“Let’s you and me get to work, Mrs. D’Orsey,” Burnside said. “We’ll start with the deposit accounts, both time and demand.” He opened his briefcase on Edwina’s desk.
By 8 P.M. the initial surprise attending the audit team’s arrival had worn off, a notable amount of work had been accomplished, and ranks of the regular branch staff were thinning. All tellers had left; so had some of the accountants. Cash had been counted, inspection of other records was well advanced. The visitors had been courteous and, in some cases, helpful in pointing out mild errors, all of which was part of their job.
Among the senior management staff still remaining were Edwina, Tottenhoe, and Miles Eastin. The two men had been kept busy locating information and responding to queries. Now, however, Tottenhoe appeared tired. But young Eastin, who had responded helpfully and cheerfully to every demand so far, was as fresh and energetic as when the evening had begun. It was Miles Eastin who arranged for sandwiches and coffee to be sent in for auditors and staff.
Of the several audit task forces, a small group was concentrating on savings and checking accounts and, from time to time, one among their number would bring a written note to the Chief of Audit Service at Edwina’s desk. In every case he glanced over the information, nodded, and added the note to other papers in his briefcase.
At ten minutes to nine he received what appeared to be a lengthier note with several other papers clipped to it. This Burnside studied carefully, then announced, “I think Mrs. D’Orsey and I will take a break. We’ll go out for our coffee and supper.”
A few minutes later he escorted Edwina through the same street door by which the auditors had entered nearly three hours earlier.
Outside the building the audit chief apologized. “I’m sorry, but that was a small theatrical performance. I’m afraid our supper, if any, will have to wait.” As Edwina looked puzzled he added, “You and I are on our way to a meeting, but I didn’t want it known.”
With Burnside leading, they turned right, walking half a block from the still brightly lighted bank, then used a pedestrian mall to double back to Rosselli Plaza and the FMA Headquarters Tower. The night was cold and Edwina pulled her coat tightly around her, reflecting that the tunnel route would have been both shorter and warmer. Why all the mystery?
Inside the bank headquarters building, Hal Burnside signed a night visitors book, after which a guard accompanied them in an elevator to the eleventh floor. A sign and arrow indicated SECURITY DEPARTMENT. Nolan Wainwright and the two FBI men who had dealt with the cash loss were waiting for them there.
Almost at once they were joined by another member of the audit team who clearly had followed Edwina and Burnside from the bank.
Introductions were accomplished quickly. The latest arrival was a youngish man named Gayne, with cool alert eyes behind heavy-rimmed glasses which made him look severe. It was Gayne who had delivered the several notes and documents to Burnside while the latter worked at Edwina’s desk.
Now, at Nolan Wainwright’s suggestion, they moved into a conference room and seated themselves around a circular table.
Hal Burnside told the FBI agents, “I hope what we’ve discovered will justify calling you gentlemen out at this time of night.”
This meeting, Edwina realized, must have been planned several hours ago. She asked, “Then you have discovered something?”
“Unfortunately, a good deal more than anyone expected, Mrs. D’Orsey.”
At a nod from Burnside, the audit assistant, Gayne, began to spread out papers.
“As the result of your suggestion,” Burnside stated in a lecturer’s tone, “an examination has been made of personal bank accounts—savings and checking—of all personnel employed at the main downtown branch. What we were seeking was some evidence of individual financial difficulty. Fairly conclusively, we found it.”
He sounds like a pompous schoolmaster, Edwina thought. But she continued listening intently.
“I should perhaps explain,” the audit chief told the two FBI men, “that most bank employees maintain their personal accounts at the branch where they work. One reason is that the accounts are ‘free’—that is, without service charges. Another reason—the more important—is that employees receive a special low interest rate on loans, usually one percent below prime rate.”
Innes, the senior FBI agent, nodded. “Yes, we knew that.”
