The Chase Clive Cussler (read more books TXT) 📖

He pushed his way through the crowd, saw a man who was dressed like a detective, and addressed him.

“What happened here?” he asked courteously.

“The bank has been robbed and five people murdered.”

“Robbed, murdered, you say? This is disastrous. I deposited half a million dollars in cash here yesterday from my bank in New York.”

The detective looked at him in surprise. “Half a million dollars, you say? In cash?”

“Yes, I have my receipt right here.” Ruskin flashed the receipt in the detective’s face. The detective studied it for a few moments and then said, “You are Eliah Ruskin?”

“Yes, I’m Ruskin. I represent the Hudson River Bank of New York.”

“A half million dollars in cash!” the detective gasped. “No wonder the bank was robbed. You better come inside, Mr. Ruskin, and meet with Mr. Ramsdell, one of the bank’s directors. I’m Captain John Casale, with the Salt Lake Police Department.”

The bodies had been removed, but large areas of the mahogany floor were layered in dried blood. Captain Casale led the way to a man—a huge, fat man with a large protruding stomach behind a vest and massive watch chain. The man was sitting at Cardoza’s desk, examining the bank’s deposits. His brown eyes appeared dazed beneath the bald head. He looked up and stared at Ruskin, annoyed at the intrusion.

“This is Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” announced Casale. “He says he deposited half a million dollars with Mr. Cardoza yesterday.”

“Sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. I am Ezra Ramsdell, the bank’s managing director.” Ramsdell rose and shook Ruskin’s hand. “A terrible, terrible business,” he muttered. “Five people dead. Nothing like this has ever happened in Salt Lake City before.”

“Were you aware of the money Mr. Cardoza was holding for my bank?” asked Ruskin flatly.

Ramsdell nodded. “Yes, he called me on the telephone and reported that you had come in and placed your bank’s currency in the vault.”

“Since Mr. Cardoza, God rest his soul, wrote me out a receipt, my directors will assume your bank will make good on the loss.”

“Tell your directors not to worry.”

“How much cash did the robber take?” Ruskin asked.

“Two hundred forty-five thousand dollars.”

“Plus my half million,” he said, as if agitated.

Ramsdell looked at him queerly. “For some inexplicable reason, the robber didn’t take your money.”

Ruskin simulated a stunned expression. “What are you telling me?”

“The bills in a large, brown leather suitcase,” said Captain Casale. “Are those yours?”

“The gold certificates? Yes, they are from the bank I represent in New York.”

Ramsdell and Casale exchanged odd looks. Then Ramsdell said, “The case you and Mr. Cardoza placed in the vault still contains your currency.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It hasn’t been touched. I opened and checked it myself. Your gold certificates are safe and sound.”

Ruskin made a show of acting perplexed. “It doesn’t make sense. Why take your money and leave mine?”

Casale scratched one ear. “My guess is, he was in a hurry and simply ignored the suitcase, not realizing it was filled with a king’s fortune in cash.”

“That’s a relief,” said Ruskin, taking off his silk top hat and wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “Assuming the robber won’t return, I’ll leave it in your vault until such time as we require it to open our new branch banks in Phoenix and Reno.”

“We are most grateful. Especially now that our currency on hand has been wiped out.”

Ruskin looked around at the spread of dried blood on the floor. “I should leave you to your investigation.” He nodded at Casale. “I trust you will catch the killer so he can be hung.”

“I swear we’ll track him down,” Casale said confidently. “Every road out of Salt Lake and all the train depots are covered by a network of police officers. He can’t travel beyond the city limits without being caught.”

“Good luck to you,” said Ruskin. “I pray you will apprehend the fiend.” He turned to Ramsdell. “I will be at the Peery Hotel until tomorrow afternoon, should you require my services. At four o’clock, I will board a train, to oversee the establishment of our new bank in Phoenix.”

“You are most generous, sir,” said Ramsdell. “I will be in touch as soon as we resume operations.”

“Not at all.” Ruskin turned to leave. “Good luck to you, Captain,” Ruskin said to Casale as he made for the front entrance of the bank.

Casale stared out the window as Ruskin walked across the street toward a taxi. “Most strange,” he said slowly. “If I know my train schedules, the next train for Phoenix doesn’t leave for another three days.”

Ramsdell shrugged. “He was probably misinformed.”

“Still, there is something about him that bothers me.”

“What is that?”

“He didn’t look overjoyed that his bank’s money was not taken by the robber. It was almost as if he knew it was safe before he walked in the door.”

“Does it matter?” asked Ramsdell. “Mr. Ruskin should be glad his half a million dollars was overlooked by the robber.”

The detective looked thoughtful. “How do you know it’s a half a million dollars? Did you count it?”

“Mr. Cardoza must have counted it.”

“Are you certain?”

Ramsdell began walking from the office toward the vault. “Now is as good a time as any to make a quick tally.”

He opened the case and started to lay the first layer of stacked bills on a nearby shelf. The top layer consisted of twenty thousand dollars in gold certificate bills. Underneath, the rest of the case was filled with neatly cut and banded newspaper.

“Good God!” Ramsdell gasped. Then, as if struck by a revelation, he rushed back to the bank manager’s office and opened a book that lay on the surface of the desk. The book contained bank drafts—but the final draft was missing and unrecorded. His face went ashen. “The murdering scum must have forced Cardoza to write a bank draft for the half million. Whatever bank he deposits it in will assume we authorized it and demand payment from Salt Lake Bank and Trust. Under federal law, we are bound to honor it. If not, the lawsuits, the prosecution