The Chase by Clive Cussler
“Ever have a bank robbery in Salt Lake?” Ruskin asked casually while looking at the vault.
Cardoza looked at him quizzically. “Not in this city. The citizens would not allow it. Salt Lake is one of the most crime-free cities in the country. The Latter-Day Saints are upstanding and religious people. Trust me, Mr. Ruskin, no bandit would dare to attempt a robbery of this bank. Your money will be absolutely and one hundred percent safe once it’s locked up in our vault.”
“I’ve read of some fellow called the Butcher Bandit who robs and murders throughout the western states.”
“Not to worry, he only strikes in small mining towns and robs payrolls. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try robbing a bank in a city the size of Salt Lake. He wouldn’t get past the city limits before the police shot him down.”
Ruskin nodded toward the vault. “Very impressive repository.”
“The very finest vault west of the Mississippi, built especially for us in Philadelphia,” Ruskin said proudly. “An entire regiment armed with cannons couldn’t break inside.”
“I see it is open during business hours?”
“And why not. Our customers enjoy seeing how well their deposits are protected. And as I’ve mentioned, no bank has ever been robbed in Salt Lake City.”
“What is your slowest time of day?”
Cardoza looked puzzled. “Slowest time of day?”
“When you have the least customer transactions?”
“Between one-thirty and two o’clock is our slowest time. Most of our customers have gone back to their offices after their lunch hour. And, because we close at three, a number of customers come in for late transactions. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious as to how the traffic compares with our bank in New York, which seems to be about the same.” He patted the suitcase. “I’ll leave the money in the case and pick it up tomorrow.”
“We’ll close shortly, but I’ll have my head clerk count it first thing in the morning.”
Cardoza pulled open a drawer of his desk, retrieved a leather book, and wrote out a deposit slip for the half-million dollars. He handed it to Ruskin, who inserted it into a large wallet he carried in the breast pocket of his coat.
“May I ask a favor?” Ruskin inquired.
“Certainly. Anything you wish.”
“I would like to be on hand when your clerk does the count.”
“That’s very gracious of you, but I’m sure your bank has accounted for every dollar.”
“I’m grateful for your trust, but I would like to be present just to be on the safe side.”
Cardoza shrugged. “As you wish.”
“There is one other request.”
“You have but to name it.”
“I have other business to conduct in the morning and cannot return until one-thirty tomorrow. And, since your business is slowest then, it should be a good time for the count.”
Cardoza nodded in agreement. “You’re quite right.” He stood and extended his hand. “Until tomorrow afternoon. I look forward to seeing you.”
Ruskin held up his cane as a good-bye gesture, dismissed Cardoza, and left the office. He walked past the security guard, who didn’t give him a glance, and swung his cane like a baton as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
He smiled to himself, knowing that he had no intention of returning to the bank merely to count the contents of the suitcase.
9
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, RUSKIN WALKED TO THE BANK, making sure he was seen on the street by the passing crowd and stopping in shops to browse, making small talk with the merchants. He carried his gun cane more as a prop than for protection.
Reaching the Salt Lake Bank & Trust at one-thirty, he entered and ignored the guard as he turned the key in the front entrance door, locking it. Then he turned the sign around in the window so that it read CLOSED from the street and pulled down the window shades, as the guard sat there in his bored stupor, not realizing that the bank was about to be robbed. Neither Albert Cardoza’s secretary and the tellers nor the female depositor standing at the counter took notice of the intruder’s unusual behavior.
The guard finally came alert and realized that Ruskin was not acting like a normal bank customer and might be up to no good. He came to his feet, his hand dropping to the holster holding his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, and asked blankly, “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Then his eyes widened in alarm as he found himself staring into the muzzle of Ruskin’s .38 Colt.
