“There’s no evidence that Knoeckler’s death was anything but accidental,” Fenner put in quickly. “The coroner will have out his final report tomorrow. I rather imagine he’ll ascribe the man’s death to a fall from the first floor to the cellar, possibly preceded by a stroke of some sort and presumably quite accidental. As a matter of fact, I made it my business last evening to telephone Dr. Kellar, who has been attending Mr. Knoeckler. From what he told me, Knoeckler had been in pretty rotten shape for some time. He’d had some sort of a partial stroke several weeks ago, though of course Dr. Kellar didn’t let the old man know that, and was in precarious condition any way you look at it.”
“That’s good,” Hanley replied. “Things are bad enough the way they are without getting a murder messed up with them. It would be spread over every scandal sheet in the country.”
“Quite,” Fenner agreed.
“Nothing more on the inside job theory, I presume,” Hanley presently suggested.
“No; I think not,” Fenner reassured him. “Young Donegan’s records are in first-class order. He seems to be a careful, methodical, thoroughgoing sort of a fellow. Jeremy Donegan the same.” Hanley only grunted. It was too soon to say: “I told you so.”
After only a few minutes of futile discussion the talk ended and Fenner and the inspector went out together. They were silent until they reached the street, when Bryce said reproachfully: “I suppose you have your own reasons for not wanting Hanley to connect Knoeckler’s death with the theft down here.”
“No special reason,” Fenner countered. “Just general policy. The fewer people there are who know what you’re thinking about or working toward, the less likely you are to be checked.”
“That’s right, but you might have said something to me. Suppose I had spilled the beans?”
Fenner looked at him and smiled. “I knew it wasn’t necessary. Unless I’m much mistaken, you’ve got space for Mr. T. Jerome Hanley in your little book right now.”
Bryce was not surprised. “As a matter of fact, I have,” he confessed, “though I have to admit that he’s been quite above reproach during the short time we’ve been keeping an eye on him. I am going on nothing but a hunch—not an awfully strong hunch, either. In some way he just doesn’t seem quite all out in the open.”
“I’m afraid he hasn’t been, but I think it’s more from habit than from intent. I had a talk with their personnel director when I went back to the bank yesterday. I learned quite by chance that the boy who handled that money truck is a nephew of Hanley’s. A minor, irrelevant matter, yet when we talked to the boy on Thursday Hanley didn’t mention the relationship. Probably an oversight on his part, yet it instantly raises suspicion. However, all good bankers are notoriously close-mouthed.”
They had crossed the narrow street to the truck-loading platform which overlooked the excavation for the foundations of the new building. Suddenly Fenner grasped Bryce’s arm. “Look! There are two of your customers now.”
Below them and out toward the center of the lot Bryce saw Dickson and Borden. They were standing on the top layer of cross-lot bracing about halfway down from the street level to the bottom of the pit. Borden had a blueprint, half unrolled, from which he seemed to be explaining something to Dickson. Occasionally he stopped talking and pointed around the lot. Dickson took the print from him to study it more closely.
Suddenly overhead, even as Fenner and Bryce watched, there was a dull metallic clang and a slow rumble. A stone skip which had been hoisted high and started on its swing toward the hopper rocked crazily. One of the four chains which suspended it from each corner had snapped, and with each lurch the skip spilled out a half dozen boulders and a slither of rock fragments.
From where they stood it looked to Fenner and Bryce as if Dickson and Borden were directly beneath the arc through which the pan would swing to reach the truck hopper. Apparently Dickson thought so, too. With one glance at the skip swinging high and toward them, he dropped the blueprint and started running along the bracing, but after a few steps he stopped, hesitated, stepped back, clutched at Borden for a frightened moment, then ran the other way, hunched over like a scared rabbit.
When Borden heard the warning snap and looked up and perceived their peril, he seemed scarcely moved. He leaned over the rail to shout a quick, shrill “Heads up!” to the men in the hole below, then turned and watched the huge metal pan swaying toward him, the broken chain dangling and yanking, large and small stones and fragments spewing down with each lurch of the skip. He watched it for a long moment, gaging its speed and swing; then, when it was almost above him, he coolly sidestepped the descending slither of muck and boulders. The skip had no more than passed him when he recovered the blueprint from where Dickson had dropped it and waited, undisturbed, for the latter to return and resume their work.
Fenner and Bryce watched the enactment of the near-tragedy with bated breaths. “Phew! Close call!” Bryce exclaimed when the danger was over.
Fenner did not reply at once. With his fingers he tapped the handrail upon which they leaned, drumming out a gentle tattoo. He watched the two men below with thoughtful interest.
Bryce, puzzled at his absorption, hesitated before speaking again.
“Dickson sort of lost his head, didn’t he?” he ventured presently.
“Quite,” Fenner agreed; “but not the other fellow. He didn’t worry much at all.”
“No. I guess he’s around this kind of work so much that he gets used to it.”
“Thoughtful of him to warn the men down in the bottom, wasn’t it?”
They looked into the lot a short time more. Then Fenner suddenly straightened up, clapped his companion on the shoulder and exclaimed: “I’m going to be off. Where can I call you this evening?”
Bryce gave him a telephone number and added a little enviously: “You’re a lucky devil! I wish I could shed my cares the way you do.”
“I don’t always shed them—that’s one of my troubles. They go right along with me. But I am getting better at it,” Fenner added hopefully. His tone became serious. “I hope you have some word on Mr. Morton, but I’ll be surprised if you do. On the other hand, I’ll be a hell of a lot more surprised if he doesn’t show back Monday. I have an idea for bringing things to a head that we’ll go over Monday, after we’ve seen Morton or if he doesn’t return. I’ll telephone you tonight from the house.”
They parted, Bryce heading for the station, Fenner for the country. The latter told himself ruefully that if his golf game was anything but pretty rotten on this Saturday afternoon, it would certainly be pure luck. He knew there, would be no such thing as concentration.
2
The rest of Saturday passed without incident. In the evening Fenner telephoned Bryce, finally locating him, despite the hour, still at his desk at headquarters. There had been no developments of consequence. Knoeckler’s daughter was still away. They had been able to discover nothing as to the identity or whereabouts of her or her companion, or that other visitor to Knoeckler’s shop on that eventful Thursday evening. Hanley, the Donegans, Dickson, Borden—all were going about their business. As Fenner had predicted, no word had come from Morton. Nor had a quiet but thorough search yet uncovered any trace of his car.
However, Fenner was not discouraged on that score. He was confident that Morton would put in his appearance in his own good time and with a plausible explanation of his absence. Fenner tried to keep an open mind as to Morton’s probable guilt or innocence as far as the Consolidated Bank theft was concerned. What he had learned of the man by diligent inquiry had convinced him that, while Morton might have had ample financial motive for attempting such a coup at this time, and while he might have been without scruples as to means or methods for accomplishing that end, yet he was not a man apt to act quickly or except upon a carefully conceived plan. Last of all, he was not a man who would plan a flight. To a man with his professional and business connections it would not be worthwhile. Fenner repeated to Bryce that as far as Morton
was concerned he was quite content to await his return.
Sunday was equally uneventful. Fenner spent the morning again on the golf course. His game, seldom better than fair, was not much worse than usual. A little absently he trod the course, a little indifferently he played his shots, a little half-heartedly he entered into the repartee of the other members of the threesome. He drove slowly home from his club along winding back roads, avoiding the throngs of Sunday motorists.
His wife observed his preoccupation and wisely left him to his own devices. In the afternoon he lounged about the garden, now picking up a current magazine to read a few paragraphs without sensing their meaning and tossing it aside in disgust, now getting up to putter in the flower beds, now going into the kitchen to mix himself a drink. Finally he settled into a comfortable deck chair and fell into a light sleep, though Sunday afternoon siestas were decidedly not one of his habits.
