The banker shrugged. “Nothing special or in the least bit valuable. You can buy them anywhere. Clear glass, square-shaped, with a concave inside. I’d say it was about five inches square and maybe two inches high.”
“Tell me about Parson Maybee.”
“His full name is Felix Maybee, and he’s the parson of the Church of the One True Hope. They’re out on Long Island now but he wants to build a new church. He came to see me about a loan.”
“You’re the president of First City Savings, aren’t you? Don’t you have a loan officer for things like that?”
“A mutual friend asked me to see him personally and I agreed. Perhaps it was a mistake. In the end I turned him over to our loan officer, but I’m sure we won’t give him anything like the money he wants.”
“How much did he ask to borrow?”
“A half-million dollars, with no collateral but the name of his church. I’m certain we won’t approve it.”
“Could he have sneaked the ashtray out under his coat?”
“He must have. Even when I’m not smoking I’m usually fiddling with it while I talk. As soon as he went out the door I noticed it was missing.”
“There were ashes in the tray at the time?”
“A few, and perhaps one cigarette butt. I’m trying to cut down on my smoking, and Maybee didn’t smoke at all.”
“Anything else in it? Torn scraps of paper?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Did it have the bank’s crest or name on it?”
“No.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Three days ago. Monday of this week.”
Nick leaned back in the chair. “I have no idea how I could be of help, Mr. Norton. My best guess would be that the man’s a kleptomaniac. It’s probably as simple as that.”
“You’ve never come across anything like this before?”
“No, never. The ashtray has no value to speak of, there was nothing in it, nothing engraved on it. He must have taken it simply because he fancied it and couldn’t resist the impulse.”
The banker was obviously disappointed. “I thought you could be of greater help to me.”
“I wish I could,” Nick said. “But as I told you, I’m no detective.” He stood up. “Maybe sometime you’ll have a job that’s a little more in my line.”
Philip Norton stood up too. “Very well.” He seemed about to say something more, but he hesitated.
Nick had his hand on the doorknob when the banker spoke again. His voice, almost a whisper, barely carried across the room. “Mr. Velvet, I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand to steal that ashtray back from Parson Maybee.”
Nick Velvet never asked questions as to his clients’ motives and he asked none that day. He accepted the assignment as if he’d been expecting it, promised results, and left to look up Parson Felix Maybee. He was not a difficult man to find. A phone call to the Church of the One True Hope on Long Island brought an immediate appointment for that same afternoon.
But when Nick arrived at the storefront church shortly before two o’clock, he found more than he’d bargained for. A blonde young woman wearing slacks and a sweater, with a tape recorder dangling from a shoulder strap, was attempting to push her way past a burly man in the doorway. “You don’t seem to understand!” she told him while pushing back. “I’m Lawn Larson from Channel Six News. I’m here for an interview!”
“No interviews today, lady,” the man said, giving her a final shove that sent her reeling backward a few feet. Nick became aware of a television cameraman recording the whole scene from across the street.
The door slammed shut and the camera stopped filming and Nick stepped up to the young woman. “Not very friendly in there, are they?”
She brushed some imaginary dirt from her sweater and shifted the tape recorder to a more comfortable position. Then she turned on her best smile and asked, “Do you have business with Parson Maybee?” Her microphone came up a few inches to catch his reply.
Nick, who’d had problems with a woman columnist on his most recent assignment, didn’t intend getting involved with the press again. “No comment,” he answered politely.
“Have you come to see him about the church’s tax-exempt status?”
Nick edged by her without replying and the guard at the door let him in. “You got an appointment?” he asked.
“Nick Velvet. Two o’clock.”
The guard motioned toward the stairs. “Up there. First office on the right.”
Felix Maybee proved to be a stout man with a halo of white hair that gave him the misleading appearance of a benevolent monk. He greeted Nick with a firm handshake and showed him into a plush office complete with a tank of tropical fish. “You spoke on the phone of a possible donation to our worthy cause,” he said.
Nick glanced at the desk but there was no evidence of the banker’s, ashtray. “I represent someone who may be interested. But I was a bit put off by the commotion at the front door. What was all that about?”
The benevolent parson dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Reporters are always harassing me. Somehow they equate the Church of the One True Hope with those crazy west-coast cults. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“How large a congregation do you have?”
“Two hundred in this area, perhaps seven hundred nationwide.”
“Not too large.”
“Our members are filled with missionary zeal. We will have a million converts within ten years, all preaching the gospel of hope through humanity.”
Nick wondered what that meant but didn’t bother to ask. Instead he casually produced a pack of cigarettes. “Do you have an ashtray?”
“Please, no smoking. It’s one of our Church’s tenets.”
“Sorry.” He put away the cigarettes, wondering if that explained the theft of the ashtray. No, it was too bizarre. One didn’t steal ashtrays to try to stop people from smoking.
“We have great plans for our Church,” Maybee was saying. “And we’re always looking for donations and bequests to help in our work.”
“If your congregation is growing so fast I’d think soon you’d need larger facilities.”
The parson’s eyes glistened. “Certainly a new church is very high on our agenda. But the money—”
“Have you tried getting a loan?”
“The banks are reluctant.”
“I understand First City Savings in New York has been amenable to such things.”
“We have a loan application pending with them now, but I don’t hold out much hope for it. I met their president earlier this week. He is not a man who takes comfort in the workings of the Lord.”
It was difficult for Nick to judge the man’s sincerity. He’d known plenty of con men in his time, and more than one had used religion as a front. Still, there was always a chance that Parson Maybee could be different. Perhaps he’d stolen the banker’s ashtray to use in a prayer service. Maybe he even planned to burn incense in it.
Nick departed after a little more conversation, promising to make contact with Maybee in a short time regarding a possible donation. The parson seemed pleased and saw Nick to the door. Outside, crossing the street to where he’d left his car, Nick encountered the young woman he’d spoken to on the way in. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that Lawn Larson had waited for him to emerge.
“See?” She held up her hands. “No microphone this time. Will you talk to me?”
“What about?” he asked, unlocking the door of his car.
“Parson Felix Maybee, of course. What’s your business with him?”
“That’s a private matter.”
“He’s nothing but a crook, you know.”
“Judging by his appearance he could be a saint.”
“Judging by appearances I could be a hooker, but I’m not. Felix Maybee is under investigation by a half-dozen federal agencies. It’s very possible that his tax-exempt status will be lifted. There’s evidence that a large share of the contributions to the Church of the One True Hope goes into his pocket.”