David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

“So, here you are. At exactly 8:15. Now, if you weren’t the fool you are, Petty, you would have come at 7:15. You would have gone straight to the safe and opened it — you know the combination — and you would have helped yourself, not to a measly three thousand dollars, but to two hundred thousand dollars.”

The little bookkeeper’s eyes opened wide in innocent astonishment. “I couldn’t have done a thing like that,” he stammered. “Why — that would be stealing.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Benson said. “That would have been stealing. So what do you do instead? You pilfer the petty cash, you make false entries on your books, you kite checks, a few measly bucks at a time — for how many months? And when you’re three thousand dollars in the hole and you know the auditors are due in Monday morning, you come to me with a hard luck story. What was it, horses?”

“No, sir,” Mr. Petty said. “That would be gambling!” He paused and looked down at the floor. “Women,” he said meekly.

“Women!”

“Yes sir,” Mr. Petty said. “Women. It’s in my horoscope. I’m a Taurus.”

“That figures,” Benson said. “Now tell me one thing more, Petty. How do you expect to pay this money back?

Mr. Petty looked puzzled. He squirmed uneasily in his chair. “That’s what I was expecting you to tell me. You promised to help me, Mr. Benson.”

Benson said, “Of course, I’ll help you. Everybody knows George Benson has never failed to help a faithful employee out of a jam.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms silently for a minute while Mr. Petty fidgeted with his hands, as if he had just found he had one too many.

“Tell you what I’ll do, Petty,” Benson said. “Nobody knows about this, nobody except you — and me. I’ll lend you the money, that’s what I’ll do. Just sign this—” he handed a typewritten sheet of paper across the desk — “and you can pay me back ten dollars every week out of your paycheck.” He handed his pen across to the little bookkeeper. “Just a brief statement of the facts. Sort of a confession, you know, just to make it legal.”

Mr. Petty took the pen. His hand shook as he started to write, and paused. “The money,” he said falteringly. “Shouldn’t I — get the money first?”

Mr. Benson’s face took on an expression of injured dignity. “I’m surprised at you, Petty,” he said. “Do you expect me to go around every day with thousands of dollars in my wallet?” He looked at his watch. “The bank closes at one today. And Monday is a bank holiday. Before I take the plane to Pittsburgh this afternoon I’ll leave three thousand dollars in an envelope for you. You’ll find it in the safe, in the petty cash box.”

“But I’ve got things to do first,” Mr. Petty said. “I’ve got to go back over the books. There are things to straighten out before the auditors get here.”

“I’ve thought of that too,” Benson replied. “You’ve got keys to the plant. Tomorrow is Sunday. Come down and let yourself in. Emil, the night watchman, knows you. Tell him you’re working overtime on the books. Get the entries straightened out, put the money back where it belongs, and when the auditors arrive on Monday everything’ll be okay. I’ll take that paper now.”

Mr. Petty scrawled his name on the dotted line and handed the paper back to Benson. “Thank you,” he said, rising to go. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve saved my life. How can I ever repay you?”

“You will,” Benson assured the little bookkeeper. “Don’t worry, you will.”

On warm Saturday afternoons it was John J. Malone’s custom to take his ease, with suitable refreshments, at Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, but on this torrid Saturday afternoon he was still in the office, attending to some urgent business. Maggie, his secretary, was assisting with the technical details.

“I distinctly remember replenishing the Emergency file,” Malone was saying. “Right there in back of Bills Payable.”

“I looked,” Maggie said firmly. “I looked, and it isn’t there. Are you sure you didn’t drink it up one night this week when you were alone in the office? And speaking of bills payable—”

The door opened in the outer office and Maggie went to attend to it.

“If it’s the building agent after the rent tell him the police are dragging the Drainage Canal for my remains,” Malone called after her.

A minute later Maggie was back. “It’s a Mr. Algernon Petty,” she reported. “He says it’s important.”

“Didn’t you tell him I was busy on an important case?” Malone said, in a voice that he knew, by actual test, carried practically out into the hall. Then, under his breath to Maggie, “You’d better call up right away and tell them to send over a quart of the usual.”

“Not so fast,” Maggie said. “If you ask me, Mr. Petty looks more like a fast touch than a fat retainer,” and, opening the door, she showed in the little bookkeeper.

What met the legal eye was a very frightened and nervous Mr. Petty. He patted the chair before sitting down in it, as if he expected it to be wired for an execution.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he began haltingly. “You see, Mr. Malone, I’ve never had anything to do with the law before. Of course I expect to pay—” He fished a tired ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, stole a speculative glance at Malone out of the corner of his eye, and decided to add another ten. “I know your professional services come high,” he explained, “but mine is a serious case, I’m afraid.”

“What do you expect me to do, Mr. Petty?” Malone asked. “Arrange a settlement for you with Gloria Vanderbilt?”

The little bookkeeper looked puzzled. “But I don’t even know Gloria Vanderbilt. No, it’s Carmelita. Of course I never really promised to marry Carmelita, but, well, you know how women are.”

Malone said, “I see. Something in the nature of a breach of promise.”

“Something like that,” Mr. Petty said. “And I thought you might see her for me and — well, lawyers know how to handle such things.”

“And how much would you be prepared to go to avoid embarrassment, Mr. Petty? Say a cool million or so?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Mr. Petty replied quickly. “You see, Carmelita loves me.”

“In that case,” Malone said, “let’s say half a million.”

“No, no, Mr. Malone, you don’t understand. It isn’t money.”

“Not money?”

“No, it’s just that I can’t marry Carmelita. You see, I’m already married. Thirty years this coming Wednesday, and I promised my wife—”

“I see,” Malone said, “and you want me to convey your regrets to the lady.” He was beginning to feel sorry for the little man. “In that case,” he continued, “it would be appropriate to offer something, don’t you think — by way of heart balm.”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Malone. I promised to fly with Carmelita to Monte Carlo — her mother lives in Monte Carlo, you know — but that was before Mr. Benson offered to help me out so I could put the money back in the safe—”

Malone sat up. “What money back in what safe?”

“Why the three thousand dollars I embezzled, Mr. Malone. Mr. Benson was very nice about it — he’s our general manager. Before he flies to Pittsburgh this afternoon he is leaving the money in the safe for me, and I’ll pay it back to him out of my salary. And tomorrow night I’m going over the books to set everything straight for the auditors on Monday morning. But it’s Carmelita I’m worried about. At first I thought I’d borrow a little more of the company money, just enough for the trip, and send the money back when I got a job. I understand they handle a lot of money in Monte Carlo and they might be able to use a man who’s good at figures.”