Sherman Brooks signified that he understood the arrangement. The money was gathered, and the two guards accompanied the cashier to the vault at the back of the bank. Brooks put the cash away and went to his office. The room was an isolated spot between the vault and the side entrance of the bank.
The fact that he was temporary custodian of nearly a quarter of a million dollars was not disturbing to Sherman Brooks. The matter of the civic relief fund was merely a matter of routine. Talmadge’s instructions had been no more than a formality. Brooks already knew what was expected of him.
Through contributions extended over a period of six weeks, the city of Barmouth had passed its goal of two hundred thousand dollars. The sum had been converted into cash to be distributed among the unemployed.
The Civic Relief Committee had, until recently, been a latent institution in Barmouth. Its present activity was due entirely to the active interest of one man — Harold Thurber. The drive for civic relief funds had begun when Thurber, a newcomer to Barmouth, had urged the local business men to support the movement.
Thurber, himself, had made the first contribution, several months after he had opened a small business in the town. His example had stimulated a flood of contributions, and Thurber, because of his activity, had been unanimously chosen as chairman of the Relief Committee.
When the final mark had been passed, Thurber had announced that on a set date — today — he and the other members of the committee would disburse the funds in cash. All arrangements had been made for Thurber to call at the bank and receive the money from Brooks.
IT was a custom with Sherman Brooks to leave the bank at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, to catch a train for Baltimore. Today was Wednesday, and the cashier was a trifle disgruntled because of this special duty. There was no telling when Thurber would arrive; it was probable that Brooks would have to wait for the late afternoon train.
Stepping from his office door, Brooks noted that the clock registered ten minutes of two. He shrugged his shoulders and returned to the office. There was no way of hurrying matters. Brooks had not dared to suggest to Gorgas Talmadge that someone else take charge of the relief fund. The cashier’s job had, for many months, been of a doubtful status. It was a known fact in Barmouth that certain directors of the First National Bank were dissatisfied with the cashier, and Brooks was using the utmost discretion in his actions.
At the same time, Brooks had frequently expressed his feelings to certain men whom he judged as friends. They knew that if opportunity should present itself, the cashier of the First National Bank would gladly leave Barmouth and seek employment elsewhere. Brooks had conducted negotiations with banks in other parts of Maryland; and today, his thoughts turned to his constant desire to locate in another town.
While the cashier was speculating thus, the door of the secluded office opened, and Brooks looked up to see Harold Thurber enter. The chairman of the Civic Relief Committee closed the door behind him and approached the cashier’s desk. Brooks arose to shake hands.
“I have come for the relief funds,” stated Thurber quietly. “They are in your charge, are they not, Mr. Brooks?”
“They are in the vault,” responded the cashier.
“Can you get them for me immediately?” asked Thurber. “They are needed now. We are ready for the distribution.”
Brooks nodded as he rose from his desk. Thurber was standing by the desk, a faint, friendly smile upon his impassive features. Brooks left the office and went directly to the vault. He returned, bringing the money with him.
Thurber produced a portfolio, and the cash was placed within it. The head of the Relief Committee motioned toward the side of the building.
“Others are meeting me outside,” he remarked. “We decided that it would be best to receive the funds in an unpretentious manner. The less time we spend in the transaction, the better it will be.”
“That suits me,” observed Brooks. “I’m going down to Baltimore, as usual, and I’ll just have time to make the train.”
“That reminds me” — Thurber’s voice became confidential — “that I have a suggestion for you, Brooks. It refers to a job — outside of Barmouth.”
Brooks glanced up with avid interest.
“When you arrive in Baltimore,” said Thurber softly, “take a train on to Westgate. Inquire there for Mr. Philip Garmon. He is interested in the forming of a new bank — and he wants an experienced cashier.”
“Philip Garmon — at Westgate—”
Thurber nodded as Brooks repeated the instructions. He calmly took the portfolio from the cashier’s hands.
“Suppose I step in and speak to Mr. Talmadge,” suggested Thurber, in a friendly voice. “I can give him a receipt for these funds; and tell him that I thought it best to talk with him. That will give you a chance to make your train, Brooks — and be sure to mention my name to Garmon. The job is there — and the salary will be — well, more than in Barmouth.”
Thurber’s persuasive tone was effective. Brooks knew Thurber well, and the two had frequently held confidential talks. Of all his friends in Barmouth, Brooks felt that Thurber was the best. Nodding, the cashier reached beneath his desk and took out a small traveling bag that he had in readiness.
“I’ll speak to Mr. Talmadge,” declared Thurber. “I told the others to drive around to the front of the bank, after I dropped off at the side entrance. I think that you can make your train.”
Brooks nodded and hurried from the office, after a quick handclasp. He went through the side door, because the little street led directly to the station.
No one was in sight, and Brooks quickened his pace, confident that he could catch his train with ease. He felt a warmth of gratitude toward Thurber for the man’s friendly cooperation. Thurber was a fine fellow; he was in Talmadge’s office now, finishing the negotiations. More than that, he had given Brooks the lead he wanted for another job!
IT was with satisfaction that Sherman Brooks looked back upon the past. He was glad that he had a friend like Harold Thurber, a man whom he had taken into his confidence. Personal influence, Brooks decided, was the one way to get ahead in life. It was good to have a man like Thurber working in one’s interest.
Back in the First National Bank, however, the actions of Harold Thurber were developing in a manner quite different from the way that Sherman Brooks supposed.
When the cashier had left, Thurber had been standing in the door of the office, about to go to see Gorgas Talmadge. But from the moment that Brooks had left the office and turned into the hallway which led to the side door of the bank, Thurber had made no farther step forward.
Instead, the chairman of the Relief Committee had actually withdrawn into the seclusion of the cashier’s office. He was standing there now, calmly waiting for some unknown purpose. In one hand, Thurber held the portfolio with its wealth of cash; in the other, he held a watch.
Five minutes passed. Thurber replaced the watch in his pocket. He stared directly ahead, and his eyes sparkled cunningly. His oddly molded face was expressionless, save for the lips. Upon them appeared a twisting smile of evil.
Harold Thurber opened the door of the cashier’s office. He glanced cautiously beyond. Seeing no one, he walked softly toward the side door of the bank. There he descended the steps and gazed out into the quiet street. Thurber, like Brooks, found no one in sight.
Instead of returning into the bank to pay a visit to Talmadge’s office, Thurber walked deliberately down the street for a short distance. He turned abruptly, and cut between a high hedge and a deserted house. He arrived at a coupe, parked upon a gravel drive at the rear of the empty building.