him and pretended to be a fellow bank president? He could say he has a son interested in coins, and ask if Mr. Laing would be kind enough to show the young man his collection. ”
“And you’re the son?” Joe asked.
“Right.”
“Two objections. Barton Laing probably knows most of the other bank presidents in town. If we used a real name, it might be a personal friend of his. If we gave a fake name, he might catch on, knowing the bank and the name of the president.”
“That’s only one objection,” Frank said.
“I know. The other is that Chet’s voice sounds too young to belong to a bank president.”
“No problem,” Frank said. “He can pretend to be calling long distance from somewhere like San Diego, and he can make his voice low.”
“Laing still might know the names of all the banks in the state,” Joe said. “And probably he has a directory that lists their presidents. He’d be almost sure to look it up after the call.”
They all looked at him. “How do we do that?” Chet inquired.
“It’s simple,” Vern said. “Just follow me.”
He led the way up Fifth Street to the Los Angeles Public Library only a block away. There he went to a shelf of telephone directories.
“They have one for every major city in the country,” he said. “I found out the library had them when I was visiting my uncle once and wanted the address of a friend in Vermont. He sent me down here. ”
Vern took the San Diego directory and carried it to a table. From the yellow pages they picked out a bank called the Bouchercon Trust Company, and Vern wrote down the number.
“Anybody got a couple of dollars worth of change?” he inquired.
The boys searched their pockets and came up with three dollars in nickels, dimes, and quarters.
“That should be enough,” Vern said. “It’s only a little over a hundred miles.”
There were several public phones in the library, and he called the San Diego bank.
“Will you tell me the name of your president, please?” he asked when a woman answered.
“Certainly, sir. It’s Mr. Jason McGuire. Do you wish to speak to him?”
“Not right now, thanks,” Vern said, and hung up.
“A piece of cake.” He grinned. “The president’s name is Jason McGuire.”
“You may as well phone from here, Chet,” Frank suggested. “Let’s hear your executive voice.”
In a low, false bass Chet said, “This is Jason McGuire, Mr. Laing.”
A passing librarian gave him a sharp look, and Joe chuckled. “You sound more like a bank robber disguising his voice. We better go outside to practice. ”
Several people were seated on the library lawn, reading. The boys moved out of earshot of everyone, and Chet practiced several different voices. They all sounded false, but suddenly Joe had an idea.
“Why don’t you develop laryngitis?” he suggested. “That way, if Laing happens to know Mr. McGuire, you’ll have an excuse for your voice being different. ”
In a hoarse, rasping tone Chet said, “Sorry if I’m hard to understand, old chap, but I’ve got laryngitis.”
“That’s perfect,” Frank said approvingly.
They went back in and Chet phoned the Bunker Bank, asking for Barton Laing.
“Who’s calling, please?” the switchboard operator asked.
“Jason McGuire, of Bouchercon Trust in San Diego.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Then a hearty voice sounded in Chet’s ear. “How are you, Jason, old man?”
Barton Laing was obviously acquainted with the San Diego bank president and for a moment threw Chet off balance. The boy almost answered in his normal tone, but just in time he remembered and said hoarsely, “Fine, except for laryngitis.”
“You sound terrible,” Laing said with sympathy.
“I’ll keep it brief, Bart, because it’s hard for me to talk. Do you know my son Frank?”
“Not unless he was at some bankers’ convention with you. I’ve never been in your home.”
Chet was relieved. “Frank has the same hobby you do, coin collecting. He’s driving up there from San Diego this afternoon, and I wonder if you’d do me the favor of letting him see your collection.”
“I’ll be glad to,” Barton Laing said, apparently pleased. “We coin nuts like nothing better than to show off our treasures. When will he be here?”
“He’s leaving now, so it shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. It’s not quite three. He should make it by five.”
“Maybe he’d like to drop over for dinner about seven, Jason? We’d love to have him.”
Chet panicked and almost choked. “Ah, no, ah, he has a dinner date with friends. Could he come later?”
“Sure,” Barton Laing said. “Tell him to make it eight, then.” He gave an address in West Los Angeles.
“Thanks very much,” Chet said. “He’ll be there.”
“Take care of that laryngitis,” Laing said, “and good-bye. ”
When Chet hung up, Joe slapped him on the back. “You did a wonderful job!
“Thanks,” Chet rasped. Then he looked surprised. “I-I think my voice stuck!”
“A soda should fix you up,” Frank told him.
Chet cleared his throat and said in his normal tone, “I’ve recovered, but I’ll still take that soda.”
They found a small restaurant on Fifth Street, across from Pershing Square, and sat in a booth. Over cold drinks they discussed the coin case.
