“How’s it coming, Jimmy?” he called out.
Teller number one turned a face ashen with terror toward the cashier.
“Short again,” he croaked.
“You don’t mean it?” Ector ejaculated.
“Yes sir—” Hackett faltered. “Five hundred dollars. I’m all in, Ector. I’ve checked and rechecked, and it’s lost, that’s all there is to it.”
With shaking fingers, the teller unlocked his door and allowed the cashier to enter. But Ector’s efforts were as fruitless as the day before. Five hundred dollars had taken wings and disappeared.
“Jimmy,” Ector said finally, “you’re up against a mighty smooth game of some sort.”
“It must be that,” Hackett nodded. “I wouldn’t make two mistakes like that hand-running.”
“No,” Ector agreed. “It’s not a question of mistakes. It’s a lot deeper than that. Some shrewd scheme is being worked on you. Why, they could wreck a bank in a little while unless somebody cut across their little game.”
“I don’t believe that I can stand it another day,” Hackett declared. “I never endured such a strain, not even when they made the run on the bank eight years ago.”
“And I guess I remember that,” Ector said feelingly. “Well, let’s go home. Staying here won’t help us any, I imagine. Besides, lightning won’t strike three times in the same place, Jimmy.
And therein the cashier erred, for the evening of the third day disclosed the unbelievable fact that teller number one was again short, this time in the sum of one thousand dollars!
A hurried meeting of the bank directors convened at nine o’clock the next morning in the office of President Wines. With them met Thomas Ector, the cashier, who quickly unfolded the inexplicable series of robberies to which the bank had been subjected in the past three days.
“Do I understand that all the losses have occurred in Hackett’s cage?” one of the directors inquired.
The cashier nodded.
“How do we know, then,” the director asked bluntly, “that he didn’t take the money?”
“Hackett has been with us twelve years,” Wines, the President, answered, “and is one of our most reliable men.”
“Even at that,” the director insisted, “he ought to be investigated: quietly, of course.”
“I have already done so,” Wines assured him. “I put Hayes, the Bankers’ Association detective, on that job immediately. He has failed to uncover anything in Hackett’s doings that offer even a suggestion that he’s guilty. Personally, I am confident that he is above reproach.”
“Then we’re up against a mighty clever swindler,” another director growled, “and we’ve got to oppose him with someone just as clever or shut up shop. This thing’s bound to leak out among our customers, and then it’s ‘good night’ to us.”
“What do you suggest,” Wines inquired.
“Why, get a new detective on the job, a detective with brains, too. I assume Hayes hasn’t accomplished anything from what you say.”
“He has done as much as a man with his limited experience could be expected to do,” the President assured him. “I quite agree with you, Mr. Koontz, that we need a man who has had dealings with the shrewdest criminals and who knows where to look for a thing of this sort. If the Board are of the same mind, I’ll wire Pinkerton’s at once to send us their best man.”
The Board were of a mind with Director Koontz, and in a few minutes a Macedonian cry was speeding over the wires to the Pinkerton Agency at Chicago.
II
It was Thursday morning, and the message reached the Chicago office just as Dan Cheever entered the room to inquire what assignment awaited him. The chief tore open the yellow envelope and read the message, then turned to eye the detective.
“Ever been in Wallula, Dan?” he asked shortly.
“Why Wallula, chief?” the detective countered.
“Because that’s where your bill of lading will land you,” the other grunted. “Some outsider is declaring dividends on a bank of that city by the sea, and the stockholders are jealous. I haven’t one of the office boys loose,” he chuckled, “so I nominate you.”
“Thanks, chief,” Cheever said dryly. “I suppose they didn’t exude much information in that telegram.”
“No, Dan. It’s chiefly compounded of yells for help. Guess you can get there in a couple of days if you gallop around.”
“You telegraph the gazelles that I’ll be there, chief—” He paused to skin over a railway timetable, “on the nine-fifteen Saturday morning. So long.”
“So long, Dan, and your usual good luck to you.”
When Cheever swung down from the nine-fifteen that Saturday morning, he found Director Koontz on the lookout for him.
“They sent me down to meet you,” Koontz explained, “for fear the criminals might be on the lookout and spot one of the regular men from the bank.”
“Good idea that, Mr. Koontz,” the detective chuckled. “I infer from that that the papers haven’t published the good tidings that you’ve called in an outside man.”
“Not yet, Mr. Cheever,” Koontz nodded emphatically. “We’re going to wait till you catch the criminals.”
“Be patient,” Cheever counselled him. “Maybe we’ll never catch them.”
“You’d better,” Koontz growled, “if the bank is to be kept solvent.”
Koontz let the detective into the bank by a private door, and introduced him at once to the President, Samuel Wines.
“What’s the trouble, Mr. Wines?” Cheever inquired.
“If we knew exactly,” the other answered earnestly, “we’d be in a better position to end it. Your presence here proves our utter helplessness.”
“Well, suppose you tell me everything from the very start,” Cheever suggested. “Give me the facts, I’ll fill in the theory by and by.”
Wines was a man accustomed to brevity and he was not long in laying the main features of the remarkable series of robberies before the detective.
“Some mighty clever person is at work,” Cheever declared thoughtfully. “Don’t believe I ever struck anything that on the surface, at any rate, gave less indication as to the how of the robbery.”
“You don’t despair at the outset?” Wines inquired in some little alarm.
“No,” the detective answered, “but it’s a good rule to not underestimate your foe. Somebody with brains is engineering this job.” Abruptly he turned to the President: “How about your employees?”
“They are reliable, I think.” Wines assured him. “At least we have nothing to indicate the contrary, Hackett in particular.”
“Remember, Mr. Wines,” Cheever suggested dryly, “that only good men abscond. The others don’t get the chance, and even if the stealing is done from the inside, Hackett may be innocent.”
“How are you going to proceed?” the President asked.
“Well, first I’ll look over the bank in a general way.”
The President conducted him over the building and finally led him along the aisle back of the tellers’ cages. Here he halted and quietly pointed out Hackett at window number one.
He was busy sorting out his cash preparatory to the day’s work and Cheever could not fail to note his pallid features nor the nervous twitching of his slender fingers.
Teller number one was plainly at the limit of his nervous energy. He might snap at any moment.
Just off from his cage was a room with a big table in the center practically occupying its entire space.
The moment the detective glimpsed this very private room and noted its proximity to Hackett’s cage, he turned to Wines and asked quickly: