Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (129 page)

“And then?”

“There are six thousand two hundred eighty banks in this country, of which slightly more than six thousand belong to the Bank Association. I’ll get Washington to run off enough handbills for the Association to send its entire membership. They’ll be put on guard against a similar snatch, asked to rush us full details if any get taken despite the warning or already had been taken before they got it.”

“That’s a good idea,” Harrison approved. “Some other police chief may nurse a couple of items that we lack, while we’re holding a couple that he wants. A get-together may find us holding enough to solve both cases.”

“There’s a slight chance that we can take it farther still,” said Rider. “The culprit may have a record. If he has not, we're out of luck. But if he’s done it before, and been pinched, we can find his card in no time at all.” He pondered reminiscently, added, “That filing system in Washington is really something.”

“I know of it, of course, but haven’t seen it,” Harrison commented.

“Friend of mine down there, a postal inspector, found it handy not long ago. He was hunting a fellow selling fake oil stock through the mails. This character had taken at least fifty suckers by means of some classy print-work including official looking reserve reports, certificates and other worthless documents. There was no description of him. Not a victim had seen him in the flesh.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“No. but it was enough. Attempts by postal authorities to trap him had failed. He was a wily bird and that in itself was a clue. Obviously he was a swindler sufficiently experienced to have a record. So this friend took what little he’d got to the F.B.I.”

“What happened?”

“A
modus operandi
expert coded the data and fed it into the high-speed extractor, like giving the scent to a hound. Electronic fingers raced over slots and punch holes in a million cards a darned sight faster than you could blow your nose. Rejecting muggers, heistmen and various toughies, the fingers dug out maybe four thousand confidence tricksters. From those they then extracted perhaps six hundred bond-pushers. And from those they picked a hundred who specialized in phony oil stocks. And from those they took twelve who kept out of sight by operating through the mails.”

“That narrowed it down,” Harrison conceded.

"The machine ejected twelve cards,” Rider continued. “An extra datum might have enabled it to throw out one and only one. But that was as far as it could go; it couldn’t use what it hadn’t been given. Not that it mattered. A quick check of other records showed that four of the twelve were dead and six more were languishing in the clink. Of the remaining two, one was picked up, proved himself in the clear. That left the last fellow. The postal authorities now had his name, mug-shot, prints, habits, associates and everything but his mother’s wedding certificate. They grabbed him within three weeks.”

“Nice work. Only thing I don’t understand is why they keep dead men’s cards on file.”

“That’s because evidence comes up—sometimes years later—proving them responsible for old, unsolved crimes. The evil that men do lives after them; the good, if any, is interred with their bones.” He eyed the other, ended, “The slaves of the filing system don’t like cases left open and unfinished. They like to mark them closed even if it takes half a lifetime. They’re tidy-minded, see?”

“Yes, I see.” Harrison thought a while, remarked, “You’d think a criminal would go honest once on the files, or at least have the sense not to repeat.”

“They always repeat. They get in a rut and can’t jack themselves out of it. I never heard of a counterfeiter who turned gunman or bicycle thief. This fellow we’re after will pull the same stunt again by substantially the same method. You wait and see.” He sighed to the phone. “Mind if I make a couple of long-distance calls?”

“Help yourself. I don’t pay for them.”

“In that case I’ll have three. The little woman is entitled to some vocal fondling.”

“Go right ahead.” Registering disgust, Harrison heaved himself erect, went to the door. “I’ll get busy some place else. If one thing turns my stomach, it’s the spectacle of a big man cooing a lot of slop.”

Grinning to himself, Rider picked up the phone. “Get me the United States Treasury, Washington, Extension 417, Mr. O’Keefe.”

Over the next twenty-four hours the steady, tiresome but determined pressure of Earth technique was maintained. Patrolmen asked questions of store owners, local gossips, tavern keepers, parolees, stool pigeons, any and every character who by remote chance might give with a crumb of worthwhile information. Plainclothes detectives knocked on doors, cross-examined all who responded, checked back later on any who’d failed to answer. State troopers shook down outlying motels and trailer parks, quizzed owners, managers, assistants. Sheriffs and deputies visited farms known to take occasional roomers.

