Payoff for the Banker (14 page)

Jerry ran his hand through his hair again.

“But—” he began. Then he stopped and a faraway look came into his eyes. He looked at Bill and Bill began to nod.

“Listen, Pam,” Jerry said. “I almost hate to ask this, but—was it a certified check?”

Pam said oh yes, it was certified all right. She said that that was one of the things the bank kept saying over and over. The bank kept saying over and over, “but it was a
certified
check. People don't tear up
certified
checks.”

“Which,” Pam added, “was nonsense. Because as I kept telling
them
over and over, I had.”

9

W
EDNESDAY
, 9:20
A.M. TO
1:15
P.M.

The late editions of the morning newspapers had noticeably lost interest. The
Times
did, to be sure, begin the story on Page 1, but not as if it were really proud of it. It did run it for two columns, giving a good deal more detail—including speculative detail about Mary Hunter—than the tabloids, but the account had a slight air of weariness. The
Times
, without saying so, indicated that the case was finished with the suicide of Murdock. And at the end of the second column, the
Times
definitely dropped the subject. The
Herald Tribune
retained slightly more optimism, and fought against its own gloomy conviction that the case was solved, but it did not fight with confidence. The
News
moved the story to Page 2 and gave Page 3 back to the war and the iniquities of the administration. The
Mirror
hinted that there was more to all of it than met the eye, but its hints were unusually shadowy.

It was all, Bill Weigand decided, as it should be. Always providing that eventually he got somewhere. He sighed and took up reports. For the most part they confirmed the already known—the fracture of Murdock's wrist, the index fingerprint on the gun, the identity of the gun with the one used to kill Merle, the importance of Merle, who, in addition to being a banker, was in the Social Register, was affectionately mentioned in Dun and Bradstreet and was favorably known to the financial secretaries of half a dozen accredited charities. He was also, the
Times
noted, a distinguished layman.

“What I could do with,” Weigand told Mullins, “is somebody who didn't like him. Somebody who thought he was a heel. I want the Nell he did wrong by. Nobody kills a saint.”

Mullins looked puzzled.

“Look, Loot,” he said, “that's how they get to be saints. Lots of times. By being killed.”

Bill looked at Mullins sharply, uneasily suspecting him of cynicism. Then he smiled. He said he didn't mean real saints—church saints.

“Oh,” Mullins said. “O.K., Loot.”

Mullins tapped a cigarette out of Weigand's package. He lighted it.

“Like always,” he said, when the light was certain, “there're rumors. About girls, mostly. Only not anything you can put a finger on. You say, maybe, that it looks like Mr. Merle was a pretty fine citizen, respectable and everything. And somebody says, ‘Yeah, that's how it looks, doesn't it?' in a kinda funny way. Like they were thinking about girls, or maybe that he used to rob the poor box when he had the time. Or you say, ‘Did he have any girl friends?' and people say they wouldn't know about that as if they would know about it but ain't saying.”

“But,” Bill said, “nothing you can pin down?”

Mullins shook his head. He said that was the size of it. Nothing you could pin down.

“Only,” he said, “I've been getting the idea that a lot of people didn't like him much. Even if he did own a bank.”

Merle hadn't, Bill Weigand pointed out, really owned the bank. Not all of it. He had merely run it. Mullins said that, as far as he could see, that was just as good. Either way, you made out all right. George Merle was an outstanding example of a guy who had made out all right.

“He's
really
got it,” Mullins said. “He's going to make the inheritance tax collectors a fine corpse. State
and
Federal.”

Bill Weigand said he supposed there wasn't any doubt of that. Mullins said that he hadn't, of course, counted it personally, but if it wasn't there a lot of people were going to be mighty surprised. Including, Mullins said he wouldn't wonder, the guy who bumped him off.

“Or,” Mullins added, looking at Lieutenant Weigand to see how he took it, “the girl.”

“Or the girl,” Bill agreed, without indicating anything by his tone. “Anybody can use a gun. Which girl do you favor, Sergeant?”

