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Updated: June 19, 2025
In the dingy office of the city prison, with its sand boxes and barrel stove, its hacked old desks, dusty books and papers, I watched Bronson Vandeman, and wondered to see how the man I had known played in and out across his face with the man Edward Clayte, whom I had tried to imagine, whom nobody could describe.
"It was a change of manner and psychology for mine. As Edward Clayte and that's not my name, either, any more than Vandeman I was description-proof. I meant to be and I was. It took her the girl," his face darkened and he jerked at his cigar, "to deduce that a nonentity who could get away with nearly a million dollars and leave no trail was some man!"
At my side was the pale, silent girl who declared that Clayte was the murderer. Whispered tuning and trying of instruments up here; flutter and rush about down on the dancing floor; and Barbara, that clenched left hand of hers still pressed in hard against her side, facing what problem? Crash! Boom!
"It's too big and too well done to have been planned by a dull, commonplace crook." "Right you are," I agreed, with restored good humor. "A keen brain planned this, but not Clayte's. There had to be an instrument and that was Clayte also, likely, one or more to help in the getaway." The getaway! That brought us back with a thump to the present moment.
Many's the stag supper I've had with the boys there in my bungalow, and been back behind the wicket as Edward Clayte in the Van Ness Avenue bank on time next morning. I was in that room at the St. Dunstan about as much as a fellow's in his front hall. I walked through it to Henry J. Brundage's room at the Nugget; I stayed there more often than I did at the St. Dunstan, unless I came on here.
Anson stopped me at this point, "and the positive knowledge that he had the suitcase with him?" "Clayte asked the time from the clerk at the desk as he came in. He put the suitcase down while he set his watch. The clerk saw him pick it up and go into the elevator; Mrs.
"Say," I leaned over toward him, "wouldn't it have saved wear and tear if you'd told me at the first that you knew Skeels couldn't be Clayte?" "Oh, but, Jerry, you were so sure! And Skeels wasn't possible for a minute never in his little, piking, tin-horn life!" I don't believe I had seen Worth so happy since he was a boy, playing detective.
"Beautiful," I said in honest admiration. "It's a pleasure to see a mind like yours, and such powers of observation, in action, clicking out results like a perfectly adjusted machine. Clayte didn't live in his room because he lived with the gang all his glorious outside hours. There was where the poor rabbit of a bank clerk got his fling." "Oh, yes, it works logically.
On the forenoon of my wedding day, then, I sat as Edward Clayte in my teller's cage, the suitcase I had carried back and forth empty for so many Saturdays now loaded with currency and securities, not one of which was traceable, and whose amount I believed would run close to a million.
What I repeated, briefly, amounted to this: Directly after closing time to-day which was noon, as this was Saturday Knapp, the cashier of the bank, had discovered a heavy shortage, and it was decided on a quick investigation that Edward Clayte, one of the paying tellers, had walked out with the money in a suitcase.
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