The Bank Vault Mystery

by Louis F. Booth

  The doctor took a step back as if to return to the sickroom, but the door swung open behind him and the nurse coming out pushed past him. Over one arm was draped the mud-stained clothing they had taken off Morton. In her hands she carried a porcelain tray upon which were spread what appeared to have been the contents of his pockets.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured as she slipped between Fenner and the physician and started briskly across the room.

  “Just a minute, young lady!” Fenner spoke sharply. The girl turned in surprise at the incisive command. The doctor paused, too, his hand on the door knob.

  Fenner walked across to where the girl waited uncertainly.

  “Here, Bryce,” he said; and to the girl: “Whose clothing have you there?”

  “Why, the patient’s, of course.” She was puzzled by the question the answer to which must be so obvious.

  “And the articles on the tray—where did you get them?”

  “From the pockets of the suit, naturally.” She had recovered from her surprise and the answer came a little tartly.

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “It’s customary to lock those things up in the hospital office,” the doctor explained. His gaze fell on Bryce. The detective was standing beside the nurse, his eyes riveted upon the contents of the tray she held, stupefaction written plainly upon his face. His eyes followed the inspector’s to the tray, as did those of the other people in the room, except Fenner who when she first came in had observed the small object which held Bryce’s fascinated gaze. The tray contained a leather wallet, a fountain pen and a small gold pencil, a watch and chain, a cigarette case and a small jeweled lighter, some loose change, a soiled handkerchief, a spectacles case, and upon the top of the pile in naive innocence a small, metal-rimmed, fiber tag with a tiny hole in one end.

  Bryce picked it up gingerly. The blank lines were all filled in. He read:

  Date...March 30, 1931

  Consignee...Park Avenue Branch

  Amount...$180,000.00

  Checklist...ML2-6202

  Packed by...J. Donegan

  “Put the tray down for a moment. I want to ask you one or two questions.” Fenner’s tone was more conciliatory now that he had had time to recover from his initial surprise at the sight of the tag. Even so, the girl seemed about to protest but the doctor spoke up.

  “Do as they say, Miss Farrell,” he instructed. “It’s all right. These men are from the police.”

  “Did you, yourself, remove these articles from the patient’s suit?” Fenner first asked her.

  “Yes; just now.”

  “Can you recall from which pocket each article was removed?”

  The nurse hesitated, then said uncertainly: “Why, just about, I think.”

  “Will you please tell me?”

  Obviously mystified the girl complied with his request. “The pocketbook and pencil and pen were in his inside coat pocket. The lighter and cigarette case and his watch were in the vest. The handkerchief and the change were in his trousers.” She stopped.

  “And the little tag—?”

  “Oh, that was in his side coat pocket—that and the case for his glasses.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes; I remember them distinctly.”

  “Very good. That’s all. I’m going to take this tag.” He suited his action to his words. “The other things you may put away as you intended. Now one thing more: You will save yourself and others a lot of trouble if you mention this to no one. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded meekly. Fenner looked at the doctor. “The same applies to you, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  The doctor went back to his patient, Burke resumed his armchair and Fenner and Bryce went out. It was somewhat after five o’clock and the sidewalks were crowded with office workers going home. Bryce moved to the curb, bit the end off his cigar, and spat meditatively.

  “A good thing we happened to be there when the nurse walked out with that tag,” he observed. “Looks like the answer, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps; but we needn’t be precipitate. There’s no danger of Morton running away. It’s odd that—but never mind. We’ll have to dig up Coles now. We may as well try Morton’s office first. It’s only a few blocks from here.”

  They went there only to find the door locked, the place in darkness, and received no answer to their knock.

  “At the new building job, I guess,” Bryce commented. He looked at his watch. “Maybe we can catch him there before he gets away. Otherwise we can talk to him in the morning.”

  “I’d much rather see him now.” A puzzled frown darkened Fenner’s countenance.

  A few moments later they approached the building excavation. It had become quite dark by then and the flood lights which illuminated the site for the night work were blazing in all their glory. In spite of their glare the lot abounded with dark spots and shadowy corners and presented altogether an eerie spectacle. In the street a concrete truck, its rotating barrel-like body tipped sharply, was spouting its load of concrete into a hopper whence it was led away in chutes to the piers and walls that were being poured. A number of similar trucks lined up along the curb awaited their turn. Fenner and Bryce watched for a moment, then turned into the gate.

  They paused in the doorway of the job office. Quinn was changing into his street clothing. Dickson and Borden were still there, too, leaning over a plan table in session with the night-shift superintendent. Quinn looked up from tying a shoelace, nodded curtly and asked: “How’s Morton? The hospital won’t tell us much.”

  Dickson and Borden also looked up, waiting for the answer.

  “Not so good. Small, fighting chance, maybe,” Bryce answered shortly. “Seen his man around? Coles?”

  “He was here a little before five and O.K.’d the piers and walls we’re now concreting. I haven’t seen him since, though he may be around the job somewhere. Wait a minute; I’ll let the timekeeper look around for him.” He stepped to an adjoining smaller shanty, spoke to its occupant, and came back.

