“How about the other expenses, hospitals, specialists, all that?”
“I cannot give you an exact amount. However with the various specialists, the private rooms and nurses, I'd say Mr. Wales spent between five and six thousand dollars.”
“Would he have to pay that all at once?”
“Yes. I note here he had Mrs. Wales taken in a private ambulance down to Baltimore for examination. That would be most expensive.”
“Thanks, Doc. That's all I wanted to know,” I said wondering if downtown had checked the banks for any other accounts Wales may have had. Hell, that would be the first thing they did. I took out the newspaper snap of Wales, showed it to the doc. “This is Mr. Wales. Can you remember anything else about him?”
“Frankly I do not remember the face, but then hundreds of faces pass through my office every month. I'm sorry I can't be of much assistance.”
“You've given me exactly what I wanted. Thank you.”
As I walked out he said “Good-by” in Italian and waved.
I walked over to Lexington Avenue and took the subway to Brooklyn, excitement mounting in me. It was a small savings bank and the manager looked as if he'd just been plucked from a fireside, a little on the sleepy side. I'd give odds he was wearing one of those old-fashioned, detachable, hard collars. He gave me the usual song and dance about it being most “irregular” to give out the info I wanted. I told him it was also “irregular” to kill ex-cops, and when I showed him the news clippings on the murders, gave him the co-operation pitch, he warmed up. I was in a small sweat that he would call Headquarters to double-check me, but he didn't.
From his records and the code number of the $4,000.75 check on the deposit slip he told me it was drawn on the Capital Exchange Bank & Trust but he had no way of knowing which branch. Without telling them why, I showed both pictures to the tellers and a tall, slick-looking colored woman said she was “pretty sure” Owens was Francis Parker, claimed she remembered him because the amount was “such a large one" when he closed out his account. That didn't mean much, Owens' picture was an old snap.
While I checked the Brooklyn address Francis Parker had given when he opened the account—and found it to be as phony as I expected—the manager compared Parker's signature card with Ed Owens' lodge card. We didn't have to be handwriting experts to see they were the same—a cramped way of writing “a” and “e.”
After thanking the manager and asking him to keep it quiet, I went back to downtown Manhattan, to the head office of the Capital Bank & Trust, and ran into trouble. I was bucked from one stuffed shirt official to another, each insisting on a court order or a note from the D.A. But I kept repeating, “The solution of the murders of two police officers may depend upon this information,” and finally I landed in the office of the top banana. He was a plump little joker with a butterball face clear as a baby's rear, a pointed waxed mustache, and a good gray wig that took me a lot of minutes to make. I was astonished—he looked like the bankers you see in the movies.
He examined my badge as if it was a work of art, said, “I don't see any harm in helping you, Detective. However if we have such a check, perhaps we'll have to notify the signer that we have given you the information. I'll see what our legal department has to say. First we'll see if there is such a check. Four thousand dollars and seventy-five cents —that's a help, an odd amount, and drawn to a Francis Parker sometime around the first of last month.”
“It was deposited on April 5.”
“Then we paid out the money on the sixth or seventh. Take some time, at least twenty minutes,” he said, getting his secretary on the intercom phone, giving her the information. Then he leaned back in his big chair and gave me a happy look as he said, “As it happens I'm a rabid detective story fan. Read a book a night, best way I know to relax. Only thing I liked about F.D.R., he was a detective fan too. Now I've always wanted to ask a real detective...”
Damn if this character didn't tell me about a dozen screwy plots, asking me this and that as though it was a quiz program. I couldn't come up with a single correct answer and he looked disappointed. Finally I said, “Look, in a book or a movie the crime is rigged because the writer invents all the angles—usually in favor of the crook.”
“Nonsense, these books prove crime doesn't pay.”
“No, sir, the writer, like most other people, thinks he can outsmart the police. He's showing off, saying this is how I could do the crime if I wanted to—despite the righteous ending tagged on the last page. In a real crime, you have to run down a thousand dead leads, like I'm doing, to get to the one that will break the case.”
“But then you have the use of the finest labs, many men, to facilitate your work, whereas the private eye has only his wits,” he said as if letting me in on a secret.
I went along with the game, trying not to laugh at this big executive who sounded like a comic book reader. “Let me give you a tip, labs can help but there's still nothing been invented good as a stoolie. This honor among thieves is strictly for the birds—and the books. You'll always find guys anxious to sell out for a ten-buck bill. And to process a clue in the lab takes time, but one word from a stoolie is the fastest short cut to the solution,” I said, wondering how soon I'd luck up on a guy or two in the know and out on parole, get me a couple of stools.
“Stoolies?” the bank man said, disgust on his fat face. “That seems an ugly, unfair way to—”
His secretary came in and placed a slip of paper before him. She was one of these tall, classy-looking babes, especially in the legs. Big boy picked up his phone and went into a long conversation with somebody—probably in the legal department. This somebody kept advising him not to give out the information. My detective fan kept countering with, “I'm not questioning your knowledge of the law, Maxwell, but we are helping the police.... Sure, but it's part of the bank's duty to the public.... Of course I don't want a lawsuit. All right, I'll come down to your office.”
He stood up as he told me, “Our legal boys lean toward the conservative side, naturally. They say we could find ourselves in a lawsuit and at the wrong end of some publicity by giving you this information. You wait here. I'll be back in five or ten minutes.” He gave me a popeyed stare as he walked out.
He was okay, the slip of paper was still on his desk. The check had been dated April 2 and signed by an Edwin Wren of Wren & Company, a depositor in the bank's midtown branch. The name hit a tiny bell and I leafed through my notebook—Wren & Company was one of the electrical companies Rose Henderson was exposing. And my hunch began to grow cold, it was like adding pies and snakes—it couldn't be What possible connection could there be between Owens and Rose? Yet here it was, unless the bank had made a mistake, and I had to chance that they didn't. Anyway, I sure couldn't ask.
My banker who was having a romance with private eyes waddled back in while I was thinking this over. “Sad news,” he said happily, sitting behind his desk. “Our lawyers advise against giving out the information. I'm sorry. I think it's nonsense but I'm not a legal eagle.” He raised the slip of paper high, neatly tore it in quarters, and dropped it in his basket, winking at me like a kid as he did so.
“Tough, but rules are rules,” I said, rolling with the gag and winking back. “Thank you for your time.” I headed for the door.
He called out, “Be sure to tell the department they'll require a court order to secure the information.”