When he awoke it was close to five o’clock and the sun had dropped behind the trees, leaving him in the shade and chilly. He glanced about the garden a moment, blinking; then brought his mind back to the time and the place. He felt greatly refreshed.
Suddenly he realized that the disorderly maze of questions, ideas, suspicions, which had cluttered up his mind when he dropped to sleep had magically resolved themselves into a neat series of workable hypotheses, even arranged for him in order of probability. It was true, of course, that numerous open links and unanswered questions marred the completeness and symmetry of each pattern, but Fenner had a quick gratifying conviction that time would inevitably if slowly weave in these bare spots and make the design whole.
It was also true that what Morton might reveal or do when he reappeared—or Knoeckler’s daughter either, for that matter—might completely alter the complexion of everything. Fenner did not dispute with himself these possibilities, but he could not help discounting their likelihood.
He went into the house to telephone Bryce. The inspector had nothing new to report. Both the Donegans, it seemed, and Dickson and Borden and Hanley were behaving with disgusting normality. Fenner smiled at Bryce’s persistent inclusion of Hanley but said nothing. There had been no word from Morton, nor from Knoeckler’s daughter or her companion. Bryce made no effort to disguise his growing impatience. It seemed inconceivable, he told Fenner, that a man like Morton and a Packard sedan could both drop so completely out of sight and for three days elude such a search as he was having conducted.
“He probably isn’t consciously eluding you, old man,” Fenner consoled, “and that’s what makes him so deuced hard to turn up. If he were really hiding you’d probably have him by now. Wait till tomorrow; I venture he’ll come sidling in like a truant schoolboy.”
“Maybe you’re right. I hope he does. But, even so, he’s going to have plenty to explain.”
Agreeing to meet in the morning—not too early, Fenner stipulated—they disconnected. Now Fenner found himself able to forget the case and to turn himself to lighter occupations.
IV. MONDAY, APRIL 4th
1
ON Monday morning, the first Monday of April, in spite of himself Maxwell Fenner came downtown early. He felt rather than reasoned that some sort of a break was due; and then, of course, there was the scheduled return of Randolph Morton to be anticipated. Fenner would have staked considerable upon Mr. Morton’s appearance some time during the day. At the same time he recognized the day’s end as the limit of grace. If Morton had not materialized by then, Fenner would regard his calculations as upset and rebuild from a new base.
And, too, Knoeckler’s daughter and her mysterious companion should be coming back this morning. From her they would probably be able to find out something of that other Thursday evening visitor to Knoeckler’s shop whom they had so far not been able even to identify. Since his talk with Dr. Kellar, Fenner had been less certain about the Knoeckler affair. At first he had regarded the accident theory as absolutely untenable, but now he was not so sure. From what Kellar had told him of the old man’s condition, the idea appeared well within the realms of possibility; for he’d learned that, aside from the purely physical aspects, any severe mental agitation would have been just the stimulus required to send the old gentleman off.
He was revolving these things in his mind when he reached his office, and if he believed the day would bring forth developments, his expectations were to be promptly fulfilled, for before he’d had time even to remove his hat the telephone bell jangled. It was Bryce calling to inform him that Miss Elsa Knoeckler was en route ,to Police Headquarters. Without waiting for details Fenner hastened out.
At the station he found the inspector alone at his desk. Upon receiving the news of her father’s death from Bryce, the girl had fainted. She had revived shortly and was in the care of a matron. Bryce had refrained from questioning her pending Fenner’s arrival. Together they went into the small anteroom where she was detained. They found the girl sobbing quietly.
“You’ve had a most distressing shock, Miss Knoeckler,” Bryce opened in, for him, a kindly tone. For once the cigar was not in evidence. “It’s our painful duty to ask you a few questions, but we’ll be as brief as we can and get it over for you as quickly as possible.”
The girl looked up, choked her sobs, and nodded miserably. Fenner drew his chair closer but said nothing.
