Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1938)

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Pond'* Extract Cumpisy could do about it except stand there at the counter seething inwardly but apparently waiting complacently. At any rate, I could keep a lookout, making certain that Bruce Eaton had an avenue of escape open if anything went wrong. PPARENTLY, the banker hadn't recognized him. I could see that he was nearsighted as he bent over the paper he was filling out. Then Bruce Eaton handed him a driving license, showed him a wallet containing a passport. I realized then that "Bruce Eaton" was only a stage name. I remembered having read somewhere that his real name had been considered far too unromantic by the studio publicity department. Of course, his driving license and passport would be under his real name. The banker inserted a key into the upper lock on the safe-deposit box. Bruce Eaton inserted the key I had given him in the lower lock. I gripped the counter, fascinated, wondering if the key would work. Had I been right in assuming .... The key turned and I could hear the lock click smoothly back. The banker turned away from Bruce Eaton. His figure, partially concealing the interior of the vault as he came toward me, prevented me from seeing just what Bruce Eaton was doing. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm sorry I had to keep you waiting. You see, I'm all alone here in the bank afternoons. What was it you wanted?" I blurted out the first idea which came to my mind. "I want to cash a check." "A check on i7iis bank?" he asked courteously. "No," I said. "I'm afraid it ■will have to be drawn on my Los Angeles bank." "How much is the check?" "I can get along with five dollars," I told him, smiling my best smile. "You see, I left my purse in the rest room at Pomona. I want to telephone back about the purse and get enough gas to carry me on through to San Diego." "You have your checkbook with you?" he asked. I started to produce it, and then suddenly realized that it was in my purse, and my purse was hanging just below the level of the counter. Having made that crack about losing my purse, I certainly couldn't let him see it now. "No," I said, "my checkbook was in my purse. I'd have to fill in a blank check." He blinked owlishly at me through the thick lenses of his spectacles. lACK in the vault, I heard Bruce Eaton slam shut the door of the safedeposit box and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything would be all right if I could only hold this banker in conversation for a few more seconds. I pushed my leg against my purse, clamping it tight against the counter and then trying to ease it down to the floor. But the purse was of smooth leather; it slid out and dropped with a bang. The banker looked puzzled. I said, hurriedly, "Of course, I can put up my wrist watch as collateral," and started to take it off. As I partially turned, I looked out through the plateglass window, past the gilt letters which proclaimed the name of the bank, its capital, assets and the names of its directors. I saw a car slide in close to the curb and stop. On the upper righthand corner of the windshield was a huge spotlight with a red circle of glass, the telltale insignia of a police car. There were five men in the car; one of them, wearing a huge black sombrero, looked as though he might be the sheriff of the county. The other four were quite probably detectives from the city. They opened the car door and debouched to the sidewalk, forming in a compact little group. I tried coughing. It didn't seem to catch Bruce Eaton's attention. The banker said, "Just a moment, Miss," and then pushed his head out through the arch in the window to stare down at my purse lying on the floor. "Isn't that your purse?" he asked. I called out, sharply, "Bruce, look! Hurry!" He was still in the vault, apparently checking up on a bundle of letters he was holding in his hand. From where he was standing it was impossible to see the car containing the officers. "Bruce! Hurry!" I cried. The banker said suspiciously, "What's all this? What's all this?" and jumped back in alarm. I could see now that he thought it was a stick-up, with me to hold his attention at the teller's window while Bruce Eaton was back in the vault. His face was white with alarm. His bleached blue eyes, magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of his spectacles, seemed as large as warped dinner plates. I saw him fumble at the handle of a drawer and knew he was looking for a gun. A FRANTIC glance out through the plate-glass window showed me the officers were starting purposefully toward the bank. I thought only of getting Bruce Eaton out of there and finding some place to hide those letters he had taken from the safe-deposit box. He was alarmed now and coming toward me, but still didn't appreciate the danger of the situation. The banker was pulling a gun from the drawer. The officers were rounding the corner. I ran to a door in the partition, jerked it open. The banker raised his gun and shouted, "Stop where you are, both of you." I collided with Bruce Eaton, snatched the letters from his hands and yelled, "Run! Officers!" The banker pulled the trigger on a big, blue-steel revolver which he'd dragged from the drawer and which looked as large as a cannon. The reverberating roar of a report filled the room. When my ear drums started functioning again, I could hear the tinkle of falling glass. The cashier dropped his gun. Evidently the jar of the recoil had jerked it out of his hand. He half stooped as though to pick it up; then, apparently overcome by panic, ran through the door in the partition, half crouching, screaming, "Help! Police!" The officers were approaching the door of the bank. The running banker burst through the swinging screen door to collide with them. I heard someone say, "Stick 'em up," and then a drawling voice, evidently that of the sheriff, "Wait a minute. This is Frank Stout, the cashier here. What's the trouble, Frank?" The banker's lunch box was on the table in front of me. I had to think fast and, at that, had no choice in the matter. I jerked open the cover, dropped the little bundle of letters inside and slammed the cover back into position. The officers poured through the screen door into the bank and I raised my eyes to confront a bristling row of artillery. "The jig's up," the sheriff said. Madman, money, revenge — why was Carter Wright murdered? January Photoplay brings the surprising answer to this exciting murder mystery by Erie Stanley Gardner. 82 PH OTOPLAY