“Make no resistance, and walk slowly behind the counter!” Ruskin ordered as he wrapped his gun in a battered, old heavy woolen scarf with burn holes in it. He quickly moved behind the counter before the clerks in their cages became alert and could make a grab for the shotguns at their feet. Never expecting their bank to be robbed, they hesitated in confusion.
“Don’t even think about going for your guns!” Ruskin snapped. “Lay flat on the floor or you’ll get a bullet in your brain.” He motioned his cane at the frightened woman at the counter. “Come around the counter and lay down on the floor with the tellers and you won’t get hurt,” he said in a cold tone. Then he motioned the gun at Cardoza’s secretary. “You, too! Down on the floor!”
When all were lying on the highly polished mahogany floor facedown, he rapped on Cardoza’s door. Unable to distinguish voices outside his office, the bank’s manager was not aware of the macabre event unfolding within his bank. He waited out of habit for his secretary to enter, but she did not appear. Finally, irritated at being interrupted, he stepped from his desk and opened the door. It took him a full ten seconds to comprehend what was happening. He stared at Ruskin and the gun in his hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. Then he saw the people lying on the floor and looked back at Ruskin in utter confusion. “I don’t understand. What is going on?”
“The first bank robbery of Salt Lake City,” said Ruskin, as if amused.
Cardoza did not move. He was frozen in shock. “You’re a director of a respectable New York bank. Why are you doing this? It makes no sense. What do you hope to gain by it?”
“I have my motives,” Ruskin answered, his voice cold and toneless. “I want you to make out a bank draft for four hundred seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Cardoza stared at him as if he was crazy. “A bank draft to whom?”
“Eliah Ruskin, who else?” answered Ruskin. “And be quick about it.”
Mired in confusion, Cardoza pulled open a drawer, retrieved a book containing bank drafts, and hurriedly scribbled out one for the amount Ruskin demanded. When finished, he passed it across the desk to Ruskin, who slipped it into his breast pocket.
“Now, down on the floor with the others.”
As if in the throes of a nightmare, Cardoza slowly lowered himself onto the floor next to his trembling secretary.
“Now, then, none of you move, or even twitch, until I tell you to.”
Without saying more, Ruskin walked inside the vault and began stuffing the bank’s currency into leather money sacks he’d seen earlier stacked on a shelf inside the huge five-ton door. He filled two of them, estimating the take at roughly two hundred thirty thousand dollars in larger denominations, none under ten dollars. He had planned well. From inside banking information, he knew that the Salt Lake Bank & Trust had received a large shipment of currency issued from the Continental & Commercial National Bank of Chicago for their reserves. The suitcase with his own money he left on another shelf of the vault.
Laying aside the sacks, he closed the vault door. It swung shut as easily as a door on a cupboard. Then he turned the bog wheel that activated the inside latches and set the timer for nine o’clock the next morning.
Unhurriedly, as if he was strolling through a park, he stepped behind the counter and ruthlessly shot the people lying on the floor in the back of the head. The muffled shots came so quickly, none had time to know what was happening and cry out. Then he raised the bank’s window shades, so people passing on the sidewalk c
Ruskin waited until the sidewalk was clear of foot traffic and vehicles before he nonchalantly exited the bank, locked the door, and strolled leisurely from the building, swinging his cane. By four o’clock, he had returned to the Peery Hotel, had a bath, and come down to the restaurant, where he enjoyed a large smoked-salmon plate with dill cream and caviar accompanied by a bottle of French Clos de la Roche Burgundy 1899. Then he read in the lobby for an hour before going to bed and slept like a rock.
LATE IN the morning, Ruskin took a taxi to the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. A crowd of people were clustered around the front door as an ambulance pulled away from the bank. Police in uniforms were in abundance. He pushed his way through the crowd, saw a man who was dressed like a detective, and addressed him.
“What happened here?” he asked courteously.
“The bank has been robbed and five people murdered.”
“Robbed, murdered, you say? This is disastrous. I deposited half a million dollars in cash here yesterday from my bank in New York.”