In Washington, six thousand leaflets poured from a press while not far away another machine addressed six thousand envelopes. Also nearby, electronic fingers sought a specific array of holes and slots among a million variously punched cards. Police of half a dozen towns and cities loped around, checked on certain people, phoned their findings to Northwood, then carried on with their own work.

As usual, first results were represented by a stack of negative information. None of Ashcroft’s relatives were missing or had been of late. There was no black sheep in Letheren’s family, he had no twin, his only brother was ten years younger, was highly respected, bore no striking likeness and, in any case, had an unbreakable alibi.

No other bank had yet reported being soaked by an expert masquerader. Rooming houses, hotels amid other possible hideouts failed to produce a clue to anyone resembling Letheren’s photograph.

The silent searcher through the filing system found forty-one bank swindlers, living and dead. But not one with the same
modus operandi
or anything closely similar. Regretfully it flashed a light meaning, “No record.”

However, from the deductive viewpoint enough negatives can make a few positives. Harrison and Rider stewed the latest news, came to the same conclusions. Ashcroft and Letheren were well-nigh in the clear. The unknown culprit was a newcomer to crime and his first success would induce him to do it again. Such a master of make-up had previously concealed himself under some identity other than that now being sought.

First break came in the late afternoon. Kastner walked in, tipped his hat onto the back of his head and said, “I may have something.”

“Such as what?” asked Harrison, his features alert.

“There’s no great demand for that particular kind of bag and only one store sells them in this town. Within the last month they’ve got rid of three.”

“Paid for by check?”

“Cash on the nail,” Kastner responded with a grim smile to the other’s look of disappointment, went on, “But two of the buyers were local folk, recognized and known. Both made their purchases about three weeks ago. I chased them up. They’ve still got their bags and can account for their time last Friday morning. I’ve checked their stories and they hold good and tight.”

“How about the third buyer?”

“That’s what I’m coming to, chief. He looks good to me. He bought his bag the afternoon before the robbery. Nobody knows him.”

“A stranger?”

“Not quite. I got a detailed description of him from Hilda Cassidy, the dame who waited on him. She says he was a middle-aged, thin-faced, meek sort of character with a miserable expression. Looked like an unhappy embalmer.”

“Then what makes you say he’s not quite a stranger?”

“Because, chief, there are eleven stores selling leather goods of one kind or another. I’ve lived here quite a piece, but I had to hunt around to find the one handling this kind of bag. So I figured that this miserable guy would have had to do some going the rounds, too. I tried all the stores a second time, giving them this new description.”

“And—?”

“Three of them remembered this fellow looking for what they don’t stock. All confirmed the description.” He paused, added, “Sol Bergman, of the Travel Mart, says the guy’s face was slightly familiar. Doesn’t know who he is and can’t make a useful guess. But he’s sure he’s seen him two or three times before.”

“Maybe an occasional visitor from somewhere a good way out.”

“That’s how it looks to me, chief.”

“A good way out means anywhere within a hundred-mile radius,” growled Harrison. “Perhaps even farther.” He eyed Kastner sourly. “Who got the longest and closest look at him?”

“The Cassidy girl.”

“You’d better bring her in, and fast.”

“I did bring her. She’s waiting outside.”

“Good work, Jim,” approved Harrison, brightening. “Let’s see her.”

Kastner went out and brought her in. She was a tall, slender, intelligent person in her early twenties. Cool and composed, she sat with hands folded in her lap, answered Harrison’s questions while he got the suspect’s description in as complete detail as she was able to supply.

“More darned legwork,” Harrison complained as she finished. “Now the boys will have to make all the rounds again looking for a lead on
this
guy.”

Rider chipped in, “If he’s an out-of-towner, you'll need the co-operation of all surrounding authorities.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Maybe we can make it lots easier for them.” He glanced inquiringly across the desk toward the girl. “That is, if Miss Cassidy will help.”

“I’ll do anything I can,” she assured.

“What’s on your mind?” Harrison asked.

“We’ll get Roger King to lend a hand.”

“Who’s he?”

