The Chase (8 page)

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON,
R
USKIN 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 could see that the vault was shut and would assume the bank was closed. The bodies were conveniently out of sight behind the counter.

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.

 

L
ATE 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 they honor a draft made out to Eliah Ruskin for half a million dollars. He won't get away with it.”

“I'm not so sure,” John Casale said softly under his breath. “I'm not so sure at all.”