“First off; when did you see your father last?” Bryce began.
Elsa took a moment to collect her thoughts. “It was last Thursday late in the morning.” She stopped and waited.
“Tell us more about it.”
“I’d not been feeling well and came home from the office. Father was in the back of the shop working. I only said a few words and went upstairs. I worked a little while, dusting and straightening things up. I’d decided to go away for a few days with a friend, so I went out to get in some groceries and things. Father once in a while got himself—got his own meals if he was alone and didn’t feel like going out. When I got back Father wasn’t there. I guess he was out for his lunch, because the shop was locked. I had a date and was in a hurry, so I only stayed to change my clothes and then went uptown.” Again she stopped.
“Go ahead,” Fenner put in gently.
“That’s all. I didn’t see him at all after that. I was only home again for a few minutes around dinner time—long enough to throw a few clothes in a bag. Father hadn’t come back yet when I had to go, so I left a note for him. I went away and came back this morning.”
“Do you have any idea where your father could have been at that time?”
“I guess he was at dinner. It was around his meal time.”
“I see.” Bryce paused, looking to Fenner.
Both were impressed by the girl’s sober frankness as she outlined these facts. However, when Bryce began to question her about herself, Elsa became a more reluctant witness. It was necessary almost to drag the bare facts from her. She had lived alone with her father all her life. They had few acquaintances or friends. She and her father had disagreed mildly about some, of them. At present she was in the employ of Marten, Morton & Purcell, a firm of engineers—”
At the mention of Morton’s name Fenner instantly perceived the whole situation. “Where is Mr. Morton now?” he quickly asked.
“At the office,” she innocently answered.
“You’re sure?”
“Why, yes; I—“ She flushed uncomfortably. “That is, I suppose he is.”
“When did you see him last?”
Elsa thought a long time over that, Fenner observed. She finally stammered, “Why—why do you want to know that?”
Fenner answered with a friendly smile and in as kindly a tone as he could muster: “My dear girl, your father is dead. Nothing we can do now will alter that fact. But circumstances indicate that he may not have died naturally, or even accidentally. Murder is a serious thing. We are not particularly interested in where you have been since Thursday; we want to spare your feelings in every way we can. But you must understand that considerations of that s
ort can not be permitted to interfere with our efforts to get to the bottom of the thing. There are one or two more questions I must ask you now; we can talk things over at greater length when you’ve had a chance to rest and compose yourself.”
Elsa started weeping anew but soon dried her tears and awaited his further questions.
“When you went to your home Thursday evening for your things was the door locked?”
“No; it was unlocked. Father only goes a few steps around the corner and sometimes leaves it unlocked.”
“When you went out did you lock it?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t suppose so. I was in a hurry and thought Father would be right back.”
“Oh. Now one other thing. When you came downstairs after packing, you found your friend—Mr. Morton—in the store. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect to find him there?”
Elsa hesitated. “Not exactly,” she admitted. “I came in the store alone.”
“Why do you suppose he decided to follow you in?”
Elsa scarce found her voice to reply: “He wanted to see my father—about me. He wanted to talk to him. He thought perhaps Father’d come back before we left.”
“But he didn’t?”
“No.” Again Elsa broke into tears.
“What was Mr. Morton doing when you came downstairs?”
“He was just standing there—by the desk; just standing there; that’s all.”
At this point an officer interrupted them with word that Mr. Hanley was on the telephone. Bryce took the call and Hanley very excitedly informed him that Randolph Morton had returned and was on his way to the bank. The inspector grunted an acknowledgment and promised to be on hand. He motioned Fenner a few steps to one side and told him of Hanley’s message. “Miss Knoeckler can stay here and we’ll finish our talk when we get back.”
“By all means.”
So Elsa was left to the tender mercies of a police matron while Fenner and the inspector hied themselves to the Consolidated Bank to participate in the reception of Randolph Morton.
The Bank Vault Mystery Page 8