“You’ll also realize, then, that an employee who has taken advantage of his or her special bank credit—has borrowed to the limit, in fact—and then borrows other sums from an outside source such as a finance company, where interest rates are notoriously high, has placed himself or herself in a tenuous financial position.”
Innes, with a trace of impatience, said, “Of course.”
“It appears we have a bank employee to whom exactly that has happened.” He motioned to the assistant, Gayne, who turned over several canceled checks which until now had been face down.
“As you’ll observe, these checks are made out to three separate finance companies. Incidentally, we’ve already been in touch by telephone with two of the companies, and notwithstanding the payments that you see, both accounts are seriously delinquent. It’s a reasonable guess that, in the morning, the third company will tell us the same story.”
Gayne interjected, “And these checks are for the current month only. Tomorrow we’ll look at microfilm records for several months back.”
“One other fact is relevant,” the audit chief proceeded. “The individual concerned could not possibly have made these payments”—he gestured toward the canceled checks—”on the basis of a bank salary, the amount of which we know. Therefore during the past several hours we have searched for evidence of theft from the bank, and this has now been found.”
Once again the assistant, Gayne, began placing papers on the conference table.
… evidence of theft from the bank … this has now been found. Edwina, scarcely listening any more, had her eyes riveted on the signature on each of the canceled checks—a signature she saw each day, familiar to her, bold and clear. The sight of it, here and now, appalled and saddened her.
The signature was Eastin’s—young Miles whom she liked so well, who was so efficient as assistant operations officer, so helpful and tireless, even tonight, and whom only this week she had decided to promote when Tottenhoe retired.
The Chief of Audit Service had now moved on. “What our sneak thief has been doing is milking dormant accounts. Once we detected a single fraudulent pattern earlier this evening, others were not hard to find.”
Still in his lecturer’s manner, and for the benefit of the FBI men, he defined a dormant account. It was an account—savings or checking, Burnside explained—which had little or no activity. All banks had customers who for varied reasons left such accounts untouched over long periods, sometimes for many years, and with surprisingly large sums remaining in them. Modest interest did accumulate in savings accounts, of course, and some people undoubtedly had that in mind, though others—incredible but true—abandoned their accounts entirely.
When a checking account was observed to be inactive, with no deposits or withdrawals, banks ceased mailing monthly statements and substituted an annual one. Even those, at times, were returned marked: “Moved—address unknown.”
Standard precautions were taken to prevent fraudulent use of dormant accounts, the audit chief continued. The account records were segregated; then, if a transaction suddenly occurred it was scrutinized by an operations officer to make sure it was legitimate. Normally such precautions were effective. As assistant operations officer, Miles Eastin had authtority to scrutinize and approve dormant account transactions. He had used the authority to cover up his own dishonesty—the fact that he had been stealing from such accounts himself.
“Eastin has been rather clever, selecting those accounts least likely to cause trouble. We have here a series of forged withdrawal slips, though not forged very skillfully because there are obvious traces of his handw
riting, after which the amounts have been transferred into what appears to be a dummy account of his own under an assumed name. There’s an obvious similarity of handwriting there also, though naturally experts will be needed to give evidence.”
One by one they examined the withdrawal slips, comparing the handwriting with the checks they had looked at earlier. Although an attempt had been made at disguise, a resemblance was unmistakable.
The second FBI agent, Dalrymple, had been writing careful notes. Looking up, he asked, “Is there a total figure on the money involved?”
Gayne answered, “So far we’ve pinpointed close to eight thousand dollars. Tomorrow, though, we’ll have access to older records through microfilm and the computer, which may show more.”
Burnside added, “When we confront Eastin with what we know already, it could be he’ll decide to make things easier by admitting the rest. That’s sometimes a pattern when we catch embezzlers.”
He’s enjoying this, Edwina thought; really enjoying it. She felt irrationally defensive about Miles Eastin, then asked, “Have you any idea how long this has been going on?”
