Part 21 (2/2)

”Why didn't you know it?”

Vaniman tried to say something sensible about this astounding condition of affairs and failed to utter a word, he shook his head.

”How had you verified the specie?”

”By checking the sacks as received--by weighing them.”

”Expect somebody else to take 'em in the course of business on the same basis?”

”I was intending--”

Starr waited for the explanation and then urged the cas.h.i.+er out of his silence.

”I intended to have President Britt and a committee of the directors count up the coin with me, sir. But it can't be possible--not with the Sub-treasury seal--not after--”

”If you're able to walk, you'd better go over into the bank and take a look at what was in those sacks, Mr. Cas.h.i.+er.” The examiner put a sardonic twist upon the appellation. ”The sight may help your thoughts while you are running over the matter in your mind between now and to-morrow morning.”

Vaniman rose from the chair. He was flushed. ”Mr. Starr, I protest against this att.i.tude you're taking! From the very start you have acted as if I am a guilty man--guilty of falsifying accounts, and now of stealing the bank's money.”

There was so much fire in Vaniman's resentment that Starr was taken down a few pegs. He replied in a milder tone: ”I don't intend to put any name on to the thing as it stands. But I'm here to examine a bank, and I find a combination of crazy bookkeeping and a junk shop. My feelings are to be excused.”

”I'll admit that, sir. But you found something else! You found me in the vault, you say. It is plain that I was shut in that vault with the time lock on; otherwise it wouldn't have been necessary to lug me out by that other way, whatever it is!” He snapped accusatory gesture at the open door of Britt's vault and flashed equally accusatory gaze at the president. ”Do you think I was trying to commit suicide by that kind of lingering agony?”

”Seeing how you admit that you excuse my feelings, Vaniman, I'll admit, for my part, that you've certainly got me on that point. It doesn't look like a sensible plan of doing away with yourself, provided there is any sense in suicide, anyway! You say you were not aware of Mr. Britt's private pa.s.sage?” he quizzed.

”Most certainly I knew nothing about it.”

”I suppose, however, the vault door is time-locked. To be sure, we were pretty much excited when we tried to open it--”

”Verily, ye were!”

The voice was deep and solemn. The sound jumped the four persons in Britt's office. Framed in the door of Britt's vault was Prophet Elias.

”How did you get in here?” thundered ”Foghorn Fremont,” first to get his voice.

”Not by smiting with the rod of Moses,” returned the Prophet, considerable ire in his tone. ”I pulled open the door of the bank vault and walked in.”

”Britt, you'd better put up a sign of 'Lunatic Avenue' over that pa.s.sage and invite a general parade through,” barked Starr. ”I've had plenty of nightmares in my life, but never anything to equal this one, take it by and large!”

It was evident from President Britt's countenance that a great many emotions were struggling in him; but the prevailing expression--the one which seemed to embrace all the modifications of his emotions--indicated that he felt thoroughly sick. He gazed at the open door of his vault and looked as a man might appear after realizing that the presentation of a wooden popgun had made him turn over his pocketbook to a robber. ”Walked in? _Walked_ in?” he reiterated.

The stress of the occasion seemed to have made the Prophet less incoherent than was his wont; or perhaps he found no texts to fit this situation. ”I did not dive through your solid steel, Pharaoh! I used my eyes, after I had used my ears. Here!” His fists had been doubled. He unclasped his hands and held them forward. In each palm was one of the metal disks. ”Your bank-vault door was trigged with these--wedged in the crack of the outer f.l.a.n.g.e. I saw, I pulled hard on the big handle--and here I am!”

”But the bolts--” Starr stopped, trying to remember about the bolts.

”The bolts were not shot. You were trying to push back what had already been pushed.”

Starr began to scratch the back of his head, in the process tipping his hat low over his eyes. He turned those eyes on Vaniman. ”Speaking of pus.h.i.+ng--of being able to push--” But the examiner did not allow himself to go any farther at that time. ”Vaniman,” he blurted, after a few moments of meditation, ”I want you to volunteer to do something--of your own free will, understand!”

Vaniman, pallid again, was fully aware of the effect of this new revelation on his position, already more than questionable. ”I'll follow any suggestion, of my own free will, sir.”

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