“Even as bank president,” Vern said, “I don’t see how Laing could have gotten into that box, because Uncle Gregg’s key was needed.”
“He didn’t necessarily have to steal it himself,” Joe pointed out. “Maybe he just bought it from the thief.”
“You mean Cylvia Nash?”
“It makes more sense than Laing personally taking it,” Joe said. “Suppose Cylvia, knowing that her boss would do nearly anything to get the coin for his collection, slipped it out of your uncle’s box after he handed it back to her to lock it up. She could have taken it while she was walking away from him with the box and her back was turned to him. He wouldn’t know it was missing because he never checked the box after that.”
“I think you’ve got it,” Frank said. “That fifty-thousand-dollar deposit in Cylvia Nash’s savings account must be what Laing paid her for the coin. It all fits.”
“All except her being the girlfriend of Red Sluice,” Chet said. “How does he figure in this?”
“He doesn’t have to fit into the coin theft,” Joe told him. “Birds of a feather flock together. Probably they met each other because they travel in the same circles.”
The house in West Los Angeles was an expensive home on an exclusive street. Vern parked a quarter block away and Frank got out alone.
“I shouldn’t be long,” he said. “As soon as I spot your coin, Vern, I’ll make an excuse to leave and we’ll drive straight to Parker Center.”
He mounted the steps to the wide veranda and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a distinguished-looking man, and Frank gaped. It was the same man he had photographed entering the warehouse!
20 The Missing Coin
Trying to control his expression, Frank asked, “Mr. Laing?”
“Yes,” the banker said cordially, holding out his hand. “You must be Frank McGuire.”
“Yes, sir,” Frank said, shaking hands. Barton Laing led him through a front room into a library and offered him a seat. Frank took a leather-covered easy chair, while the banker sat behind a desk.
Tapping his fingers on the wood surface, the man said, “So you are a collector, too.”
“Not on the same scale as you,” Frank said modestly. Then, using some of the knowledge he had picked up that afternoon, he made himself sound like an expert. “My only complete set is Lincoln Head pennies with the wheat ears on the reverse. I have all one hundred and forty-three in uncirculated coins.”
“That’s quite a start for a young man your age,” the banker said, impressed.
“May I see your collection?” Frank urged.
Rising from his chair, Barton Laing went over to an oil painting on the wall, slid it aside to disclose a safe, and opened the box with a key. He removed a stack of blue coin folders, but left one in the safe.
Laing set the folders on the desk and carefully relocked the safe. Since nothing was left in it but a single folder, the boy couldn’t help wondering why he was being so cautious.
Standing alongside of Frank, the banker now opened the folders. In descending order he displayed collections of silver dollars, half dollars, quarters, and dimes, then set them aside.
“Now come my favorites,” he said, opening the first of the remaining covers. “I specialize in nickels. I
have everything from the first nickel coined in the United States in 1866, the shield type, through the latest Jefferson nickel. With one or two exceptions, the sets are complete.”
Looking at a folder containing Liberty Head nickels, Frank said, “This is complete except for 1913.”
Barton Laing smiled. “That’s not hard to understand, is it?”
“Not considering that there are only five in existence,” Frank agreed. “Did you know that the DuBois estate is offering one for auction?”
“Yes, I heard that,” Laing said. “But bidding for that is a little out of my class.”
Since Frank knew the man had bid ninety-eight thousand dollars for a Liberty Head eight years ago, he figured the real reason Laing was not going to bid was that he already had the coin.
“I noticed you left one folder in the safe,” Frank pointed out. “Is that something special?”
“Just an empty cover.”
The doorbell rang and Barton Laing went to answer it. Frank got up to try the safe door, but it was locked tight. Quickly, he resumed his seat when he heard the banker returning.
As he entered the room, Laing said, “I have some unexpected company. Have you finished looking at everything?”
“Yes, thanks,” Frank said, rising to his feet.
The banker replaced the coins in the safe and locked it. Then he gestured for Frank to precede him to the front door.
As they started through the living room, four of the five people seated there gaped at Frank. Angrily, Big Harry Knotts, Crafty Kraft, Red Sluice, and Anton Jivaro jumped to their feet! Cylvia Nash was the only one who remained seated as the men rushed at Frank, grabbing him before a single word was said.
“What’s the matter with you?” Laing asked indignantly. “How dare you manhandle my guest!”
“Do you know who he is?” Big Harry challenged.
“Certainly. Frank McGuire, the son of a colleague.”
“You’ve got the first name right, but the last name’s Hardy!”
“What!” The banker glared at Frank in outrage. “Frank Hardy! You came here to spy on me!”
Frank saw no point in replying.
“Wait here,” Laing ordered his gang. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The Vanishing Thieves Page 10