The Only Gold (33 page)

Jonah
took his advice and spent Sunday afternoon in the parlor. But he found himself losing track of the conversation more than once, and it was a challenge to keep from glancing toward the door each time a carriage passed outside. If anyone noticed, no one said a word—though Liliane smiled at him fondly as she and Bertie left for supper.

Rain that had been falling since dawn persisted in keeping the day dreary, and Jonah whiled away the remaining hours till twilight shut up in his room with a book. As the shadows gathered, his lamp sputtered; head aching, he gave up reading. Slumped on the chaise, he gazed into a dark, rain-soaked garden and pondered an early night. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from returning to the tale Cyrus had related at dinner, of a bank burglary uptown. Jonah was glad Reid hadn’t been present to hear it; though there was little cause for worry, with two night watchmen guarding Grandborough’s vault. Surely one of them was sober, Jonah mused. Perhaps a drive past the bank would set his mind at ease—and Reid’s, if he did come by later.

Gathering coat, hat, and umbrella, Jonah went out into the chilly twilight and caught a cab. By the time he reached the bank, the rain fell in earnest, and he could see little beyond the cab window. He let the cab go and went inside, to find no sign of either watchman.

The lobby, peaceful and dim with most of the shutters closed, appeared unmolested despite the absence of Liam Abbott and the young Mr. Charles. Jonah wondered if they were upstairs. He turned the gas up just enough to find his way along the corridor, but, gazing into the dark stairwell, he hesitated. He did not care to be mistaken for a bank burglar himself, and shot.

The two would likely be down in a few minutes. Choosing to wait, Jonah turned the gas higher and went into the cashier’s office. He was glad he had, when he discovered Reid had left up the desk cylinder. Not that Jonah blamed him; the thing was even more difficult to close.

Shifting the clutter to the back of the desk, he tugged at the cylinder, and it grudgingly slid partway down. Paper rustled in the recess between the outer and inner panels and Jonah gave up on the desk in order to pry loose the paper. It came free and he noted with relief that it wasn’t bank correspondence, but a torn scrap from Reid’s daybook. About to lay it on the desk for Reid to reclaim, he saw, in the flickering gaslight, his own name. A twinge of guilt could not overcome his curiosity.

“Sunday evening. My only concern. Woolner comes in at odd hours. Most likely to give trouble.” Jonah snorted softly. Reid had left the scrap for him to find, as a joke. He lifted the paper to the light. “Deposit still scheduled for Saturday. Abbott asserts he wants no more.”
No more?
Confusion overtook Jonah’s amusement.
A most peculiar joke.
“Vault unlocked, but will bring tools. Watch for signal….”

Or not a joke at all.
Cold rising in his veins until he couldn’t breathe, Jonah shoved the desk cylinder back and turned out the contents of the drawers, one after another. Uncovering nothing, he emptied the bookcase, then scoured the room’s hiding places.
Reid, Liam—and God knew who else—in league to rob the bank. They had planned it from Reid’s first day, if not earlier. They had won everyone’s trust, had guided every board decision with beautifully fashioned lies. They had orchestrated the entire affair in perfect detail. The most perfect, coldest, cruelest detail.

Jonah pushed the desk away from the wall, to expose only dust. Collapsing into a chair, he stared at the scattered papers and books, the furniture disarranged, toppled. It was as unreal as the piece of paper in his hand, as unreal as the sentences scrawled on it, fragments with knife-sharp edges.
Woolner comes in at odd hours. Most likely to give trouble. My only concern.

Words Reid had written. Words that turned everything false. Every touch, every kiss, every affectionate glance. The cold gouged a hollow in Jonah’s chest, the pain so sharp he thought his heart was failing. He could not tear his gaze from those words shaped in a hand he knew as well as his own. He read them over and over, until two in particular gained a stark clarity.

Sunday evening.

The deed had not been done. He would have seen something, noticed—he
had
noticed. Liam Abbott’s absence.

