Clive Cussler - The Chase

He approached the secretary. “Hello, my name is Eliah Ruskin. I have a two-thirty appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”

An older woman in her fifties with graying hair smiled and stood up without speaking. She walked to a door with ALBERT CARDOZA, MANAGER painted on the upper part of the frosted-glass pane, knocked, and leaned in. “A Mr. Eliah Ruskin to see you.”

Cardoza quickly came to his feet and rushed around his desk. He shoved out a hand and shook Ruskin’s palm and fingers vigorously. “A pleasure, sir. I’ve looked forward to your arrival. It’s not every day we greet a representative from a New York bank that is making such a substantial deposit.”

Ruskin lifted the suitcase onto Cardoza’s desk, unlocked the catches, and opened the lid. “Here you are, half a million dollars in cash to be deposited, until such time we decide to withdraw it.”

Cardoza reverently stared at the neatly packed and bundled fifty-dollar gold certificate bills as though they were his passport to a banker’s promised land. Then he looked up in growing surprise. “I don’t understand. Why not carry a cashier’s check instead of five hundred thousand dollars in currency?”

“The directors of the Hudson River Bank of New York prefer to deal in cash. As you know from our correspondence, we are going to open branch banks throughout the West in towns that we think have potential for growth. We feel it is expedient to have currency on hand when we open our doors.”

Cardoza looked at Ruskin somberly. “I hope your directors do not intend to open a competing bank in Salt Lake City.”

Ruskin grinned and shook his head. “Phoenix, Arizona, and Reno, Nevada, are the first of the Hudson River branch banks to open in the West.”

Cardoza looked relieved. “Phoenix and Reno are certainly booming.”

“Ever have a bank robbery in Salt Lake?” Ruskin asked casually while looking at the vault.

Cardoza looked at him quizzically. “Not in this city. The citizens would not allow it. Salt Lake is one of the most crime-free cities in the country. The Latter-Day Saints are upstanding and religious people. Trust me, Mr. Ruskin, no bandit would dare to attempt a robbery of this bank. Your money will be absolutely and one hundred percent safe once it’s locked up in our vault.”

“I’ve read of some fellow called the Butcher Bandit who robs and murders throughout the western states.”

“Not to worry, he only strikes in small mining towns and robs payrolls. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try robbing a bank in a city the size of Salt Lake. He wouldn’t get past the city limits before the police shot him down.”

Ruskin nodded toward the vault. “Very impressive repository.”

“The very finest vault west of the Mississippi, built especially for us in Philadelphia,” Ruskin said proudly. “An entire regiment armed with cannons couldn’t break inside.”

“I see it is open during business hours?”

“And why not. Our customers enjoy seeing how well their deposits are protected. And as I’ve mentioned, no bank has ever been robbed in Salt Lake City.”

“What is your slowest time of day?”

Cardoza looked puzzled. “Slowest time of day?”

“When you have the least customer transactions?”

“Between one-thirty and two o’clock is our slowest time. Most of our customers have gone back to their offices after their lunch hour. And, because we close at three, a number of customers come in for late transactions. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious as to how the traffic compares with our bank in New York, which seems to be about the same.” He patted the suitcase. “I’ll leave the money in the case and pick it up tomorrow.”

“We’ll close shortly, but I’ll have my head clerk count it first thing in the morning.”

Cardoza pulled open a drawer of his desk, retrieved a leather book, and wrote out a deposit slip for the half-million dollars. He handed it to Ruskin, who inserted it into a large wallet he carried in the breast pocket of his coat.

“May I ask a favor?” Ruskin inquired.

“Certainly. Anything you wish.”

“I would like to be on hand when your clerk does the count.”

“That’s very gracious of you, but I’m sure your bank has accounted for every dollar.”

“I’m grateful for your trust, but I would like to be present just to be on the safe side.”

Cardoza shrugged. “As you wish.”

“There is one other request.”

“You have but to name it.”

“I have other business to conduct in the morning and cannot return until one-thirty tomorrow. And, since your business is slowest then, it should be a good time for the count.”

Cardoza nodded in agreement. “You’re quite right.” He stood and extended his hand. “Until tomorrow afternoon. I look forward to seeing you.”

Ruskin held up his cane as a good-bye gesture, dismissed Cardoza, and left the office. He walked past the security guard, who didn’t give him a glance, and swung his cane like a baton as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

He smiled to himself, knowing that he had no intention of returning to the bank merely to count the contents of the suitcase.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, RUSKIN WALKED TO THE BANK, making sure he was seen on the street by the passing crowd and stopping in shops to browse, making small talk with the merchants. He carried his gun cane more as a prop than for protection.

Reaching the Salt Lake Bank & Trust at one-thirty, he entered and ignored the guard as he turned the key in the front entrance door, locking it. Then he turned the sign around in the window so that it read CLOSED from the street and pulled down the window shades, as the guard sat there in his bored stupor, not realizing that the bank was about to be robbed. Neither Albert Cardoza’s secretary and the tellers nor the female depositor standing at the counter took notice of the intruder’s unusual behavior.

The guard finally came alert and realized that Ruskin was not acting like a normal bank customer and might be up to no good. He came to his feet, his hand dropping to the holster holding his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, and asked blankly, “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Then his eyes widened in alarm as he found himself staring into the muzzle of Ruskin’s .38 Colt.

“Make no resistance, and walk slowly behind the counter!” Ruskin ordered as he wrapped his gun in a battered, old heavy woolen scarf with burn holes in it. He quickly moved behind the counter before the clerks in their cages became alert and could make a grab for the shotguns at their feet. Never expecting their bank to be robbed, they hesitated in confusion.

“Don’t even think about going for your guns!” Ruskin snapped. “Lay flat on the floor or you’ll get a bullet in your brain.” He motioned his cane at the frightened woman at the counter. “Come around the counter and lay down on the floor with the tellers and you won’t get hurt,” he said in a cold tone. Then he motioned the gun at Cardoza’s secretary. “You, too! Down on the floor!”

When all were lying on the highly polished mahogany floor facedown, he rapped on Cardoza’s door. Unable to distinguish voices outside his office, the bank’s manager was not aware of the macabre event unfolding within his bank. He waited out of habit for his secretary to enter, but she did not appear. Finally, irritated at being interrupted, he stepped from his desk and opened the door. It took him a full ten seconds to comprehend what was happening. He stared at Ruskin and the gun in his hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. Then he saw the people lying on the floor and looked back at Ruskin in utter confusion. “I don’t understand. What is going on?”