“From what’s been uncovered so far,” Gayne informed them, “it looks like at least a year, possibly longer.”
Edwina turned to face Hal Burnside. “So you missed it completely at the last audit. Isn’t an inspection of dormant accounts part of your job?”
It was like pricking a bubble. The audit chief flushed crimson as he admitted, “Yes, it is. But even we miss things occasionally when a thief has covered his tracks well.”
“Obviously. Though you did say a moment ago the handwriting was a giveaway.”
Burnside said sourly, “Well, we’ve caught it now.”
She reminded him, “After I called you in.”
The FBI agent Innes broke the ensuing silence. “None of this puts us any further ahead so far as Wednesday’s missing cash goes.”
“Except it makes Eastin the prime suspect,” Burnside said. He seemed relieved to redirect the conversation. “And he may admit that, too.”
“He won’t,” Nolan Wainwright growled. “That cat is too damn smart. Besides, why should he? We still don’t know how he did it.”
Until now the bank security head had said little, though he had shown surprise, then his face had hardened as the auditors produced their succession of documents and the evidence of guilt. Edwina wondered if Wainwright was remembering how both of them had put pressure on the teller, Juanita Núñez, disbelieving the girl’s protested innocence. Even now, Edwina supposed, there was a possibility the Núñez girl had been in league with Eastin, but it seemed unlikely.
Hal Burnside stood up to go, refastening his briefcase. “Here’s where Audit leaves off and the law takes over.”
“We’ll require these papers and a signed statement,” Innes said.
“Mr. Gayne will stay, and be at your disposal.”
“One more question. Do you think that Eastin has any idea he’s been found out?”
“I doubt it.” Burnside glanced toward his assistant who shook his head.
“I’m certain he doesn’t. We were careful not to show what we were looking for and, to cover up, we asked for many things we didn’t need.”
“I don’t think so either,” Edwina said. She remembered sadly how busy and cheerful Miles Eastin had been immediately before she had left the branch with Burnside. Why had he done it? Why, oh why?
Innes nodded his approval. “Then let’s keep it that way. We’ll pick Eastin up for questioning as soon as we’ve finished here, but he mustn’t be warned. He’s still at the bank?”
“Yes,” Edwina said. “He’ll stay at least until we get back, and normally he’d be among the last to leave.”
Nolan Wainwright cut in, his voice unusually harsh, “Amend those instructions. Keep him there as late as possible. After that, let him go home thinking he hasn’t been found out.”
The others glanced at the bank security chief, puzzled and startled. In particular the eyes of the two FBI men searched Wainwright’s face. A message seemed to pass between them.
Innes hesitated, then conceded, “All right. Do it that way.”
A few minutes later, Edwina and Burnside took the elevator down.
Innes said politely to the remaining auditor, “Before we take your statement, I wonder if you’d leave us alone a moment.”
“Certainly.” Gayne left the conference room.
The second FBI agent closed his notebook and put down his pencil.
Innes faced Nolan Wainwright. “You’ve something in mind?”
“I have.” Wainwright hesitated, wrestling mentally with choices and his conscience. Experience told him that the evidence against Eastin had gaps which needed to be filled. Yet to fill them the law would have to be bent in a way running counter to his own beliefs. He asked the FBI man, “Are you sure you want to know?”
The two eyed each other. They had known each other for years and shared a mutual respect.
“Getting evidence nowadays is sensitive,” Innes said. “We can’t take some of the liberties we used to, and if we do it’s liable to bounce back.”
There was a silence, then the second FBI agent said, “Tell us as much as you think you should.”
Wainwright interlaced his fingers and considered them. His body transmitted tension, as his voice had earlier. “Okay, we’ve enough to nail Eastin on a larceny rap. Let’s say the amount stolen is eight thousand dollars, more or less. What do you think a judge will give him?”
“For a first offense he’ll draw a suspended sentence,” Innes said. “The court won’t worry about the money involved. They’ll figure banks have lots and it’s insured anyway.”