  Dickson straightened up from the plan table, lighted his pipe and joined them. Fenner stood in the doorway looking about the lot.

  “Seems to be a lot of activity,” he commented. “Does the work keep going like this every night?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dickson volunteered the answer. “Twenty-four hours a day. Not always this busy at night, though. Just happens we’ve got some unusually large concrete pours to make this evening.” There was a moment of silence, Dickson hovering at Fenner’s elbow. He seemed about to ask him something but not quite able to make up his mind.

  “I shouldn’t think your men would be able to see what they’re doing in that uneven light,” Fenner remarked.

  “They get used to it. Where it’s too dark they rig up more lights; that’s all.”

  “Excuse me.” Borden mumbled the apology as he and the foreman squeezed past the group in the doorway and went down into the cellar.

  Fenner watched them walk out on the bracing. “Many accidents at night?” he asked.

  “No more than by daylight. Maybe not so many,” Quinn grunted. Just then the timekeeper came back and reported to Quinn: “He’s not around, Boss. Guess he’s gone home.”

  Quinn turned to Fenner with a little shrug. “I guess Coles has gone for the day—or night, rather. You might find him here some time tomorrow.”

  “Much obliged, anyway. It’s not important. We’ll see him at Morton’s office in the morning.”

  They bade their host good-evening and left.

  “Very enlightening, wasn’t it?—Not!” Fenner moaned when they were once more in the street. “Well, how about something to eat? I want to hop around to the hospital again, but not so soon. There’s this tag thing to go over. Come along!” They went into the India House but neither spoke until the waiter had taken their orders and gone away to fill them.

  “Now then, what do you think of it?” Fenner asked.
<
br />   “It looks to me like my original hunch on Morton wasn’t so wet after all.”

  “Perhaps—and then again, perhaps not,” Fenner said enigmatically. “But if you’re right, maybe you can answer two questions that have fretted me for the past hour. One, assuming that Morton robbed the bank, why the devil would he still be carting that tell-tale tag around with him? And two, assuming he had some reason for carrying it, why wouldn’t he slip it into that ample wallet of his instead of carrying it loose in his side coat pocket? Also, you might tell me how he disposed of the loot and when.”

  “I don’t know about the tag. Carelessness maybe. But he certainly had the whole weekend in which to cache the money. He had more opportunity than any of the others for that. And good Lord! What more proof could we want?”

  The answer convinced Fenner not at all, but for the moment he refrained from reiterating his disagreement.

  “I only hope Morton revives, and soon!” he said fervently.

  “What good would that do? The doctor says it wouldn’t be safe to talk to him for two days. I’m not waiting! Besides, the chances admittedly are that he won’t come around at all. No, sir! On the strength of that tag I’m going to get a warrant out, and I’m going to take a half dozen men and go through everything Morton’s got with a fine-toothed comb—his office, his apartment—that camp out in Jersey—everything. And I’d almost give you odds we net something.” Bryce rapped the table softly to emphasize his conviction.

  Fenner looked at him with studied coolness. “You feel that we’re pretty lucky, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the Consolidated Bank theft occurred a week ago, lacking a day. Randolph Morton, who had both ample motive and at least a possible opportunity along with three or four others, and is therefore justifiably under suspicion, was out of our sight and free to do as he pleased for three days succeeding the robbery, and has been under observation in only a general way since then. We had absolutely nothing on him. Now, out of a clear sky, that little tag pops out of his pocket like a rabbit out of a magician’s hat—and in circumstances that make it improbable for us to miss it and impossible for him to explain it. If the thing is genuine it would be for us a phenomenal piece of luck. Why, the chances of such a thing happening in the normal course of events would not be one in a million! I’m not quite ready to believe my luck is that good. Why, I’d quit this business and play the market. No, sir! Somewhere there’s an Ethiopian among the kindling! The whole thing strikes me as an inspired piece of business.”

  Bryce’s jaw dropped, but he was not prepared to alter his program and said as much.

  “Oh, no; of course not,” Fenner agreed. “It’s the only thing you can do. You’d be failing in your duty if you did any less. But at the same time I’d not be too sanguine. Above all, the thing is to not let up on the others for an instant; double up on them, if anything. The more I sniff at it, the more this ‘accident’ assumes the bouquet of a great big wide red herring.”

  “You mean it’s not an accident? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I mean it might not be; that’s as far as my thinking has taken me; but I’ll tell you one thing: if there was a prodigious amount of ‘coincidence’ in old Adolph Knoeckler’s timely demise, there’s twice as much here!” He stopped and looked away, lost for a moment in a maze of ideas.

  Bryce pondered this new slant of Fenner’s, his cumbersome thinking processes feeling at and around it, slowly, methodically, where Fenner’s, rapier-like, were darting to the core. At first it seemed wildly fantastic, but upon more thoughtful analysis it seemed no more illogical than his own hasty assumption. But who—?