The detective looked at him in surprise. “Half a million dollars, you say? In cash?”
“Yes, I have my receipt right here.” Ruskin flashed the receipt in the detective’s face. The detective studied it for a few moments and then said, “You are Eliah Ruskin?”
“Yes, I’m Ruskin. I represent the Hudson River Bank of New York.”
“A half million dollars in cash!” the detective gasped. “No wonder the bank was robbed. You better come inside, Mr. Ruskin, and meet with Mr. Ramsdell, one of the bank’s directors. I’m Captain John Casale, with the Salt Lake Police Department.”
The bodies had been removed, but large areas of the mahogany floor were layered in dried blood. Captain Casale led the way to a man—a huge, fat man with a large protruding stomach behind a vest and massive watch chain. The man was sitting at Cardoza’s desk, examining the bank’s deposits. His brown eyes appeared dazed beneath the bald head. He looked up and stared at Ruskin, annoyed at the intrusion.
“This is Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” announced Casale. “He says he deposited half a million dollars with Mr. Cardoza yesterday.”
“Sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. I am Ezra Ramsdell, the bank’s managing director.” Ramsdell rose and shook Ruskin’s hand. “A terrible, terrible business,” he muttered. “Five people dead. Nothing like this has ever happened in Salt Lake City before.”
“Were you aware of the money Mr. Cardoza was holding for my bank?” asked Ruskin flatly.
Ramsdell nodded. “Yes, he called me on the telephone and reported that you had come in and placed your bank’s currency in the vault.”
“Since Mr. Cardoza, God rest his soul, wrote me out a receipt, my directors will assume your bank will make good on the loss.”
“Tell your directors not to worry.”
“How much cash did the robber take?” Ruskin asked.
“Two hundred forty-five thousand dollars.”
“Plus my half million,” he said, as if agitated.
Ramsdell looked at him queerly. “For some inexplicable reason, the robber didn’t take your money.”
Ruskin simulated a stunned expression. “What are you telling me?”
“The bills in a large, brown leather suitcase,” said Captain Casale. “Are those yours?”
“The gold certificates? Yes, they are from the bank I represent in New York.”
Ramsdell and Casale exchanged odd looks. Then Ramsdell said, “The case you and Mr. Cardoza placed in the vault still contains your currency.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It hasn’t been touched. I opened and checked it myself. Your gold certificates are safe and sound.”
Ruskin made a show of acting perplexed. “It doesn’t make sense. Why take your money and leave mine?”
Casale scratched one ear. “My guess is, he was in a hurry and simply ignored the suitcase, not realizing it was filled with a king’s fortune in cash.”
“That’s a relief,” said Ruskin, taking off his silk top hat and wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “Assuming the robber won’t return, I’ll leave it in your vault until such time as we require it to open our new branch banks in Phoenix and Reno.”
“We are most grateful. Especially now that our currency on hand has been wiped out.”
Ruskin looked around at the spread of dried blood on the floor. “I should leave you to your investigation.” He nodded at Casale. “I trust you will catch the killer so he can be hung.”
“I swear we’ll track him down,” Casale said confidently. “Every road out of Salt Lake and all the train depots are covered by a network of police officers. He can’t travel beyond the city limits without being caught.”
“Good luck to you,” said Ruskin. “I pray you will apprehend the fiend.” He turned to Ramsdell. “I will be at the Peery Hotel until tomorrow afternoon, should you require my services. At four o’clock, I will board a train, to oversee the establishment of our new bank in Phoenix.”
“You are most generous, sir,” said Ramsdell. “I will be in touch as soon as we resume operations.”
“Not at all.” Ruskin turned to leave. “Good luck to you, Captain,” Ruskin said to Casale as he made for the front entrance of the bank.
Casale stared out the window as Ruskin walked across the street toward a taxi. “Most strange,” he said slowly. “If I know my train schedules, the next train for Phoenix doesn’t leave for another three days.”
