Part 5 (2/2)
”We'll close shortly, but I'll have my head clerk count it first thing in the morning.”
Cardoza pulled open a drawer of his desk, retrieved a leather book, and wrote out a deposit slip for the half-million dollars. He handed it to Ruskin, who inserted it into a large wallet he carried in the breast pocket of his coat.
”May I ask a favor?” Ruskin inquired.
”Certainly. Anything you wish.”
”I would like to be on hand when your clerk does the count.”
”That's very gracious of you, but I'm sure your bank has accounted for every dollar.”
”I'm grateful for your trust, but I would like to be present just to be on the safe side.”
Cardoza shrugged. ”As you wish.”
”There is one other request.”
”You have but to name it.”
”I have other business to conduct in the morning and cannot return until one-thirty tomorrow. And, since your business is slowest then, it should be a good time for the count.”
Cardoza nodded in agreement. ”You're quite right.” He stood and extended his hand. ”Until tomorrow afternoon. I look forward to seeing you.”
Ruskin held up his cane as a good-bye gesture, dismissed Cardoza, and left the office. He walked past the security guard, who didn't give him a glance, and swung his cane like a baton as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
He smiled to himself, knowing that he had no intention of returning to the bank merely to count the contents of the suitcase.
9.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, RUSKIN WALKED TO THE BANK, making sure he was seen on the street by the pa.s.sing crowd and stopping in shops to browse, making small talk with the merchants. He carried his gun cane more as a prop than for protection.
Reaching the Salt Lake Bank & Trust at one-thirty, he entered and ignored the guard as he turned the key in the front entrance door, locking it. Then he turned the sign around in the window so that it read CLOSED from the street and pulled down the window shades, as the guard sat there in his bored stupor, not realizing that the bank was about to be robbed. Neither Albert Cardoza's secretary and the tellers nor the female depositor standing at the counter took notice of the intruder's unusual behavior.
The guard finally came alert and realized that Ruskin was not acting like a normal bank customer and might be up to no good. He came to his feet, his hand dropping to the holster holding his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, and asked blankly, ”Just what do you think you're doing?” Then his eyes widened in alarm as he found himself staring into the muzzle of Ruskin's .38 Colt.
”Make no resistance, and walk slowly behind the counter!” Ruskin ordered as he wrapped his gun in a battered, old heavy woolen scarf with burn holes in it. He quickly moved behind the counter before the clerks in their cages became alert and could make a grab for the shotguns at their feet. Never expecting their bank to be robbed, they hesitated in confusion.
”Don't even think about going for your guns!” Ruskin snapped. ”Lay flat on the floor or you'll get a bullet in your brain.” He motioned his cane at the frightened woman at the counter. ”Come around the counter and lay down on the floor with the tellers and you won't get hurt,” he said in a cold tone. Then he motioned the gun at Cardoza's secretary. ”You, too! Down on the floor!”
When all were lying on the highly polished mahogany floor facedown, he rapped on Cardoza's door. Unable to distinguish voices outside his office, the bank's manager was not aware of the macabre event unfolding within his bank. He waited out of habit for his secretary to enter, but she did not appear. Finally, irritated at being interrupted, he stepped from his desk and opened the door. It took him a full ten seconds to comprehend what was happening. He stared at Ruskin and the gun in his hand.
”What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. Then he saw the people lying on the floor and looked back at Ruskin in utter confusion. ”I don't understand. What is going on?”
”The first bank robbery of Salt Lake City,” said Ruskin, as if amused.
Cardoza did not move. He was frozen in shock. ”You're a director of a respectable New York bank. Why are you doing this? It makes no sense. What do you hope to gain by it?”
”I have my motives,” Ruskin answered, his voice cold and toneless. ”I want you to make out a bank draft for four hundred seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Cardoza stared at him as if he was crazy. ”A bank draft to whom?”
”Eliah Ruskin, who else?” answered Ruskin. ”And be quick about it.”
Mired in confusion, Cardoza pulled open a drawer, retrieved a book containing bank drafts, and hurriedly scribbled out one for the amount Ruskin demanded. When finished, he pa.s.sed it across the desk to Ruskin, who slipped it into his breast pocket.
”Now, down on the floor with the others.”
As if in the throes of a nightmare, Cardoza slowly lowered himself onto the floor next to his trembling secretary.
”Now, then, none of you move, or even twitch, until I tell you to.”
Without saying more, Ruskin walked inside the vault and began stuffing the bank's currency into leather money sacks he'd seen earlier stacked on a shelf inside the huge five-ton door. He filled two of them, estimating the take at roughly two hundred thirty thousand dollars in larger denominations, none under ten dollars. He had planned well. From inside banking information, he knew that the Salt Lake Bank & Trust had received a large s.h.i.+pment of currency issued from the Continental & Commercial National Bank of Chicago for their reserves. The suitcase with his own money he left on another shelf of the vault.
Laying aside the sacks, he closed the vault door. It swung shut as easily as a door on a cupboard. Then he turned the bog wheel that activated the inside latches and set the timer for nine o'clock the next morning.
Unhurriedly, as if he was strolling through a park, he stepped behind the counter and ruthlessly shot the people lying on the floor in the back of the head. The m.u.f.fled shots came so quickly, none had time to know what was happening and cry out. Then he raised the bank's window shades, so people pa.s.sing on the sidewalk could see that the vault was shut and would a.s.sume the bank was closed. The bodies were conveniently out of sight behind the counter.
Ruskin waited until the sidewalk was clear of foot traffic and vehicles before he nonchalantly exited the bank, locked the door, and strolled leisurely from the building, swinging his cane. By four o'clock, he had returned to the Peery Hotel, had a bath, and come down to the restaurant, where he enjoyed a large smoked-salmon plate with dill cream and caviar accompanied by a bottle of French Clos de la Roche Burgundy 1899. Then he read in the lobby for an hour before going to bed and slept like a rock.
LATE IN the morning, Ruskin took a taxi to the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. A crowd of people were cl.u.s.tered around the front door as an ambulance pulled away from the bank. Police in uniforms were in abundance. 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 cas.h.!.+” 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 ma.s.sive 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 circ.u.mstances. 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.”
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