He was holding a telephone and nodded a greeting while motioning them to take chairs. “Yes, Mr. Abernathy, I will personally see that your account is closed and the funds transferred to the Bank of Baton Rouge in Louisiana. Not at all. Glad to be of service. Have a good trip. Good-bye.”
Cromwell put down the phone with a dead line and no caller on the other end. He stood, came around the desk, and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Jacob Cromwell, president of the bank.”
“These gentlemen are from Salt Lake City,” said Marion. “They wish to see you about a draft drawn against their bank.” Then she swirled her skirt, a bare inch above the ankles, left the office, and closed the door.
“How can I help you?” Cromwell asked courteously.
One man was tall and gangly, the other short and stocky and sweating. The tall one spoke first. “I’m William Bigalow, and my associate here is Joseph Farnum. We are inquiring if any financial institution in San Francisco might have received a bank draft for four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars drawn on the Salt Lake Bank and Trust.”
Cromwell raised his eyebrows in mock apprehension. “What seems to be the problem?”
“The draft was made under duress by the bank manager before a bandit shot him dead and made off with it, including the bank’s money in its vault. We’re trying to trace its whereabouts.”
“Oh, my,” said Cromwell, throwing up his hands in a sign of distress. “That draft came into our hands yesterday afternoon.”
The two agents tensed. “You have the draft?” Farnum queried expectantly.
“Yes, it is in a safe in our bookkeeping department.” Cromwell’s tone became grave. “Unfortunately, we honored it.”
“You honored it!” Bigalow gasped.
Cromwell shrugged. “Why, yes.”
“With a check, no doubt,” said Farnum, in hope there was still time to stop the bandit from cashing it at another bank.
“No, the gentleman whose name was on the draft asked for cash and we complied.”
Bigalow and Farnum looked at Cromwell in shock. “You paid almost half a million dollars in cash to someone who walked into your bank off the street?” Bigalow frowned severely.
“I checked the draft myself when my manager brought it to me for approval. It appeared perfectly legitimate.”
Bigalow did not look happy. It would be his burden to contact the directors of the Salt Lake Bank and tell them their four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars had vanished.
“What was the name on the draft?”
“A Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” answered Cromwell. “He produced a file of papers that showed Mr. Ruskin was the founder of an insurance company that was going to pay off claims brought on by a fire that destroyed a city block in a town…” Cromwell paused. “I believe he said its name was Bellingham, in Washington State.”
“Can you describe Ruskin?” asked Farnum.
“Very well dressed,” offered Cromwell. “Tall, with blond hair and a large blond mustache. I didn’t catch the color of his eyes. But I seem to recall that he carried an unusual cane, with a silver eagle’s head.”
“That’s Ruskin, all right,” muttered Farnum.
“He didn’t waste any time,” Bigalow said to his partner. “He must have caught an express train to get here in a little over a day.”
Farnum stared at Cromwell skeptically. “Didn’t you think that was an astronomical amount to pay a perfect stranger from out of state?”
“True, but, as I said, I personally checked the draft to make sure it wasn’t a forgery. I asked him why he didn’t draw on it from a Seattle bank, but he said his company was opening an office in San Francisco. I assure you that it was a bona fide draft. I could find no reason to be suspicious. We paid, although it took almost every dollar of currency we carried in the vault.”
“The bank we represent won’t be happy about this,” Barnum pointed out.
“I’m not worried,” Cromwell replied significantly. “The Cromwell Bank has done nothing illegitimate or illegal. We have adhered to the rules and regulations of banking. As to the Salt Lake Bank and Trust failing to meet their obligations, I’m not concerned. Besides their insurance company paying for the theft of the currency, I happen to know their assets are more than ample to cover a half-million-dollar loss.”
Barnum addressed Bigalow without turning in his direction. “We had better get to the nearest telegraph office and notify the Salt Lake Bank and Trust directors. They won’t be pleased.”
“Yes.” Bigalow nodded heavily. “They may not take this lying down.”
“They have no choice but to honor the draft. It is safe to say the banking commission will agree in Cromwell Bank’s favor, should the directors of the Salt Lake Bank wish to enter a protest.”
The two agents came to their feet.
“We’ll need a statement from you, Mr. Cromwell,” announced Farnum, “stating the circumstances of the payment.”
“I shall have my attorneys draw it up first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you for your consideration.”
“Not at all,” said Cromwell, remaining seated. “I’ll do all in my power to cooperate.”
As soon as the agents left, Cromwell called in Miss Morgan. “Please see that I am not disturbed for the next two hours.”
“I’ll see to it,” she said efficiently.
Seconds after the door closed, Cromwell walked over and quietly locked it. Then he lifted the heavy suitcase under the desk onto the teak surface and opened it. The currency was piled loosely inside, some in stacks wrapped with paper bands.
Methodically, Cromwell began to count and stack the bills, wrapping the loose ones with bands as he inked in the amount. When he finished, he had his desktop filled with neatly piled bundles of cash, marked and counted. The tally came to two hundred forty-one thousand dollars. Then he carefully put the money back in the suitcase, slid the suitcase back under the desk, and opened several ledgers, entering deposits in bogus accounts, which he had set up previously to conceal money stolen over the years. Money that he used to build up the assets needed to open his own bank. Satisfied that he was covered by all the entries, he buzzed Miss Morgan and informed her that he was ready to deal with the day-to-day business of running a successful house of finance.
The banking hours were from ten o’clock in the morning until three in the afternoon. When closing time rolled around, Cromwell waited until the employees had all left for home and the bank was locked up. Now, alone in the bank’s vast interior, he carried the suitcase down the elevator to the main floor and into the bank vault, which was still open according to his instructions. He placed the currency, one stack at a time, in the proper bins that were used by the tellers for customer transactions. The receipts he had made up would be turned over to his chief accountant in the morning, who would record the juggled deposits without knowing the serial numbers.
Jacob Cromwell felt pleased with himself. Swindling as well as robbing the bank in Salt Lake City had been his most bold undertaking to date. And he was not about to repeat it. The evil act would throw off his pursuers, who would think he was becoming more daring, and be led into thinking he might try robbing a major city’s bank again. But he knew when not to press his luck. Such a robbery was extremely complicated. When he went out on a crime spree again, it would be in a small town yet to be selected.