Ed McBain - Shotgun

“What do you mean?”

“The man who endorsed the check forged Andrew Leyden’s signature.”

Edward Graham, the teller at the Aley and Harris Streets branch of Commerce of America, was a frightened young man who was afraid he would lose his job. Derek Heller kept assuring him he had done nothing wrong, but the presence of two detectives fairly sent him crawling into the vault, and they and Heller had a difficult job trying to calm him down. Heller was a thin, distinguished-looking man of about thirty-eight, wearing a gray suit and black tie. There was an inkstain on the collar of his otherwise immaculate white shirt. He spoke softly and earnestly to Graham, who finally gained control of himself, at least enough to answer the questions Carella and Kling put to him.

“What time did this man come in, Mr. Graham, would you remember that?”

“Yes, it was just before noon.”

“Would you remember what he looked like?”

“He was a tall man, good-looking, well-dressed.”

“What color hair did he have?”

“Dark.”

“And his eyes?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What happened, can you tell us exactly?”

“He gave me the check, and asked for the money in tens.”

“Did you pay him?”

“First I asked for identification.”

“Did he show any?”

“Yes. His driver’s license.”

“A driver’s license made out to Andrew Leyden?”

“Yes.”

“Did the signature on the license match those on the check?”

“Yes.”

“So you paid him.”

“Well, no, I called the main branch first.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because this was a check made out to cash, and the payer was also the endorser. So I wanted to make sure there were sufficient funds in the account to cover the withdrawal.”

“And were there?”

“I was told there was a balance of three thousand one hundred sixty-two dollars and twenty-one cents in Mr. Leyden’s account.”

“So did you then cash the check?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Mr. Graham, don’t you read the newspapers?”

“I do.”

“Didn’t you see anything about the Leyden murders?”

“Yes, I did. I’ll tell you the truth, though, I never made a connection. I mean, I knew the name Andrew Leyden, and I knew this check was signed and endorsed by Andrew Leyden, but it just never occurred to me they might be one and the same person. I’m sorry. It just never crossed my mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graham,” Carella said.

Outside the bank, Kling said, “So what do you think?”

“I think we now know why Damascus went back to the Leyden apartment Saturday.”

“Why?”

“To get Leyden’s checkbook. Don’t you remember Leyden’s wire to the company? It asked his wife to send him a fresh checkbook and specifically mentioned it was in the top drawer of the dresser. Damascus must have known that too.”

“How could he have?”

“He was Rose Leyden’s lover, wasn’t he? The way this looks to me, he probably spent more time in her apartment than he did in his own. He must have had free run of the place whenever Leyden was on the road. So wouldn’t he have been familiar with the contents of that dresser?”

“Then why didn’t he grab the checkbook the night he killed them?”

“Because he panicked and ran.”

“But he didn’t panic and run. He used Leyden’s razor, remember?”

“Who says he used it that night? He was her lover, Bert, in and out of that apartment constantly. He may have used the razor any number of times.”

“Yeah, but hold it just a second,” Kling said. “If Damascus needed money, why didn’t he go back to his own apartment where he’d left a perfectly good uncashed check from The Cozy Corners?”

“Because he knows we’re looking for him. Besides, that check is only for a hundred ten dollars and seventy-nine cents.”

“So? The one he cashed today isn’t for a hell of a lot more.”

“The first one he cashed,” Carella said.

“You think there’ll be more?”

“I think he’ll milk the account dry before he takes off for wherever he’s heading.”

“Then you think he killed them for the money? A measly three thousand bucks?”

“I know people who’ve killed people for a measly nickel,” Carella said, and nodded. “My guess is that tomorrow morning bright and early, Damascus’ll start hitting all the other branches of Commerce of America, cashing small checks in each of them.” He nodded again, briefly. “Only this time, we’ll be ready for him.”

There were seven branches of Commerce of America, but the police reasoned that Damascus would never try to pass himself off as Leyden at the branch where the dead man was known. They reasoned, too, that he would not try to cash a second check at the branch on Harris and Aley, and so that left only five banks to cover. There were sixteen detectives on the squad, two of whom were on special assignment, three of whom were off duty, and three of whom were serving patrol days. That left eight available men; Lieutenant Byrnes took five of the eight, paired them off with patrolmen in plainclothes, and stationed them in the banks they guessed Damascus would hit.

Steve Carella was paired with Patrolman Benny Breach in the branch on Dock Street, all the way downtown in the financial section. The plan they had worked out with the bank officers was a simple one. If Damascus came up to any of the tellers with a check, the routine was not to vary an iota from what it had been yesterday when Edward Graham cashed the $200 check for him. The teller would first ask for identification, and then say he wanted to call the main branch to verify that there were sufficient funds in the account. He would then go to a telephone and dial the manager’s office, where Carella and Breach would be waiting. Without arousing Damascus’s suspicion in any way, he would smilingly come back to the window, ask him how he wanted the cash, and begin paying the check. By that time, Carella and Breach would have come out of the manager’s office to make the arrest.

In practice, the plan worked almost that way.

Almost, but not quite.

Damascus came into the bank at 11:15 and walked directly to one of the windows. He was a tall, good-looking man, well-dressed, exactly as Edward Graham had described him. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, withdrew a check from it, and shoved it across the counter. His hands were huge. The printed names ROSE AND ANDREW LEYDEN fairly leaped up at the teller from the top of the check. He wet his lips, and then glanced at the check with only routine interest. It was made payable to Cash, in the amount of $200; it was dated October 17, and signed by Andrew Leyden. The teller turned it over, glanced at the endorsement on the back, and then casually said, “May I see some identification, please, Mr. Leyden?”

“Yes, certainly.” Damascus reached into his wallet. Locating the driver’s license, he smiled at the teller, and slid it across the counter.

“Thank you, sir,” the teller said, routinely comparing the signatures on the check with the one on the driver’s license. “I’ll just have to check our main branch, this won’t take a moment.”

“Certainly.”

The teller walked away from his cage. He picked up a phone on the desk some ten feet from the window. When Carella answered, he said, “He’s here. Window number six.”

“Right,” Carella said, and hung up.

The teller nodded pleasantly, replaced the receiver on its cradle, smiled, and walked back to the window.

“How would you like that, Mr. Leyden?” he asked.