John Baer - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 5 — August 1922)

She opened the front door, carefully. There was no one in sight. She closed the door after her, quietly, and, suitcase in hand, went out to catch her train.

The newspaper dropped from Irma Martin’s fingers. So — it was over. Really over. Dennison was dead. He had “paid for his crime with his life,” as the newspapers had said.

Mrs. Martin shuddered. She must get over being so nervous. She knew that. She stood up, began to gather together the blue and white breakfast dishes. Funny! She laughed, a bit mirthlessly, to herself. Funny, that she had happened to eat that piece of blueberry pie.

It was nearly six o’clock, and yet James Hackett, teller number one of the Wallula State Bank, tarried in his cage. Again and again he cast up his totals, recounted his cash, and thumbed over the big pile of checks which littered his counter, and still his columns refused to balance.

The cashier of the bank, Thomas Ector, passed down the aisle on his way out, but noting the teller still at work paused.

“What’s wrong, Hackett?” he inquired.

“My cash simply won’t balance, Mr. Ector,” Hackett replied.

“Throw it into the Over and Short Account, Hackett,” Ector advised him. “A few cents more or less won’t matter.”

“A few cents!” And Hackett turned his flushed face toward the cashier. “I wish it were only a matter of a few cents. I’m short one thousand dollars!”

“A ‘one’ is the easiest mistake in the world to make,” Ector smiled. “Unlock the door and let me run over your figures.”

“Well, here’s hoping,” Hackett sighed. “I’ve run those columns up and down, crossways and slanting till I honestly couldn’t add two and two and be sure of the result.”

“You’ve just got excited,” Ector declared as he picked up the ribbon from the adding machine and began to compare it with the stack of checks.

“How much cash did you start with this morning?” he presently inquired.

“Five thousand dollars. Mr. Gray counted it out and I rechecked it before I opened my window. It was correct.”

The cashier ticked off the deposit slips, and last of all counted the cash. Then he began to cast up the final results, humming a little tune as he did so. Presently he ceased humming, while a puzzled frown crept gradually over his features.

“What’s wrong here?” he argued with himself, “you’re off, too.”

“How much?” Hackett asked a little unsteadily.

“It looks like a thousand dollars,” Ector admitted reluctantly, “but I must have made a mistake. Here, wait till I run it over again.”

But his second checking was as fruitless as his first. Hackett was undoubtedly short one thousand dollars.

Ector stood drumming on the counter for a bit, lost in thought. Then he had a sudden inspiration.

“Did you cash any thousand dollar checks or drafts today?” he asked surdenly.

“A dozen, maybe,” the teller answered. “You know I handle most of the big accounts, a number of real estate firms, besides the business of half a dozen of the biggest stores. A thousand dollars in change with them is nothing uncommon. Often they draw out more.”

“Then you’ve simply mislaid or lost one of their checks,” Ector declared with certitude. “Dump out that waste paper basket and let’s go through it.”

The basket was duly emptied and its contents examined with microscopic care, but without results. Besides, Hackett got down on his hands and knees and poked and prodded in vain under the desks and filing cabinets in a vain hope that a check was hidden there.

“A draft of air may have carried it out through your window,” Ector suggested finally, “but that’s hardly likely. Still, I’ll tell the janitor to look sharp when he sweeps up.”

“But what shall I do?” Hackett asked in despair.

“Do, what can you do?” the cashier answered. “You couldn’t make that big a mistake in change and you haven’t duplicated a deposit of that size. The only thing I can think of is for you to try and make a list of all the thousand dollar items and see if you have overlooked one.”

“I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight, Mr. Ector.”

“Well, you may be able to ferret it out, then,” so the other consoled him. “I’ve often done that, I know. I’ll bet you that in the morning you’ll have the laugh on yourself for some foolish oversight or other.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Hackett ejaculated fervently. “Twelve years in that cage and never anything like this before.”

“Forget it, Jimmy,” and the cashier slapped him on the back in friendly fashion. “We all make them, and generally find them, too. That’s the best part.”

But the morning did not bring the promised relief. Instead, Hackett entered his cage pale and shaken and the other six tellers were in little better frame. The phenomenal loss had been whispered about the bank and each man wondered if it would be his turn that day. The result was that all the tellers worked over time that evening adjusting numerous little mistakes that under ordinary circumstances would never have occurred.

All of them, however, were able to eventually reduce their errors to a matter of a few cents, except teller number one.

Ector walked down the passageway back of the cages at five-thirty to find them all empty save Hackett’s. Here he paused.

“How’s it coming, Jimmy?” he called out.

Teller number one turned a face ashen with terror toward the cashier.

“Short again,” he croaked.

“You don’t mean it?” Ector ejaculated.

“Yes sir—” Hackett faltered. “Five hundred dollars. I’m all in, Ector. I’ve checked and rechecked, and it’s lost, that’s all there is to it.”

With shaking fingers, the teller unlocked his door and allowed the cashier to enter. But Ector’s efforts were as fruitless as the day before. Five hundred dollars had taken wings and disappeared.

“Jimmy,” Ector said finally, “you’re up against a mighty smooth game of some sort.”

“It must be that,” Hackett nodded. “I wouldn’t make two mistakes like that hand-running.”

“No,” Ector agreed. “It’s not a question of mistakes. It’s a lot deeper than that. Some shrewd scheme is being worked on you. Why, they could wreck a bank in a little while unless somebody cut across their little game.”

“I don’t believe that I can stand it another day,” Hackett declared. “I never endured such a strain, not even when they made the run on the bank eight years ago.”

“And I guess I remember that,” Ector said feelingly. “Well, let’s go home. Staying here won’t help us any, I imagine. Besides, lightning won’t strike three times in the same place, Jimmy.

And therein the cashier erred, for the evening of the third day disclosed the unbelievable fact that teller number one was again short, this time in the sum of one thousand dollars!

A hurried meeting of the bank directors convened at nine o’clock the next morning in the office of President Wines. With them met Thomas Ector, the cashier, who quickly unfolded the inexplicable series of robberies to which the bank had been subjected in the past three days.

“Do I understand that all the losses have occurred in Hackett’s cage?” one of the directors inquired.

The cashier nodded.

“How do we know, then,” the director asked bluntly, “that he didn’t take the money?”

“Hackett has been with us twelve years,” Wines, the President, answered, “and is one of our most reliable men.”

“Even at that,” the director insisted, “he ought to be investigated: quietly, of course.”