A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

I didn’t know, and had no immediate way of finding out.

I waited on the street until a cruising cab came along, and went out to the airport. An aviator who made a specialty of chartering planes to bridal couples agreed to take me to Yuma, Arizona, and seemed surprised that I was making the trip alone.

Once in Yuma, I followed a plan of operation which I had rehearsed in my own mind so many times that it made me feel I was playing a part in a play.

I went to the First National Bank, went to the window marked ‘New Accounts,’ and said, ‘My name is Peter B. Smith. I’m looking for some investments.’

‘What sort of investments, Mr. Smith?’

‘Anything that I can turn to quick advantage and make a profit.’

The assistant cashier smiled. ‘A lot of people are looking for these same things, Mr. Smith.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘I don’t expect you to help me look, but if I find something, I’d appreciate having your reactions.’

‘You wish to open an account?’

‘Yes.’

I took two thousand dollars in cash from my pocket.

‘Where’re you going to live, Mr. Smith?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t got located yet.’

‘You come from the East?’

‘No, from California.’

‘Just got in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have a business in California?’

‘Just sharpshooting,’ I said. ‘But I think California’s just about reached the maximum of its growth. Arizona has a long way to go.’

That was all the reference I needed. He made out a deposit slip, gave me a withdrawal card to sign, counted the two thousand dollars, and entered the amount in a deposit book. ‘Do you,’ he asked, ‘want a flat checkbook or a pocket checkbook?’

‘Pocket.’

He fitted a block of blank checks into an imitation leather folder stamped with the name of the bank, and handed it to me. I put it in my pocket, shook hands, and walked out.

I went to the Bank of Commerce, hunted up the new account man, gave the name of Peter B. Smith, shook hands, told him the same thing, and deposited two thousand dollars. I also rented a safety deposit box and put most of the balance of Sandra Birks’ money in there.

It was late afternoon by the time I’d secured a room, paid a month’s rent in advance, and explained to the landlady that my baggage would be along later.

I walked around town, sizing up the automobile agencies. I picked the one which looked as though it was doing the largest business, walked in, and asked to be shown a light sedan for immediate delivery. I told the salesman I was thoroughly familiar with the performance of the car, that what I wanted was an immediate delivery. I wanted a car that could start out and go. I’d prefer a demonstrator to a new car. He said he had a demonstrator he could have ready for the road in thirty minutes. I told him I’d be back. He asked if I wanted to buy it on contract, and I said no, I’d pay for it in cash. I whipped the checkbook from my pocket, asked the total amount that would be due, and wrote a check for one thousand six hundred and seventy-two dollars.

I signed the check and said, ‘This is my first day in Yuma. I am going to be in business here. You don’t know of any good investments, do you?’

‘What sort of investments?’

‘Things where a man can put a little money, figure on a quick turn-over, and large profit with no risk.’

It spoke volumes for his credulity that he stopped and gave the matter frowning concentration for several seconds before he shook his head slowly. ‘No, I don’t know of anything like that right now, but I’ll keep you in mind, Mr. Smith. Where are you going to be staying?’

I made a show of trying to recall the address, said, ‘I have rather a poor memory at times,’ and fished the rent receipt from my wallet. I held it so he could see the name of the apartment house. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I know the place. Well, I’ll keep in touch with you, Mr. Smith.’

‘Do that,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, and I want to be ready to roll.’

I went out to a restaurant, ordered the biggest steak on the menu, and polished it off with mince pie k la mode. I went back to the automobile agency to pick up the car. They had pinned my check to the top of a pile of papers.

‘You’ll have to sign your name here two or three times,’ the salesman said.

I noticed that someone had written in indelible pencil in the upper left-hand corner of my check the word ‘Okay,’ followed by the initials ‘GEC.’ I signed the name Peter B. Smith two or three times, shook hands all around, climbed in the car, and drove out. I went directly to the First National Bank. It lacked about fifteen minutes of closing time. I went to the counter and drew a sight draft on H. C. Helmingford for five thousand six hundred and ninety-two dollars and fifty cents. I drew a counter check for one thousand eight hundred dollars. I went to the cashier’s window and said, ‘I’m Peter Smith. I opened an account here today. I was looking for some investments. I have found one which is going to require immediate cash. I have here a sight draft drawn on H. C. Helmingford. I want this presented to him through the Security National Bank of Los Angeles. It will be honored immediately on presentation. I want it rushed.’

He took the draft and said, ‘Just a minute, Mr. Smith―’

‘It isn’t necessary,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to give me any credit on this. Simply handle it as a collection. Have your Los Angeles correspondent wire back at my expense.’

He gave me a receipt for the draft. ‘And you wanted some cash?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, and handed him the counter check for eighteen hundred dollars, looking at my watch as I did so.

He said, ‘Just a minute,’ stepped back to the bookkeeping department to verify the balance and my signature. He hesitated for a moment, then came back and asked, ‘How do you want this, Mr. Smith?’

‘In hundreds,’ I said.

He gave me the money. I thanked him, drove over to the Bank of Commerce, got into my safety deposit vault, and put the eighteen hundred dollars in with the other money in there. Then I climbed in the car, drove out of town and crossed the bridge over the Colorado River into California. I parked the car for about half an hour, sitting there smoking and letting my dinner digest. Then I started the motor and drove on the few yards that brought me to the California quarantine station over on the right-hand side of the road.

Under the guise of maintaining an agricultural inspection, the California authorities stop every car, search it, unpack baggage, fumigate blankets, ask questions, and inconvenience the motorists as much as possible.

I swung in close to the checking station. A man came out to look me over. I yelled at him, taking care to run the words all together so that he couldn’t hear anything except the jumble of sound as I stepped on the gas. He signalled for me to pull into the unloading platform, and I gave the car everything it had.

A couple of hundred yards down the road, my rear-view mirror showed me that a motorcycle officer was kicking the prop out from under his wheels.

I started traveling.

The motorcycle officer came roaring out from the checking station and my car started going places. I heard the siren swell into noise behind me, and let it get close enough so the sound of it helped clear traffic ahead. The officer didn’t reach for his gun until after we’d got pretty well into the drifting sand hills. When I saw he was getting ready to shoot, I pulled over to the side and stopped.

The officer wasn’t taking any chances on me. He came up alongside with the gun pushed out in front. ‘Stick ‘em up,’ he said.

I stuck ‘em up.