Лоуренс Трит - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938

There in the quiet bank vault, Bradley’s hands began to tremble as he decided to kill Van Dyke. Steadying himself, Bradley put down the packet of hundred-dollar bills and looked furtively at the others. They hadn’t noticed, they were too busy counting the cash to find how much Van Dyke had stolen.

In the directors’ room, Fosdick, the bank’s president, and Simmons and Cleve, the vice-presidents, and that shaggy-haired badly-dressed little surety company detective, were waiting for the figures.

“Forty-three one-thousand-dollar bills,” announced Gauge, snapping rubber band about the thin packet. “I guess Van Dyke knew these would leave a trail.”

Jordan, number three teller, tossed a canvas money sack onto a heap of other sacks. “Three thousand and ten dollars in pennies.”

Steelman, the head bookkeeper, snapped, “Hurry — they’re waiting.”

Jimmy Allison, the junior teller, grinned from the sacked rolls of nickels and dimes.

“If you ask me, Van Dyke had it all planned. Remember that cutie I saw him with? I wonder if he took her along. Paris, Monte Carlo, Singapore — it’ll be good while it lasts.”

Bradley’s lip curled. Good for nothing but donning their seersucker coats, paying out, receiving other people’s money. They wouldn’t believe Van Dyke was safely away, they were sure Van Dyke would be caught. In the directors’ room it was taken for granted. But Fosdick, the president, Simmons, Cleve, the vice-presidents, were fools. Van Dyke, that hearty, back-slapping fellow, had planned too well. Ten, fifteen years Van Dyke must have planned — and only Alvin Bradley remembered.

“Twenty-three one-hundred — dollar bills,” said Bradley evenly. “Van Dyke evidently took most of the hundreds.”

They were waiting when Bradley entered the directors’ room, a meek, slightly stooped man with thinning hair and prim eyeglasses.

“Well?” said Fosdick impatiently.

Bradley read from the paper in his hand.

“Ninety-seven thousand, six hundred and forty dollars, and fifty cents. That seems to be all the cash Mr. Van Dyke got.”

Fosdick exploded. “Isn’t that enough? Don’t look so sanctimonious, Bradley!”

Bradley flushed. How he disliked them. Not one had been so long with the bank. Van Dyke, the thief, when he had been promoted past the head teller’s post where Alvin Bradley was a fixture, had chuckled, “Stop being a worm, Alvin, and thinking how badly you’re used. The lightning may strike you next time.”

Simmons, lean and good-looking in his expensive suit, mused, “I wonder why Van took that extra fifty cents.”

Cleve, the other vice-president, guessed, “I suppose for the same reason he left this note, and had the repairs rushed on his fishing rod. Van thought of everything.” Cleve cocked an eyebrow at Candleman, the sloppily dressed little man from the surety company. “It was his favorite fishing rod, didn’t his wife tell you?”

Candleman nodded soberly.

“The tip was loose. She still thinks he’s away on a fishing trip.”

“What a shock she’ll get,” said Simmons regretfully. He read again from the note before him.

Gentlemen: I’m in too deep. My bond is a hundred and twenty-five thousand. I’ll take the difference along and let the bonding company settle the even amount. My regrets and regards.

Candleman looked pained. “That’s a lot of money for us to make good, gentlemen.”

“But necessary,” murmured Cleve. “I suppose you’ll get Van Dyke.”

Candleman nodded vaguely. “We usually do. Where did he usually fish?”

“Everywhere,” volunteered Simmons. “Salmon in New Brunswick — trout in New England, bass in Florida, bone fish along the Florida Keys; now and then he’d have a try at marlin or sailfish. Van was a bug on fishing.”

Candleman absentmindedly fumbled with a coat button.

“Florida, now — that’s handy to Cuba and Central America. I wonder if he’d be fool enough to try to get away on a Pan-American plane.”

Cleve shook his head.

“Van wasn’t a fool — although in a way, I suppose, he was a fool to do this.”

Fosdick slapped the table. “Certainly he was a fool J His life’s ruined!” Fosdick looked helplessly at the others. “I can’t realize Van actually has done this. Why... why... are you still here, Bradley? That’s all. Mind you, no gossiping.”

Three days later Bradley resigned. Fosdick was annoyed.

“I don’t understand, Bradley. You’re not eligible for retirement.”

“I realize it, sir.”

“You’ve done well as head teller. The bank is willing to recognize satisfactory service — say an increase of a hundred dollars a year.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My health...”

Ah, it was good — after twenty-three years. Bradley took his savings, better than thirty-four hundred, in twenty-dollar bills. But as he walked away from the bank, fright suddenly laid hold of Bradley like a cold hand. He stopped, looked back. There was still time. They’d take him back. Suppose he didn’t find Van Dyke? Suppose these new fantastic dreams of wealth went flat?

They couldn’t! He had guessed right. Tonight he’d know. After a moment, Bradley walked on, a meek-looking figure, inconspicuous in the crowd...

Mrs. Van Dyke, in her apartment doorway, was the same fleshy, carefully made-up woman who had often appeared at the bank. Tonight she wore a rose tea gown, held a half-eaten chocolate cream, and looked disappointed.

“Mr. Bradley, from the bank? Of course — come in.”

Bradley apologized, “I’ve some fishing tackle Mr. Van Dyke lent me.”

“Heavens — more of that!” She had her peevish grievance. “Van is away now, you know, I don’t even know where. He was to meet a friend in Washington. Have they heard from him at the bank?”

“I don’t believe so. These are flies — wet flies I borrowed. Mr. Van Dyke said he’d be glad to lend me more. I was wondering if he’d taken all his trout flies and rods.” Bradley smiled apologetically. “I’m planning a little fishing trip myself.”

“I don’t see how you men can like it, Mr. Bradley. I don’t even eat fish, and I loathe mosquitoes and the impossible places Van goes. He won’t even take a bridge hand if he can beg off to putter with that mess of fishing things.”

A bridge table, cards, cigarettes, chocolates, waited in the living room. She’d get her mind off bridge quickly enough if she knew how fast Van Dyke’s life was running out.

The thought gave Bradley a little glow of humor, but he was earnestly apologetic:

“If I could look at his tackle...”

“I wish you’d take it all away. I’m sick of it. In here...”

Van Dyke had fitted up a large closet. Racks held fishing rods. Shelves, hooks were filled with heavier equipment; cases of drawers contained flies, hooks, lures, reels. Fishing was a passion with the man, had been so when he first came to the bank, had increased as Van Dyke’s income enabled him to gratify his hobby.

In the closet Bradley was suddenly uncertain. All the tackle looked alike. Three days of studying the stuff, buying the wet flies to bring here hadn’t helped much.

He asked, “Did Mr. Van Dyke take his trout tackle?”

She shook her head. “You’ll have to see. After all these years, I can’t tell a dry fly from a wet fly — although goodness knows Van has showed me often enough.”

Several rods were missing from the racks. Bradley was suddenly relieved to find the shallow drawers neatly labeled. Dry Flies — Wet Flies — Plugs — Sinkers.