"Of the man who cashed that first check? A lot of good that does. Five
feet eight, about 155 pounds, dark, clean-shaven, blue suit. It fits a
million men."
"It would," the doctor said blandly. His face was inscrutable. "You heard
Pelle's story and Albert Wall's. Get statements prepared."
"For what?"
"For them to sign." His hands felt along the desk for the telephone and
he called Bryan Smith's house. "Bryan? Dr. Stone. Do you know where you
can find Albert at this hour? He's with you now? Can you have him at the
bank in an hour? I'll be along with Captain Tucker and Pelle." He put
down the telephone. "You have an hour, Tucker, in which to get those
statements ready and dig up Pelle. He's probably at the factory."
"But why signed statements?" Captain Tucker demanded impatiently.
"Bait," the blind man said casually. "Sometimes you use cheese in a trap;
sometimes you use printed words." He settled into a chair and closed his
eyes, and appeared to doze. The dog, ever watchful, lay at his feet.
Captain Tucker left the room, and presently, in another part of the
police station, a typewriter began to click. The captain came back
grumbling and out-of-sorts. The doctor's devious, subtle methods always
provoked him to a show of ill-humor. The telephone rang sharply--there
had been an automobile crash near the bridge. A minute later a motor
roared into life in the alley beside the station and a motorcycle
patrolmen sped away. The blind man did not stir.
Joe Morrow squirmed restlessly and watched the clock. Mr. Pelle arrived
in a chastened, subdued mood; a uniformed man brought Captain Tucker
several typewritten sheets; the wall clock struck the hour, and Dr. Stone
opened his eyes.
"Ready, Tucker?"
They drove to the bank in the police car. Bryan Smith let them in. Dusk
had begun to gather in the corners farthest from the windows, a
guardlight burned in front of the steel safe, and a burst of ceiling
lights shone from the inner room. Captain Tucker and Mr. Pelle went on
ahead while the bank president saw to it that the door was securely
locked. The doctor lingered.
"Bryan," he said softly, "are there pens and ink on your desk?"
"Certainly."
"Remove them; Lady, forward." And before the man could reply the doctor
was on his way past the teller's cages, one hand holding the
harness-grip, his body bent a little toward the guiding dog.
Bryan Smith, saying that they might need room, cleared the desk. Mr.
Pelle's eyes shifted from side to side and missed nothing. Albert Wall
seemed to wait patiently the outcome of this strange gathering. But what
held Joe's attention and sent the blood pounding in his veins was a
something that lay behind the passive placidity of his uncle's face.
"Captain Tucker," Dr. Stone said, "has prepared statements for Pelle and
Albert to sign. You have pens, gentlemen? Now, if you will sign them----"
Albert Wall read rapidly and, taking a fountain pen from his pocket,
signed at once. Mr. Pelle read his paper through and then read it again.
He wrote his name slowly.
"Albert's paper, Captain." The doctor laid it on the desk at his right
hand. "Pelle's." It went upon the left. "Now, Bryan, if I may have those
checks. First the one Pelle says he didn't sign." It went upon the right
with Albert Wall's statement.
The bank president's nerves had been under a long strain. "What's the
meaning of this, Doctor?" he snapped. "If you have your suspicions, let
us know them. If you have anything to say, say it. Don't waste time."
"Presently," the doctor said mildly. His hands had moved, mysteriously
explored, and had come to rest. That vague something in his face was no
longer there; he was serene. When he spoke again his voice was almost
confidential. "Had that fountain pen long, Albert?"