“Well, I found you here.”
“But I wasn’t downstairs earlier this evening,” she said. “What time was it?”
“Half an hour before he took his shot at your brother.”
“You see” – triumphantly – “you know I was home then talking to you.”
“I know that one,” Guild said.
Five
At ten o’clock next morning Guild went into the Seaman’s National Bank, to a desk marked M R. COLER, ASSISTANT CASHIER. The sunburned blond man who sat there greeted Guild eagerly.
Guild sat down and said: “Saw the papers this morning, I suppose.”
“Yes. Thank the Lord for insurance.”
“We ought to get him in time to get some of it back,” Guild said. “I’d like to get a look at his account and whatever cancelled checks are on hand.”
“Surely.” Coler got up from his desk and went away. When he came back he was carrying a thin pack of checks in one hand, a sheet of typed paper in the other. Sitting down, he looked at the sheet and said: “This is what happened: on the second of the month Wynant deposited that ten-thousand-dollar check on -“
“Bring it in himself?”
“No. He always mailed his deposits. It was a Modern Publishing Company check on the Madison Trust Company of New York. He had a balance of eleven hundred sixty-two dollars and fifty-five cents: the check brought it up to eleven thousand and so on. On the fifth a check” – he took one from the thin pack – “for nine thousand dollars to the order of Laura Porter came through the clearing house.” He looked at the check. “Dated the third, the day after he deposited his check.” He turned the check over. “It was deposited in the Golden Gate Trust Company.” He passed it across the desk to Guild. “Well, that left him with a balance of twenty-one hundred sixty-two dollars and fifty-five cents. Yesterday we received a wire telling us the New York check had been raised from one thousand to ten.”
“Do you let your customers draw against out-of-town checks like that before they’ve had time to go through?”
Coler raised his eyebrows. “Old accounts of the standing of Mr. Wynant – yes.”
“He’s got a swell standing now,” Guild said. “What other checks are there in there?”
Coler looked through them. His eyes brightened. He said: “There are two more Laura Porter ones – a thousand and a seven hundred and fifty. The rest seem to be simply salaries and household expenses.” He passed them to Guild.
Guild examined the checks slowly one by one. Then he said: “See if you can find out how long this has been going on and how much of it.”
Coler willingly rose and went away. He was gone half an hour. When he returned he said: “As near as I can learn, she’s been getting checks for several months at least and has been getting about all he deposited, with not much more than enough left over to cover his ordinary expenses.”
Guild said, “Thanks,” softly through cigarette smoke.
From the Seaman’s National Bank, Guild went to the Golden Gate Trust Company in Montgomery Street. A girl stopped typewriting to carry his card into the cashier’s office and presently ushered him into the office. There he shook hands with a round, white-haired man who said: “Glad to see you, Mr. Guild. Which of us criminals are you looking for now?”
“I don’t know whether I’m looking for any this time. You’ve got a depositer named Laura Porter. I’d like to get her address.”
The cashier’s smile set. “Now, now, I’m always willing to do all I can to help you chaps, but -“
Guild said: “She may have had something to do with gypping the Seaman’s National out of eight thou.”
Curiosity took some of the stiffness from the cashier’s smile.
Guild said: “I don’t know that she had a finger in it, but it’s because I think she might that I’m here. All I want’s her address – now – and I won’t want anything else unless I’m sure.”
The cashier rubbed his lips together, frowned, cleared his throat, finally said: “Well, if I give it to you you’ll understand it’s -“
“Strictly confidential,” Guild said, “just like the information that the Seaman’s has been nicked.”
Five minutes later he was leaving the Golden Gate Trust Company carrying, in a pocket, a slip of paper on which was written Laura Porter, 1157 Leavenworth.
He caught a cable car and rode up California Street. When his car passed the Cathedral Apartments he stood up suddenly and he left the car at the next corner, walking back to the apartment building.
At the desk he said: “Miss Helen Robier.”
The man on the other side of the counter shook his head. “We’ve nobody by that name – unless she’s visiting someone.”
“Can you tell me if she lived here – say – five months ago?”
“I’ll try.” He went back and spoke to another man. The other man came over to Guild. “Yes,” he said, “Miss Robier did live here, but she’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“She was killed in an automobile accident the Fourth of July.”
Guild pursed his lips. “Have you had a MacWilliams here?”
“No.”
“Ever have one?” –
“I don’t think so. I’ll look it up.” When he came back he was positive. “No.”
Outside the Cathedral, Guild looked at his watch. It was a quarter to twelve. He walked over to his hotel. Boyer rose from a chair in the lobby and came to meet him, saying: “Good morning. How are you? Anything new?”
Guild shrugged. “Some things that might mean something. Let’s do our talking over a lunch-table.” He turned beside the district attorney and guided him into the hotel grill.
When they were seated and had given their orders he told Boyer about his conversation with the Fremonts, the shot that had interrupted them, and their search for Wynant that had resulted in their finding his car; about his conversation with Chris – “Christopher Maxim,” he said, “book critic on the Dispatch”; about his visit to the Manchu and his meeting Elsa Fremont there; and about his visits that morning to the two banks and the apartment house. He spoke rapidly, wasting few words, missing no salient point.
“Do you suppose Wynant went to that Chinese restaurant, knowing the girl worked there, to find out where she and her brother lived?” Boyer asked when Guild had finished.
“Not if he’d been at Fremont’s house raising hell a couple of weeks ago.”
Boyer’s face flushed. “That’s right. Well, do you -?”
“Let me know what’s doing on your end,” Guild said, “and maybe we can do our supposing together. Wait till this waiter gets out of the way.”
When their food had been put in front of them and they were alone again the district attorney said: “I told you about Lane seeing Wynant going in this Chinese place.”
Guild said, “Yes. How about the fingerprints?” and put some food in his mouth.
“I had the place gone over and we took the prints of everybody we knew had been there, but the matching- up hadn’t been done when I left early this morning.”
“Didn’t forget to take the dead girl’s?”
“Oh, no. And you were in there: you can send us yours.”
“All right, though I made a point of not touching anything. Any reports from the general alarm?”
“None.”
“Anyway, we know he came to San Francisco. How about the circulars?”
“They’re being printed now – photo, description, handwriting specimens. We’ll get out a new batch when we’ve got his fingerprints: I wanted to get something out quick.”
“Fine. I asked the police here to get us some of his prints off the car. What else happened on your end?”
“That’s about all.”
“Didn’t get anything out of his papers?”
