But the most interesting thing about it was the lack of motivation. It almost seemed — and this was very puzzling — it almost seemed as if the man, the stranger become acquaintance, had gone there specifically to kill her. There were no signs of a struggle, there was no torn clothing or toppled furniture, no indication that there had been a violent argument, nothing even in the stabbing itself to indicate the actions of a man gone berserk, a man unable to control the terrible destructive power of a plunging blade. Everything was neat and simple, Margie in basic black and pearls, the knife sticking out of her chest, the single stab wound.
Neat.
Simple.
Interesting.
It stank.
On Monday afternoon, everything almost cracked wide open.
The bank teller called at 4:00 P.M. Steve Carella took the call. The teller explained that he had first called Police Headquarters to ask who was handling the Leyden case he’d been reading so much about in the newspapers. Headquarters had informed him that Detectives Carella and Kling of the 87th Precinct were handling the case, and then had belatedly asked the teller what his name was, and he had said Derek Heller, and then had given his address and telephone number at their request, and had asked whether he might talk directly to either of the two detectives handling the case. The man at Headquarters had grunted and grumbled and then reluctantly told Heller to call Frederick 7-8024, which he was doing now.
“Are you Detective Carella?” he asked.
“I’m Detective Carella.”
“How do you do? Mr. Carella, I think I have some information that might help you.”
“Regarding the Leyden case?”
“Yes, sir, regarding that case,” Heller said. “I’ve read an awful lot about it in the newspapers, which is why I’m calling.”
“Yes, Mr. Heller?”
“I’m the head teller at Commerce of America. We’ve got seven branches in the city, including one uptown on Ainsley Avenue, which is in your precinct.”
“Yes, Mr. Heller?”
“I work at the branch on Aley and Harris, all the way downtown here.”
“Yes, Mr. Heller?”
“I’ll have to give you this in sequence because it only came to my attention through a coincidental series of events.”
“Take your time, Mr. Heller.”
“Well, we close at three o’clock, as you know, and one of our tellers was having some difficulty proving his drawer. He was a dollar and thirty cents short, nothing to get terribly upset about, but he’s a new teller, and well, these things happen. In any event, he asked my assistance, and we began going through the drawer — the cash, the checks, all of it. That was how I happened to notice this one check. Mind you, I wasn’t looking for it. I was looking for that dollar-thirty discrepancy.”
“Yes, go on, Mr. Heller.”
“The check I’m talking about was made out to cash.”
“For how much?”
“Two hundred dollars, and drawn on our bank. That is to say, the checking account is one of ours.”
“Yes, Mr. Heller?”
“It is, in fact, one of our regular checking accounts, as opposed to our special checking accounts. With the special accounts, as you may know, there is a small charge for each check written. Our regular accounts, on the other hand—”
“Well, what about this particular check, Mr. Heller?”
“It was drawn to the account of Rose and Andrew Leyden of 561 South Engels Street in Isola.”
“Well, why do you find that unusual, Mr. Heller?”
“I don’t. The check is dated October sixteenth, and I know that Mr. Leyden wasn’t killed until October twenty-eighth, so there’s nothing unusual about it coming in to be cashed at this time. I’m talking about the endorsement. That’s what’s unusual.”
“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?”