“Check!” Wainwright’s fingers tightened visibly. “But if we can prove he took that other cash—the six thousand last Tuesday; if we can show he aimed to throw the blame on the girl, and damn near did …”
Innes grunted understanding. “If you could show that, any reasonable judge would send him straight to jail. But can you?”
“I intend to. Because I personally want that son of a bitch behind bars.”
“I know what you mean,” the FBI man said thoughtfully. “I’d like to see it happen too.”
“In that case do it my way. Don’t pick up Eastin tonight. Give me until morning.”
“I’m not sure,” Innes mused. “I’m not sure I can.”
The three of them waited, conscious of knowledge, duty, and a pull and tug within themselves. The other two guessed roughly what Wainwright had in mind. But when, and to what extent, did an end justify the means? Equally to the point: How much liberty nowadays could a law-enforcement officer take and get away with?
Yet the FBI men had become involved in the case and shared Wainwright’s view about objectives.
“If we do wait till morning,” the second agent cautioned, “we don’t want Eastin to run. That could cause everybody trouble.”
“And I don’t want a bruised potato either,” Innes said.
“He won’t run. He won’t be bruised. I guarantee it.”
Innes glanced toward his colleague who shrugged.
“Okay, then,” Innes said. “Until morning. But understand one thing, Nolan—this conversation never took place.” He crossed to the conference room door and opened it. “You can come in, Mr. Gayne. Mr. Wainwright’s leaving and we’ll take your statement now.”
14
A list of branch bank officers, maintained in the security department for emergency use, revealed Miles Eastin’s home address and telephone number. Nolan Wainwright copied down both.
He recognized the address. A medium income residential area about two miles from downtown. It included the information “Apartment 2G.”
Leaving FMA Headquarters Building, the security chief used a pay phone on Rosselli Plaza to dial the telephone number and heard the ringing continue unanswered. He already knew Miles Eastin was a bachelor. Wainwright was hoping he also lived alone.
If the ph
one had been answered, Wainwright would have made an excuse about a wrong number and revised his plans. As it was, he now headed for his car, parked in the headquarters basement garage.
Before leaving the garage he opened the trunk of the car and removed a slim chamois case, placing it in an inside pocket. He then drove across town.
He walked toward the apartment building casually but taking in details. A three-story structure, probably forty years old and showing signs of disrepair. He guessed it contained two dozen or so apartments. No doorman was visible. Inside a vestibule Nolan Wainwright could see an array of mail boxes and call buttons. Dual glass doors opened from the street to the vestibule; beyond them was a more solid door, undoubtedly locked.
The time was 10:30. Traffic on the street was light No other pedestrians were near the apartment house. He went in.
Next to the mail boxes were three rows of buzzers and a speaker-phone. Wainwright saw the name EASTIN and depressed the button beside it. As he expected, there was no response.
Guessing that 2G indicated the second floor, he chose a bell button at random with the prefix 3 and pressed it. A man’s voice on the speaker-phone rasped, “Yeah, who is it?”
The name beside the button was Appleby.
“Western Union,” Wainwright said. “Telegram for Appleby.”
“Okay, bring it up.”
Behind the heavy interior door a buzzer sounded and a lock clicked open. Wainwright opened the door and went in quickly.
Immediately ahead was an elevator which he ignored. He saw a stairway to the right and went up it, two stairs at a time, to the second floor.
On his way Wainwright reflected on the astounding innocence of people generally. He hoped that Appleby, whoever he was, would not wait too long for his telegram. This night Mr. Appleby would suffer no harm beyond minor puzzlement, perhaps frustration, though he might have fared far worse. Yet apartment tenants everywhere, despite repeated warnings, continued to do exactly the same. Of course, Appleby might grow suspicious and alert the police, though Wainwright doubted it. In any case, a few minutes from now it would make no difference.