door.
A nice little branch, floored and walled in a streaky marble of pink, white, green and grey. The tellers were behind a fine counter of the same marble, and probably each was equipped with an alarm button beside the right knee placed so it wouldn’t be knocked accidentally but was easy to reach. There were five teller slots, but only two working; several-customers?-clients?-patrons?-were inside, but no line had formed.
His gold badge admitted him through an electric gate in the counter, and he was conducted to a large desk in the far left corner where Mr. Percy Lambert, the manager, sat looking gloomy.
“Captain, I’m so glad to see you,” said Lambert, a tall, thin man with scant hair and the facial lines of one who suffered chronic indigestion.
Carmine sat in the client’s chair and looked competent. “I gather the money that was taken was your cash reserve for the next day?” he asked. “Answer me as if I know nothing, it’s my usual technique. Sometimes repetition jogs the memory,” he explained smoothly.
“Yes, it was the next day’s cash reserve. Under ordinary circumstances it’s sufficient to get us through, but if we have a heavy run on cash, I call head office in Cromwell Street and get more,” said Mr. Lambert.
“Does that happen often?”
“No, as I usually cater for known periods of high demand, like holiday weekends. Weekends I have to keep additional funds in house, as all our other branches are closed. The Busquash Mall is special. The Fourth National has a branch here too, and we alternate weekends. Holiday weekends, we’re both open.”
“I see. Was there anything special about the money, sir? Was it sequentially numbered? New or used?”
“Used bills, non-sequential.” The long face grew longer. “Ideal for a robber. It wasn’t marked in any way.”
“Show me where and how.”
The back right-hand corner of the big premises had been cut off from the general area by an extremely pretty cage of gold bars adorned with curlicues and simple lacework. The area inside it was ten by ten feet, its rear wall taken up by a series of safes with heavy, branched handles and numbered dials. A console sat against the front row of bars, and the entrance door was to the only free side, the left.
“We changed the lock immediately,” Lambert said as he turned a key several times back and forth, “but it’s being converted to a proper combination lock whose numbers will be changed daily.”
“You’re insured, of course.”
“Oh, yes.”
They walked in, a squeeze for Carmine, who vowed to check his weight at the police gym that very day.
“We have no safety deposit boxes or facilities for really big sums of money,” Lambert said. “I guess if I expected any kind of robbery, it was a holdup.”
“And none ever happened?”
“No, none, even aborted.”
“Has Detective Sergeant Jones been back to see you?”
“No,” Lambert said, sounding unconcerned. “I told him at the time that I didn’t think he’d solve it. I’ve racked my brains, Captain, and can’t ever remember the keys to the strong room out of my hands, let alone gone missing.”
“Do you carry them on your person?”
“No, I can’t. They’re heavy-the tellers’ drawers are on the same ring, and several keys to those safes back there.”
“So they’re in your desk? Known to be?”
“Not quite. They’re in that safe in my far corner-under the imitation fern. And I’m the only one with its combination.”
“Then your security is good, Mr. Lambert. Just keep your eyes peeled for anyone who reveals knowledge about the bank’s locks, and particularly your safe combination.” His voice remained dry. “Were you satisfied with Sergeant Jones’s conduct, sir?”
“Have you any reason to think I might not be, Captain?”
“No, it’s a routine question. But I would like a frank answer,” Carmine said.
“Well, he was pleasant enough, and he knew how bank robberies usually go down. If I have any complaint, it was the smell of liquor on his breath. But he apologized for that, said his wife had just left him and he’d gone on a bender.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Lambert. I’ll keep in touch,” said Carmine, and departed.
So Hank Murray was ruled out, and who else was left? No one. Murray had seemed a shoo-in for a while, listening to him on the subject of parsimonious mall owners and their reluctance to hire proper security; had it stopped with Amanda Warburton, Hank was a good bet, as the vandalisms had brought him into closer contact with a very attractive lady he clearly doted on. It would have enabled him to kill two birds with the same stone: get to know Amanda better, and bring Shortland Security on board. But to Carmine, the same man committed both crimes. In fact, the Vandal, whoever he was, had probably never intended more than that first, most bizarre invasion of the glass shop-garbage, yet! The two that followed were less imaginative, even if it had taken him some hours to pile up all the glass on the second invasion. The Warburton twins, perhaps? No. They were poseurs, and the idea of vandalism would most likely horrify them. Who, who,
A glance at his watch said that perhaps his forensics team were still at the Glass Teddy Bear; since he was on the premises, he may as well see what, if anything, had been discovered.
“The cleaning firm put paid to any chance I had of collecting evidence right up to this moment,” Paul said, packing up his gear in the back room. “It reeks of commercial fluids under an air freshener, and the carpet was shampooed within an inch of its life. The Vandal must have ruined the place. So to get it back to normal took real work. I asked Mr. Murray if it was Whistle-Clean, and it was.”
Since this firm contracted for the worst messes human beings could make, Carmine simply grimaced. “Never mind, Paul. The poor lady needed to be cheered up. How did Miss MacIntosh the sex kitten do?”
Paul’s fresh, round face lit up in amusement. “I wish I’d seen her! She turned up in a gaberdine pantsuit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a nun. She did very well, Carmine. Went the rounds with her notebook and pencil, charmed the men and made the women like her. I guess the rocket you tied to her tail did the trick.”
In she came, notebook, closed, in her right hand; when she saw Carmine she gulped, almost saluted, then contented herself by standing to attention.
“At ease,” Carmine said solemnly. “What did you find out, Miss MacIntosh?”
“Nothing worth a thousand words of notes, sir, but there is one very interesting thing I’d like to show you,” she said, and moved toward the shop.
Carmine followed, waving goodbye at Paul.
Down to the front window, where the glass teddy bear sat in all his glory; Helen pointed at his face. “Did you ever see such eyes?” she asked. “Stars in them. And such a gorgeously rich blue, like the Pacific at its deepest.”
He inspected the glass teddy bear’s blue orbs intently. “Uh-they’re lovely,” he said lamely. “Is that it?”
“Yes, sir, that’s it.” Her face became serious, awed. “Sir, this glass animal is a wonder of the world. If you look closely at the little round tail-teddy bears don’t usually have tails-you’ll see the artist’s signature-Lorenzo della Fiori. He was the acknowledged master, the best in anyone’s memory. Based in Venice, but on Burano, not on Murano. Ten years ago he was murdered-thirty-four years old! God knows what treasures the world lost when he died untimely.”
Carmine was staring at her, stupefied. “How do you know this, Miss MacIntosh?”
Her lashes lowered, she assumed the demure look he supposed was a part of her customary repertoire when talking to men. “Art history and art appreciation at Miss Procter’s School for Girls, Captain. They may not have taught us much science, but they stuffed us full of art, literature and music. Miss Procter’s theory of education is that a Miss Procter’s girl will marry so well that one day she’ll be a patron of art, literature and/or music. After all, there’s only so much of a schoolgirl’s day that can be devoted to etiquette and the Blue Book.”
His lips twitched, but he maintained his calm. “You’re saying this thing is worth a fortune?”
“Several fortunes, actually. Look at its eyes again. Each is as big as an over-sized marble, and its color is a rich,
