The wail of a siren filled the street and a police car went past them,
traveling fast. Instantly the girl was across the sidewalk and through
the telephone company door. The car stopped at the bank, and Joe saw a
figure in blue uniform and brass buttons get out.
"Captain Tucker?" the blind man asked.
"Yes, Uncle David."
"The bank?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tessie gone? I see. And Tucker and Pelle both in a hurry." The doctor
whistled an almost soundless whistle. "We'd better get on, Joe."
Something had gone wrong at the bank. The boy saw that at once. A score
of depositors clung together in knots on the main floor, uneasy bank
clerks stood behind the bronze grille of the teller's windows, and from
some inner room came a roaring, bull voice shouting in anger. Bryan
Smith, the president of the bank, agitated and flushed, appeared in the
doorway of the little room, saw the blind man and cried out:
"Doctor! Doctor Stone! This way, please."
Joe Morrow, still clutching his two dollars and his pass-book, went with
his uncle and the dog, and the door closed upon them. Inside the room
three men stood about the bank president's desk. The veins in Mr. Pelle's
neck were swollen with rage; Albert Wall, the cashier, tapped his fingers
against the desk and frowned, and a third man, who looked lost and
bewildered, held on to the back of a chair near the window. This third
man, whom Joe had never seen before, smelled of antiseptics and carried
his right arm in a sling.
"Doctor," Bryan Smith sputtered, "this bank has been robbed of five
thousand dollars. Robbed right under our noses. Not fifteen minutes ago."
"By whom?" the doctor asked quietly.
"We don't know. Somebody put a forged check through the window. At least
Pelle says he signed only one check and----"
"What do you mean I say I signed only one check?" the canner roared. "I
tell you I signed only one. I should know! If you were fools enough to
pay----"
"But I telephoned you, Mr. Pelle," Albert Wall broke in. "You said----"
"I know what I said. I told you I had given a check to Fred Hesset for
five thousand dollars. If you paid five thousand dollars to another man
on a forged check that's your funeral. The real Hesset is here." Mr.
Pelle pointed to the man with bandaged arm. "Pay him."
"Not so fast," Bryan Smith fumed. "One check has been paid already. Now
we have another and you say you signed only one. Which one?" The bank
president held out two slips of paper.
Joe had a glimpse of them. Both were dated that day, both were made out
to Fred Hesset, both were for five thousand dollars, both were signed
"Paul Pelle." The canner stared at them for a long minute.
"This one," he said, and pushed one of the checks across the desk.
"How do you know?"
"Because this one is number 1046. I gave Hesset check No. 1046."
"How about your signature on this other check?"
"I tell you that isn't my signature."
With a quick movement the banker scrambled the checks and then laid them
side by side partly covered by a blotter so that only the signatures
showed.
"Now, Pelle," he snapped, "which one did you sign?"
The canner's neck swelled again. "What is this," he roared; "a trap? I
can't tell them apart. That's what you're supposed to be able to do. I
tell you----"
"Gentlemen." Dr. Stone's voice was mild. "Let's stay with facts. As I
understand it Pelle gave a man named Hesset a check for five thousand
dollars this morning. What for?"
"Damages," Mr. Pelle snapped. "Hesset owns a butcher shop at Arlington.
One of my trucks got out of control and skidded into the front of the
shop. Hesset was caught in the wreckage; broken arm and broken
collarbone. I don't carry liability insurance. I settled with him and
gave him a check at eleven o'clock this morning."