“A staff artist. Does cartoon work on the side. He’s good, very good.” He switched attention to the girl. “Can you come round early and spend the morning here?”

“If the boss will let me.”

“He will,” put in Harrison. “I’ll see to that.”

“All right,” said Rider to the girl. “You come round. Mr. King will show you a number of photographs. Look through them carefully and pick out distinguishing features that correspond with those of the guy who bought that bag. A chin here, a mouth there, a nose somewhere else. Mr. King will make a composite drawing from them and will keep altering it in accordance with your instructions until he’s got it right. Think you can do that?”

“Oh, sure,” she said.

“We can do better,” Kastner announced. “Sol Bergman is the eager-beaver type. He’ll be tickled to death to assist.”

“Then get him to come along too.”

Kastner and the girl departed as Rider said to Harrison, “Know a local printer who can run off a batch of copies within a few hours?”

“You bet I do.”

“Good!” He gestured to the phone. “Can I hoist the bill another notch?”

“For all I care you can make the mayor faint at the sight of it,” said Harrison. “But if you intend to pour primitive passion through the line, say so and let me get out.”

“Not this time. She may be pining somewhat, but duty comes first.” He took up the instrument. “Treasury Headquarters, Washington, Extension 338. I want Roger King.”

Copies of the King sketch were mailed out along with a description and pickup request. They had not been delivered more than a few minutes when the phone whirred and Harrison grabbed it: “Northwood police.”

“This is the State Police Barracks, Sergeant Wilkins speaking. We just got that ‘Wanted’ notice of yours. I know that fellow. He lives right on my beat.”

“Who is he?”

“Name of William Jones. Runs a twenty-acre nursery on Route Four, a couple of hours away from your town. He’s a slightly surly type, but there’s nothing known against him. My impression is that he’s pessimistic but dead straight. You want us to pick him up?”

“Look, are you sure he’s the fellow?”

“It’s his face on that drawing of yours and that’s as far as I go. I’ve been in the business as long as you, and I don’t make mistakes about faces.”

“Of course not, sergeant. We’d appreciate it if you’d bring him in for questioning.

“I’ll do that.”

He cut off. Harrison lay back, absently studied his desk while his mind juggled around with this latest news.

After a while, he said, “I could understand it better if this Jones was described as a one-time vaudeville actor such as a quick-change impressionist. A fellow operating a nursery out in the wilds sounds a bit of a hick to me. Somehow I can’t imagine him doing a bank job as slick as this one.”

“He might be just an accomplice. He got the bag beforehand, hid the cash afterward, perhaps acted as lookout man while the robbery was taking place.” Harrison nodded. “We’ll find out once he’s here. He’ll be in trouble if he can’t prove he made an innocent purchase.”

“What if he does prove it?”

“Then we’ll be right back where we started.” Harrison gloomed at the thought of it. The phone called for attention and he snatched it up. “Northwood police.” “Patrolman Clinton here, chief. I just showed that drawing to Mrs. Bastico. She has a rooming house at 157 Stevens. She swears that guy is William Jones who roomed with her ten days. He came without luggage but later got a new bag like the Dakin one. Saturday morning he cleared out, taking the bag. He’d overpaid by four days’ rent, but he beat it without a word and hasn’t come back.”

“You stay there, Clinton. We’ll be right out.” He licked anticipatory lips, said to Rider, “Come on, let’s, get going.”

Piling into a cruiser, they raced to 157 Stevens. It was a dilapidated brown-stone with well-worn steps.

Mrs. Bastico, a heavy featured female with several warts, declaimed in self-righteous tones, “I’ve never had the cops in this house. Not once in twenty years.”

“You’ve got ’em now,” informed Harrison. “And it gives the place a touch of respectability. Now, what d’you know about this Jones fellow?”

“Nothing much,” she answered, still miffed. “He kept to himself. I don’t bother roomers who behave.”

“Did he say anything about where he’d come from, or where he was going to, or anything like that?”

“No. He paid in advance, told me his name, said he was on local business, and that was that. He went out each morning, came back at a decent hour each night, kept sober and interfered with nobody.”