Mullins said he hadn't thought of more than one. The girl who lived in the apartment. Weigand explained Laurel Burke-Murdock and Mullins nodded during the explanation, indicating that he would consider her, too. But he said he still thought that if it was a dame, it was the Hunter dame. If it was a guy, it probably was Josh Merle.

“On account of he probably gets the money,” Mullins said. “And when rich guys get killed, you look for the guy who gets the money.

“Oh, while we're talking about him,” Mullins said, “the Navy came through.”

He took a two-page letter out of a brown envelope and tossed it to Weigand. It was “From: Bureau of Naval Personnel, To: Commanding Officer, Homicide Bureau, New York, New York, Police Department.” It was “Subject: Cadet Joshua Merle, Service record of and it was divided by numerals, one, two, three.

Extracted from verbiage, the facts were not complex. Joshua Merle had been a naval aviation cadet until eight months previously, in training as a bomber pilot. He had been separated from the service, honorably, because of injuries received in training.

“Subject cadet,” the letter said, “crashed in landing in a twin-motored training plane, sustaining extensive injuries to his right foot, said injuries necessitating his separation from the service. Cadet Weldon Jameson, flying with Merle at the time, was similarly seriously injured, sustaining a fracture of the right knee. Both cadets were separated from the service after treatment failed to render them fit for further active service in the United States Navy.”

Weigand read the letter, glanced over it again and tossed it into the “File” basket. He remarked that it didn't say who was piloting the plane at the time of the crash.

“Should it?” Mullins said. “Do we want to know?”

“We want to know everything, don't we, Sergeant?” Bill Weigand inquired, politely. “We leave no stones unturned, Sergeant.”

“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said, not evidently discomfited. “Do we want to know much?”

Bill Weigand thought it over for a moment. He said he didn't think they wanted to know much. There were, anyway, things they wanted to know more. For one thing, he would like to know more about the way Joshua Merle had spent his afternoon in town—more specifically. He would like to have somebody find some people Joshua Merle had talked to; he would like to know what bars he had visited, and whether any of them remembered his visits. He would like to know when young Merle limped out of the Yale Club. He would like to know why he walked so much.

“Yeah,” Mullins said. “With a game foot and all.”

“Right,” Weigand said.

Mullins sighed and got up. Bill Weigand watched him a moment and then said, “Not you, Mullins. We'll put some of the other boys on it. You and I are going out on Long Island to look around a bit.”

Mullins broke a sigh in two. He sat quickly and said, “O.K., Loot,” with enthusiasm. Weigand picked up the telephone. When he put it down he had talked to the State Police and arranged for one of the men from the Criminal Identification Department to go with him to the Merle house, lending authority where Weigand, directly, lacked it. He had talked to a lawyer in a small town—but a town with very rich connections—on the North Shore and had arranged to have a look at George Merle's will.

He had talked to Deputy Chief Inspector O'Malley—he had listened to Deputy Chief Inspector O'Malley. Then he had stood up, looked abstractedly at his desk and let his fingers drum on it, and gone rather suddenly to the door.

In the Buick he let Mullins drive. But when Mullins, angling east toward the East River Drive, came to Fourth Avenue, Bill suddenly checked him.

“Uptown,” he said. “We may as well go by Mr. Merle's bank.”

They went up Fourth and into Park; above Grand Central they turned west to Madison. The bank was a large and dignified one in the Fifties. It had not closed in memory of Mr. Merle; there was no display of crêpe. But the vice president to whom Weigand's inquiries took them was adequately funereal. Pain crossed his face when Mr. Merle was mentioned and he murmured, with evident reverence, some memorial words. Weigand agreed that it was very sad. He nudged the conversation toward facts.

Mr. Merle had come in at a little after ten the day before, in accordance with his custom. He had been in his office until around one, when he had gone out, no doubt to lunch. He had returned before three and remained until almost four thirty.

“Rather later than usual,” the vice president said. “He was an example to all of us.”

Mullins started to say “Huh?” but Weigand's eyes stopped him. Weigand repeated that it was very sad. He wondered whether he might see Mr. Merle's secretary.

The vice president's face was not a mobile one, but it displayed surprising mobility. He looked at Weigand with eyes, which, in the face of a lesser man, would have expressed astonishment.

