CORRUPTING THE BANK CLERK.
In smaller cities, like New Haven, banks are not so thoroughly organized
as in a city like New York or Chicago. There is less business, and the
duties are not divided up with such exactness among the employees.
Moreover, every man employed in a bank like the Elm National, of New
Haven, is known personally to depositors and bank officials alike. All
are trusted, and they have opportunities to do many irregular things, if
they are inclined to take advantage of the chances.
Riggs, the paying teller of the Elm National, had stolen a thousand
dollars from the bank. He had told himself, as have so many before him,
in similar circumstances, that he was only borrowing the money. He
intended to bet it all on a certain horse, and he was sure the horse
could not lose. Marsten had been the tempter.
“Sure, I’m giving you the right steer,” Marsten had said. “Ain’t I
always treated you right? You know me. You don’t make that bet with me.
I take your money, and get it down for you in a big room in New York,
just as a favor. If you lose, I don’t get the money, see? It goes to the
room. Now, I tell you this gee-gee is going to win at three to one. If
you win, I expect you to slip me a couple of hundred for the tip, see?
And cheap, at that. Now, who do I want to see win—you, or the pool room?
If you win, I get two centuries. If you lose, I don’t get nothing.
Figure it out for yourself!”
Riggs could do what he liked with figures, but human nature was too much
for him. He figured it out as Marsten wanted him to, and “borrowed” the
thousand dollars from the bank, intending to replace it a day or two
later, before there was any chance of a discovery of his theft. He was
safe from discovery in any case for three weeks, as he understood
matters, because there would be no inspection of the bank before that
time. So he fell into the trap that has yawned so often before men in a
position like his own, and his love of gambling turned him into a thief.
The race in which he had wagered this thousand dollars was run, and, to
his horror, his horse, that Marsten had told him was sure to win, ran
last. He could not know that Marsten had simply pocketed the money. In
giving him the tip, Marsten had picked the one horse in the race that
had not one chance in a thousand of winning.
Had the horse, by some miracle, won, Marsten would have paid the bet out
of his own pocket, knowing that he would get the money back two or three
times over as the result of the inspiriting effect of this one victory.
But the miracle hadn’t occurred—it very seldom does—and poor Riggs,
knowing the truth, and that in a short time he was sure to be branded as
a thief in the town where he had spent his whole life, was almost
determined to end his troubles by suicide.
Had it not been for the appearance of Barrows with his scheme, Marsten
would have let Riggs kill himself, and would not even have been
conscience-stricken by the act. Gamblers harden themselves to things
that would turn the stomach of the ordinary man if he thought he was
responsible for them. But there was a use for Riggs; so Marsten,
professing great regret, sent for him and gave him a chance to talk to
Barrows.
“By Jove, Riggs!” he said. “I’m sorry about that. A thing of that sort,
a perfectly straight inside tip, doesn’t go wrong once in a thousand
times. I suppose it was just our bad luck that made us strike the
thousandth time. Better luck next time.”
“There’ll be no next time for me,” said Riggs, almost crying. “If I
don’t get that thousand back, I’m a ruined man. My heavens, this is
awful!”
“You don’t mean to say you took the bank’s money?” exclaimed Marsten, as
if the idea were a complete surprise.
“That’s just what I did,” said Riggs. “You said it was a sure thing,
Marsten. I thought there was no risk at all. Can’t you help me out?”
“I wish I could,” said Marsten, shaking his head sadly. “I’d do it in a
minute, if I had the money. But I lost pretty heavily on that tip
myself. I thought it was safe, just as you did. However, there may be
some way of working this out. I’ll call a friend of mine here who may be
able to suggest something.”
And he came back with Barrows. Barrows heard the story with deep
attention.
“You can’t raise this money, I suppose?” he said. “You haven’t anything
put away?”
“On my salary?” said Riggs. “I should say not.”
“That’s just the trouble,” said Barrows. “It’s the fault of the bank,
for not giving a man a living wage. They’ve only themselves to blame if
anything goes wrong like this. That’s what has turned me into a
socialist. When we get control, the men who oppress the poor and make
men work for starvation wages won’t be allowed to keep their ill-gotten
gains. It may be a long time before we can win in a national election.
But in the meantime we are at work quietly. There is an organization
that makes it its business to adjust the balance of wealth in all the
countries of the world. I am at the head of it in this State. The law,
made by capitalists, calls what we take stealing, but that won’t last
long.
“Perhaps, if you will work with us, we can help you in this matter. We
cannot make the directors of your bank give up their unearned profits,
but we can take them away from them. The money we get is used for the
cause, and no one really suffers. We do not take from the poor. Instead,
we give to them. We help strikes and relieve distress.”
“Do you mean you’d rob the bank?” asked Riggs, in horror. He had been
too long a banker not to be appalled by such a suggestion.
“Call it that, if you like,” said Barrows, who was enjoying his task of
playing socialist to fool Riggs, who was an innocent, weak-minded little
man. “That’s what most people would call what I’m suggesting. But you
want to remember that it’s just what you’ve done. Stealing is stealing,
whether you take a thousand dollars or two hundred thousand. And our way
is safe from detection. No one will ever put us in jail—which is what
they will do to you as soon as they find out what you have done.”
For the first time Riggs seemed to realize where he stood. He had
convinced himself so thoroughly that he was only borrowing, that the
idea that he was a thief was difficult for him to grasp.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, shuddering. “I don’t see what
good I can be to you.”
“We won’t ask you to take a cent,” said Barrows, almost pitying the
little bank clerk, so abject was his terror. “But we’ll need you in the
work of enforcing a division of the spoils of these men you work for,
who are the real robbers. We will want you to tell us all about the
construction of the bank; to give us the combination of the vault and
the safes, if you can, and to help us in other ways. You will be
perfectly safe. The thousand you took will appear to have gone with the
larger sum that we shall take, and I will see that you get, as your
share, another thousand dollars.”
The fear of arrest hung over Riggs. He could not bear the idea of public
disgrace. At another time he would have been able to see how ridiculous
were the sentiments that Barrows was setting forth. It was not
socialism, except in a distorted and absurd form, that Barrows was
preaching to him. But Riggs wanted to be convinced. He was like a
drowning man, clutching at a straw, and the chance to escape the
detection that had seemed inevitable was too much for him.
When he had taken the thousand dollars, he had been able to convince
himself that he was not stealing it. He was still, in his own eyes,
honest. His theft, as he saw it, was only technical. And now it was the
same. Before he could agree to what Barrows might demand, he had to
convince himself that his employers had treated him badly, and that in
helping these men to rob them, he was taking part in the fight for human
rights. A thorough weakling, easily impressed and guided by a stronger
will, Riggs did not find it hard to do this. He did not think very long
before agreeing to what Barrows wanted.
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