  “You know,” Fenner went on, “the ‘accident’ itself wasn’t so bad. I think I’d have swallowed that in a little while if nothing else had turned up to the contrary, but this tag business is spreading it a bit too thick. Unless—“ He stopped a second. “Unless the accident was an accident and somebody simply took advantage of it to plant the tag on Morton. But that’s not so good either. That would be granting our culprit almost as much pure luck as we are unwilling to assume ourselves to possess. Oh, Lord! Still, there’s a chance—”

  For a moment Bryce felt almost resentful that Fenner had implanted the seed of doubt in his mind. He would search Morton’s possessions and affairs—that would have to be done—but he knew there would not be the zest he would have put into it had he been definitely convinced of a fruitful outcome. Inwardly he heaved a sigh. It would be a relief, when this case was solved (he had not yet begun to doubt that eventuality), to get back again to something straightforward and tangible.

  “Well, then, what’s the answer?” Bryce put the question a shade impatiently.

  “The answer’s not far to seek. It’s the same: watch and wait, especially watch. Our clientele is unchanged. Any of them could have planted the tag, especially when they were getting Morton up to the ambulance, except the Donegans. Rather, except Jerry, for old Jeremy might have put it on Morton yesterday morning at the bank. I think you can leave that out, though, because Morton would have doubtless found the tag between then and now and dropped it like a hot potato. The rest are as eligible as ever, though.”

  5

  In due course they finished their supper. Bryce went to Headquarters to attend the technical formalities which would permit him to conduct his search of Morton’s affairs. Fenner went back to the hospital.

  In the little waiting room he found Burke and Elsa Knoeckler. Burke had retired to a corner of the room and was apparently absorbed in a newspaper. Miss Knoeckler sat quietly, wrapped in her own thoughts. Her eyes were heavy and her face drawn but in spite of her tired pallor she retained a surprising charm and attractiveness. The emotional experiences which had been crammed into the preceding few days had left an undeniable impress upon her countenance, but the effect was not detrimental; rather, it brought into relief certain qualities of courage and stoicism. Anew Fenner thought he understood and appreciated Morton’s feeling for the girl. Out of deference to her feelings he called Burke out into the hall.

  “Any change?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “When did the girl come in?”

  “About half an hour after you and the chief left.”

  “She come alone?”

  “I believe so.”

  “What is she waiting for?”

  “The doctor, I think. Both doctors went out before she got here. The girl talked to the nurse a minute and from what I could overhear one of the doctors is expected back later in the evening.”

  “I see. Thanks. You’re going to stay here, are you?”

  Burke nodded.

  “And keep Bryce posted if there’s any change in Morton’s condition?”

  “That’s right.”

  They went back into the anteroom. The girl was sitting exactly as she had been before. Fenner leaned over Elsa’s chair and addressed her in a low tone.

  “I’m glad to see you again but I’m sorry it’s under such trying circumstances,” he said. Elsa looked up at him but did not reply and Fenner continued: “Mr. Morton is only an acquaintance as far as I’m concerned; I know that to you he is a very dear friend. That’s what prompts me to speak to you about him. The doctor told me this morning that he had a fighting chance. I have a feeling that he has that and more, but it might be a long pull. There’s little you or I can do to help him now. But when he gets well he’s going to have another battle to fight. In that connection it may be that you can be of use.”

  The girl had returned his gaze steadily throughout this long introduction. Bewilderment was registered in the deepening frown wrinkling her face. Fenner drew a chair close to her, sat down, and hurried on before she could ask the questions on her lips. “This may be a waste of your time and mine. In that case little will be lost. On the other hand, you may be able to tell me things which, taken with what I already know, will be of immeasurable help. Then much would be gained. I simply want to learn all
I can about Randolph Morton—his plans, his associates, his financial condition, his domestic affairs—all the little intangible things you probably can tell me. I’m going to take you into my confidence and in return I expect you to take me into yours.”

  Elsa thought over what Fenner had said for a long moment before replying: “I think you were right when you spoke of wasting your time. My own I don’t care about. The truth is: I hardly know anything at all about Mr. Morton.” She looked away.

  “Am I right in supposing that Mr. Morton is a wealthy man?”

  “I suppose so. He never seems to worry much about money, though he has lost a lot in the last year or two.”

  “Do you know anything about his domestic life?”

  “I know he plans to secure a divorce,” Elsa said firmly with a challenging lift of her chin. “He has asked me to marry him when he obtains it.”

  “Do you know a Mr. Hanley at the Consolidated American Bank?”

  “I’ve heard the name; that’s all.”

  “Has Morton ever told you how well he knows him or anything about their connections?”

  “No.”

  “Did Mr. Morton tell you about an—er—misunderstanding at the Consolidated Bank in which he was believed to be involved?”

  “Why, no.” Elsa seemed properly surprised and Fenner judged that she was speaking the truth.

  “Did you ever hear him speak of ‘Dickson’ or ‘Borden’ or ‘Donegan’?”

  “Why, there’s a Mr. Dickson he consults with once in a while about the foundations at the new bank building. I don’t remember the other two names.”

  “Did you ever see this before?” Fenner placed the fiber tag on the arm of her chair.

  Elsa looked at it curiously and said: “Not that I know of.”