Upton relocked the door and said in a mid-range reedy voice, “Congratulations, Sheriff. On getting that scalawag, I mean.”
That sounded like York had brought in a kid who’d stolen laundry off a line. But what the scrawny clerk referred to, of course, was Bill Johnson.
“Thanks, Mr. Upton.”
Though the morning had barely begun, everyone in town surely knew about Johnson’s demise, since undertaker Perkins already had the corpse propped up in the funeral parlor window, with a sign that read KILLED BY OUR FINE SHERIFF. York had taken a look himself, and thought Johnson looked pretty fair, considering the extra nostril.
The president and owner of First, Thomas Carter, had no private office, just a big, impressive desk with a lot of fancy scrollwork on its edges, a barge that had dropped anchor behind a low wooden railing with a gate. Carter had been seated, going over a ledger, when York came in, but was on his feet now, though still at the desk. He issued a business-like smile and motioned for York to join him.
The large-framed banker’s black, narrow-lapel cutaway coat revealed a gold-and-black embroidered vest with a gold watch chain; his trousers were black as well, though bearing a bold white vertical stripe. His collar was high and his bow tie was black. Like his lobby, he looked suitably impressive.
Before taking the customer’s chair opposite the banker, York dropped his hat on the desk and also five empty First Bank canvas pouches with drawstrings, as deflated as dead balloons. Also before sitting, the sheriff withdrew from a pocket of his black trousers a wad of folded-in-half cash, a fairly thick bankroll consisting of various denomination bills.
“That’s two hundred dollars,” York said, “taken from Bill Johnson’s pants shortly after he departed this life.”
“Glad to have it,” the banker said in that resonant baritone, though his single raised eyebrow was reflected in his tone. “I’ll write you a receipt before you go.”
The curling bills sat atop the closed ledger on the desk blotter like an accusation of incompetence — but whose?
“It’s a start,” York said, nodding at the money. “Not much of one. But a start.”
The banker gestured magnanimously. “At least you set an example for others of this Johnson’s kind.”
“You’ve never been robbed before?”
“Not once in twelve years.”
York shrugged. “Well, stagecoaches are easier prey. Railroads used to be, before Pinkerton started riding along armed to the teeth. Were all three of your clerk cages open during the robbery?”
A curt nod. “They were. And, as I’ve said, all of my clerks have revolvers at the ready. But we had two customers in the bank at the time, and the robbers came in waving guns. I raised a hand toward my clerks, as if to say, ‘The better part of valor is no resistance.’ Money can sometimes be recovered. Human lives cannot.”
“The two dead men in the undertaker’s window yesterday, and the fresh one this morning, can testify to that. As for recovering the money, I’m hopeful.”
Both eyebrows went up this time, and the banker leaned forward. “Are you? That’s balm to my ears, sir. How do you arrive at this opinion?”
York leaned back in the hard chair, put his right ankle on his left knee, folded his arms. “An educated guess. The un — dearly departed William Johnson had several possibilities for escape. He was close to Las Vegas and the train, for example. And had he headed south, and made it over the border, he’d be livin’ high on the Mexican hog right now — not serving as a warning in a window.”
The banker was frowning in thought. “But he did neither of those things.”
“That’s right, Mr. Carter. He returned to Trinidad. From a standpoint of strategy, that has some appeal, chiefly how unexpected it was.”
“I should think, sir.”
York put both feet on the floor and sat forward. “But doing so carried considerable risk. Johnson may have figured he could get lost in that barrio with a pretty señorita. But considerin’ that part of town is across from the sheriff’s office, I would say his choice was ill-considered.”
The banker cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “Why ever would that villain come back to town, Mr. York?”
“Perhaps to meet up with an accomplice.” Very quietly he said, “I’m considering the possibility that the robbery was an inside job.”
Carter frowned. “An inside... that’s impossible, sir. Simply out of the question. Everyone on my staff — all three clerks, and even the janitor — has been here since we opened.”
“Eight years ago.”
“That’s right. You’re not a native, Sheriff, so you don’t know the history of this institution, or my role in it, but I would be happy to illuminate you.”
“Don’t think that’s necessary,” York said, leaning back, folding his arms again. “My guess is you rolled into town with a bankroll, maybe saved from working in big-city banks and learning the ropes for, say... five years? So you came to Trinidad and opened not a bank, but some other business. To establish yourself as a citizen, trustworthy and upright.”
A little surprised, Carter said, “Yes, the mercantile store was originally mine. I moved here with my wife, rest her soul, from Albuquerque. I sold out to Harris when I had saved sufficient funds to back and open this bank. With so much ranching in the area, it was needed... Ellis was getting all that business. One of my clerks... Mr. Upton, the gentleman who let you in the door?... was with me at the mercantile.”
“What kind of money does Upton pull?”
The banker frowned, perhaps offended. “Aren’t you wading into waters that are none of your concern, Sheriff? Shouldn’t my people, shouldn’t any good citizen, have a certain amount of privacy?”
“Your bank was robbed. Men died. How much, Mr. Carter?”
He harrumphed. “Well, I recently promoted Mr. Upton to chief cashier. Really, his position hasn’t changed, but I felt he deserved a share of... prestige. For his years and his loyalty.”
“You haven’t answered my question, sir.”
He kept his voice low, his manner confidential. “Of course, you must keep in mind that we don’t work the normal sixty-hour week. It’s around forty. Bankers’ hours, as they say. So Mr. Upton’s ten dollars a week is, I would say, generous.”
York and the banker had differing definitions of the word “generous.” But he did not press that.
Instead, York said, “These empty bank pouches that I found in Johnson’s saddlebags. How much do they hold?”
Carter turned over a hand. “Well, obviously, such bags can accommodate various amounts, depending upon whether it’s cash or coin, and what the denominations might be. There’s no standard answer, Sheriff.”
“What did they hold the day Johnson and his amigos knocked over this bank?”
The banker’s tongue came out and caught his mustache, as if he were trying to taste it. “Five thousand dollars.”
“Total?”
“Each.”
York gave a slow whistle. “Five thousand dollars. Five bags. Was that the take, then? Twenty-five thousand dollars?”
He nodded. “They didn’t bother with the cash drawers, or the coin. They wanted the money pouches.”
“Why the hell did these bags have so much cash in them?”
With the patience of a father explaining something to a slow child, Carter said, “Trinidad’s a ranching center, Sheriff. You know the kind of money that comes through those doors and into that safe. Periodically we send bags of cash to the Union Bank in Denver. A Wells Fargo run was scheduled for later this week.”
“So those bags of money were just waiting here for Johnson and his boys.”
The banker’s eyes widened and quiet indignation came into his voice. “Sheriff York, what you’re implying is irresponsible.”