“But—” he said and stopped. He tried it again.

“But, Lieutenant,” he said. “Mr. Murdock is—is dead. He—he died. I thought—that is, I understood—I mean—.”

“Right,” Bill said, smiling faintly. “I hadn't realized that Mr. Murdock was Mr. Merle's secretary. I am quite aware that Mr. Murdock is dead, as the newspapers say. But didn't Mr. Merle have another secretary? A—I don't know what you would call it. A stenographic secretary?”

“Oh,” the vice president said. “You mean Miss Werty?”

“Miss?” Weigand said. “Oh, yes—no doubt I mean Miss Werty. I wonder whether I might see Miss Werty?”

He could. He did. Miss Werty appeared, with notebook. Miss Werty was thin and dark and constricted. Her face was set in somber lines. When Mr. Merle's name was mentioned she shook her head, unbelieving of the cruelty of fate. She said it was very hard to believe.

“Sad,” Weigand said. “Very sad indeed.”

Miss Werty, he thought, was the best evidence he had yet seen to disprove any hints about the unsaintliness of Mr. Merle. Miss Werty marked the late Mr. Merle as ascetic. Miss Werty had been chosen for efficiency.

She proved it. Mr. Merle had arrived at 10:34 the previous morning. He had answered some mail—nothing of importance.

“A matter of a loan,” she said. “And of a drive chairmanship. He was as efficient as he always was and as—as concise. He decided instantly as he always did—no or yes as the case might be.”

He had left at 1:10 and had returned at ten minutes of three. He had dictated several letters and had gone, leaving them to be signed in the morning, at 4:35. Miss Werty, it was clear, was Mr. Merle's time clock. Weigand nodded and complimented her. He assured himself that none of the mail Miss Werty had opened for Mr. Merle had been of importance; that there had been two letters marked “personal” which she had not opened.

“By the way,” he said, “can you tell me anything about Mr. Murdock? What time he came and went, for example?”

Miss Werty said, “Oh, I don't know, I'm sure,” in a tone which indicated that Mr. Murdock had by no means been important enough to keep track of. Weigand pressed, gently. Had Mr. Murdock, for example, been in during the morning?

“Oh, yes,” Miss Werty said. “Naturally. A little before Mr. Merle.”

And he had remained—?

“I
really
can't say,” Miss Werty said. “He was around during the morning I suppose. No doubt his secretary would know.”

“No doubt,” Weigand agreed. “Did he see Mr. Merle?”

“I believe Mr. Merle summoned him about noon,” Miss Werty said. Her tone implied that the issuance of such a summons had been a regrettable, but minor, lapse on the part of Mr. Merle.

“And you were in the office at the time?” Weigand suggested. Miss Werty unexpectedly flushed.

“I summoned Mr. Murdock,” she said, and was haughty. “Then I—I had some other duties, of course.”

“Of course,” Weigand agreed. “Was Murdock with Mr. Merle for any considerable time?”

“I'm sure I—” she began. “About an hour,” she ended. “Mr. Merle sent Mr. Murdock somewhere and he left about ten minutes before Mr. Merle did.” She looked at Bill Weigand with meaning, although it was not clear what the meaning was. “He was gone all afternoon,” she said. “All afternoon. He didn't come back at all.”

Weigand said it was all very interesting and thanked Miss Werty and praised the clarity and succinctness of her answers. Miss Werty left. The vice president smiled faintly, momentarily relaxed.

“The old girl didn't like Murdock,” he said. “Call it professional jealousy. But don't think she didn't know every move he made.”

“Every move?” Weigand repeated.

The vice president looked at the detective with calculation.

“I don't know,” he said, “that any of us knew quite every move Mr. Murdock made. Except Mr. Merle, of course.”

“Mr. Merle used him for—private errands?” Weigand suggested.

The vice president turned all vice president. He was sure he didn't know. His tone implied that the president of a bank could have no private errands to be done; that with such a man all was openly arrived at.

“I have a feeling that Murdock was Mr. Merle's—how would you say it—confidential man,” Weigand said. “His—personal representative. You think not?”