Warren Murphy - Murder Ward

When Wilberforce's account showed he had a savings balance of $125,000, up $123,547 from the week before, he brought it to the First Aggie's attention, both in a registered letter and personally. The senior vice president was shocked that such a mistake could occur. The president was shocked that such a mistake could occur. It was such a shocking mistake that a member of the board of directors, Anthony Stace himself, personally visited the Wilberforce home to express his concern.

He paid homage to the fine Wilberforce home and its beautiful decorations and Mrs. Wilberforce bemoaned the fact that so few gentlemen like Mr. Stace were around anymore. Mr. Stace asked Nathan David Wilberforce when he first realized there had been a mistake.

"When I made a $23 deposit by mail and the book came back $125,000. Well, I told your teller, Mrs. V. Hansen, that there must be some mistake. She wasn't rude but there was a touch of surliness to her voice, an unmistakable tone of surliness."

"We'll have to look into that," said Stace, carefully resting his gray homburg on his lap. He was a dignified man with graying hair and lines of integrity in his face. His brown eyes showed warmth and trust. His dark gray suit was cut more for neatness than for style.

He said he would see that Mrs. V. Hansen was made aware of his concern over possible rudeness to a treasured client. And then a wonderful idea came to Mr. Anthony Stace. He knew where the money might have come from. It might not have been a mistake at all.

"Sometimes, Mr. Wilberforce, people are so grateful for favours that they make secret gifts to a person's bank account. Have you done any favours for people lately?"

Wilberforce thought hard. "I did promote a secretary two grades instead of one, but she was a tremendous worker. It was part of a new promotion enrichment program. But I don't think she would give me $123,547 in gratitude. The increase amounted to $900 a year and at that rate it would take more than a century to make up, and if you consider, the interest, it would never be made up. As a matter of fact, it would fall behind at a compounding rate of about $4,000 a year."

"You work for the government then, Mr. Wilberforce," said Anthony Stace, who knew damn well where Mr. Wilberforce worked.

"Internal Revenue."

"Assistant director," said Mrs. Wilberforce.

"Perhaps in your job you have done someone a favour that he wishes to repay."

"Impossible," said Wilberforce.

"Perhaps it is a payment for future favours."

"Impossible again. That would be bribery."

"Of course," said Stace. "I do believe that's against the law."

"I probably shouldn't even tell you this, but there are people at your bank who are under investigation right now," Wilberforce said. "Maybe it came from one of them."

"Investigation? What sort of investigation?" asked Stace, his brows furrowing in deep concern.

"Oh, I can't reveal that. I just thought you should be put on notice how this extra-large deposit may have occurred."

"I'm glad you told me. Our reputation is our main asset."

"Now, don't worry. It's nothing that would incriminate your whole bank. Just sort of a few rotten apples in the barrel. But I can't tell you anything more."

"Of course, I wouldn't expect you to," said Stace, who complimented Mrs. Wilberforce on her son's integrity. It was, he said, the sort of integrity they were always looking for at the First National Agricultural Bank and Trust Company, particularly in vice presidents, and there would soon be an opening, but of course Mr. Wilberforce could not consider such a thing. Of course, Wilberforce said that he could not.

Four hours later, Bonifacio Palumbo and Salvatore Messina were adjusting the brakes on a 1957 Volkswagen so they would not brake. They were interrupted by three armed men, waving guns and badges. Palumbo and Messina fled, reporting to the man who hired them that they had not been able to finish the job. He, in turn, reported to someone else, who reported to someone else, and that someone else finally told Stace.

After a week's deliberation, another order funnelled through the protective layers of Stace's empire. The operation took seven days to plan, three days to prepare, and 3.9 seconds to fail, counting elevator shaft time for Moe Klein, Johnny (The Pig) Pigellino and Willie (Sweet Willie) Williams. Stace naturally did not attend their funerals. He didn't even know the men.

So on a very cold day, Anthony Stace donned the hat of Anselmo Stacio and brought a problem to a close friend in New York City.

"I don't like fires," said Stacio. "I never liked fires. They're uncontrollable. They're destructive of property." He was in the living room of an old friend, who was also a man of repute, with great influence. He was an older man and he wore a thin gray sweater and a white shirt buttoned up to his neck. His wife brought him little cups of tea and for Stacio, a glass of anisette, which he sipped as he sought this man's advice.

The house appeared much like any other brown-stone on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. The only difference was that instead of Feldman or Moskowitz, the owner's name was Scubisci. Pietro Scubisci, a good neighbour and a reasonable man.

"You don't like fires, I don't like fires," said Scubisci. "You don't like blood; I don't like blood. I do not even like harsh words and I am sure neither do you. But life is not an easy thing and a man does not always have a choice as to the comfort with which he will make his living. Given a choice, I would not even be Pietro Scubisci. I would be Nelson Rockefeller, and if I were Rockefeller I would not be in politics but would sit on a sunny island and watch the birds fly by."

"I would restructure the Chase Manhattan Bank," said Stacio, smiling.

"But we are not Rockefellers. So there are things we must do that we do not like. Even the Rockefellers must do things they do not like."

"I have heard that there might be another way," said Stacio.

"There are always other ways," said Scubisci.

"As you know, Don Pietro, and this is no reflection upon you, I have a quiet domain and the need for blood is less than in your area."

"You run a good business, Anselmo."

"Thank you," said Stacio. "Therefore I am not fully aware of what may be the latest methods."

"Since the gun, what new methods are there? Really? Nothing new in a hundred years."

"I have heard of a new way, Don Pietro. A way in which all appears very natural, like an unfortunate happenstance."

Don Pietro leaned forward. He whispered. "Are you talking about the hospital?"

"Is that what it is?"

Don Pietro slowly lowered his head and nodded. "Too much money. Too expensive. Fire. Take fire. What would it cost if a whole block burned down? You're a businessman. What would it cost? Besides, the hospital people, they squeeze your gagliones. Hard."

"With all due respect, Don Pietro, I would like to investigate the possibilities of this hospital. It may be a very neat way of solving my problem."

Stacio listened to whom he must see, how he must approach that person and took one more bit of cautious advice before he left the Scubisci home. From Kennedy Airport, he made a long-distance call to the Robler Clinic, outside Baltimore.

"This is Anthony Stace. I'm president of Stace Realty and a director of the First National Agricultural Bank and Trust Company of Scranton. I'd like to talk to your assistant administrator, Ms. Kathleen Hahl."

"She's busy right now. Can she return your call, sir?"

"I'm on a flight now to Baltimore," said Stace. "I hope she can see me. I'd like to discuss a sizeable contribution. Sizeable."

"I'll give Ms. Hahl the message, sir. Is Ms. Hahl expecting you?"

"No."

"You'll have to make an appointment."

"But this is a sizeable contribution."