Ramsdell shrugged. “He was probably misinformed.”
“Still, there is something about him that bothers me.”
“What is that?”
“He didn’t look overjoyed that his bank’s money was not taken by the robber. It was almost as if he knew it was safe before he walked in the door.”
“Does it matter?” asked Ramsdell. “Mr. Ruskin should be glad his half a million dollars was overlooked by the robber.”
The detective looked thoughtful. “How do you know it’s a half a million dollars? Did you count it?”
“Mr. Cardoza must have counted it.”
“Are you certain?”
Ramsdell began walking from the office toward the vault. “Now is as good a time as any to make a quick tally.”
He opened the case and started to lay the first layer of stacked bills on a nearby shelf. The top layer consisted of twenty thousand dollars in gold certificate bills. Underneath, the rest of the case was filled with neatly cut and banded newspaper.
“Good God!” Ramsdell gasped. Then, as if struck by a revelation, he rushed back to the bank manager’s office and opened a book that lay on the surface of the desk. The book contained bank drafts—but the final draft was missing and unrecorded. His face went ashen. “The murdering scum must have forced Cardoza to write a bank draft for the half million. Whatever bank he deposits it in will assume we authorized it and demand payment from Salt Lake Bank and Trust. Under federal law, we are bound to honor it. If not, the lawsuits, the prosecution from United States Treasury agents—we’d be forced to close.”
“Ruskin was not only a fraud,” Casale said firmly, “he was the one who robbed your bank and murdered your employees and customer.”
“I can’t believe it,” muttered Ramsdell incredulously. Then he demanded, “You’ve got to stop him. Catch him before he checks out of his hotel.”
“I’ll send a squad to the Peery,” said Casale. “But this guy is no buffoon. He probably went on the run as soon as he walked out the door.”
“You can’t let him get away with this foul deed.”
“If he’s the notorious Butcher Bandit, he’s a shrewd devil who vanishes like a ghost.”
Ezra Ramsdell’s eyes took on an astute glint. “He has to deposit the draft at a bank somewhere. I’ll telegraph the managers of every bank in the nation to be on the lookout for him and contact the police before
“I’m not so sure,” John Casale said softly under his breath. “I’m not so sure at all.”
10
THE BUTCHER BANDIT WAS A COUNTRY MILE AHEAD of him, Bell thought as the train he was riding slowed and stopped at the station in Rhyolite. He had received a lengthy telegram from Van Dorn telling of the Salt Lake massacre, as it had become known. A bank in a major city like Salt Lake was the last place he or anyone else expected the Butcher to strike. That was his next stop after Rhyolite.
He stepped from the train with a leather bag that held the bare essentials he carried while traveling. The heat of the desert struck him like a blast furnace, but because of the absence of humidity in the desert it did not soak his shirt with sweat.
After getting directions from the stationmaster, he walked to the sheriff’s office and jail. Sheriff Marvin Huey was a medium-sized man with a head of tousled gray hair. He looked up from a stack of wanted posters and stared at Bell with soft olive brown eyes as the Van Dorn agent entered the office.
“Sheriff Huey, I’m Isaac Bell from the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”
Huey did not rise from his desk nor offer his hand; instead, he spit a wad of chewing tobacco juice into a cuspidor. “Yes, Mr. Bell, I was told you’d be on the ten o’clock train. How do you like our warm weather?”
Bell took a chair across from Huey without it being offered and sat down. “I prefer the high-altitude cool air of Denver.”
The sheriff grinned slightly at seeing Bell’s discomfort. “If you lived here long enough, you might get to like it.”
“I wired you concerning my investigation,” Bell said without preamble. “I want to obtain any information I can that would be helpful in tracking down the Butcher Bandit.”
“I hope you have better luck than I did. After the murders, all we found was a dilapidated, abandoned freight wagon and team of horses that he had driven into town.”
“Did anyone get a good look at him?”