He lurched from the chair and flew down the corridor to the dark lobby. The vault seemed secure, shut tight since Reid’s setting of the time lock Saturday afternoon. Opening the vault gate, Jonah laid a hand on the dial and forced himself to move it to each number in turn. Reaching the last, he stood immobile, sick with certainty that the time lock had never been set. He rested his head against the cool metal and curled his fingers around the handle. “It won’t open. It can’t.”

The bolts released and Jonah sucked in a breath, choking on it. He tightened his grip on the handle and stepped back, raising unwilling eyes with every expectation he would find an empty vault. At first glance, he saw nothing missing, and he dared hope, but it was too dark to be sure. Going in, he felt his way along, shelf by shelf. Every box and bag resided in its familiar place, every compartment safely locked.

No one had robbed the bank.

Nor would they.

Jonah
opened the time lock’s cabinet and set the movements with grim precision. When he pushed the door into place, the vault would be as safe as any vault could be. A contingent of policemen would assure it remained so until morning.
They would make the appropriate arrests….

The thought was too much to bear. He had to find Reid, talk to him, wake him to the ruin he faced. He doubted Reid was at the hotel—more likely holed up in some miserable East Side den, making last-minute plans with Liam. The possibility that they were already on their way to the bank snapped Jonah out of his thoughts and into the present. He couldn’t summon the police. He would wait for Reid to turn up. Once Reid knew he’d been found out, he would give up the attempt. He was too intelligent to do otherwise. Whether Reid could talk Liam out of it….

Dread reasserted its hold on him. If he couldn’t call for the police, he needed to protect himself. Mr. Carson’s old nickel-plated revolver was probably up in Mr. Grandborough’s office. It would be enough to keep Liam at bay until Jonah had the chance to talk to Reid.

The lobby door rattled, and Jonah nearly jumped out of his skin. He had to get upstairs before they caught him unarmed. He was halfway across the lobby when the door burst wide and the rain swept in Liam Abbott, Gil Charles, and two strangers. Reid, at the fore, was a stranger, too—from the black frock coat and threadbare overcoat to the hard line of his mouth and ruthless shine in his eyes. Jonah had time to register only that much before Reid saw him and stopped dead in his tracks. The already determined set of Reid’s jaw tightened, anger flaring in his eyes. Jonah could only stare, until a furious oath tore his attention away—in time to see Liam draw a gun.

Reid was well ahead of Liam, gun in hand as he reached Jonah and grabbed a fistful of his coat. What had seemed purely anger in the hazel eyes looked, up close, very much like anguish and frustration. “Don’t you ever listen to a damned thing anyone says?”

Though it was sharper than he’d ever heard it, the familiar exasperation startled Jonah more than the brutal grip on his lapel. His grief gained a heated edge, and he thrust out the scrap of paper still in his hand. “It shouldn’t surprise you. I am trouble, after all.”

Reid stared at him, then exhaled, eyes closing. “That goddamned desk.” He snatched the paper and shoved it into his coat pocket, his hand emerging with a ring of keys, which he tossed to Liam. “Lock the door. I’ll take care of Mr. Woolner.”

He pushed Jonah ahead through the gate and directed him without a word to the stool at the nearest teller’s window. Joining them behind the counter, the others openly sized up Jonah before shifting their attention to the surroundings. Jonah took them in furtively in return, certain he’d seen them in the bank. The taller of the two strangers, a long-limbed man well past forty, seemed the less threatening. The dark moustache that stretched to either side of his narrow face was well trimmed, in contrast to the greasy straggle falling over his brow. As oily black were his eyes, shining as he deposited a leather satchel on Margaret’s desk and smiled broadly at Jonah. “Morris Barton,” he said, laying a hand on his old-fashioned white waistcoat. “An honor, Mr. Woolner. An honor, indeed. The banker devoted to his craft always presents a challenge. Don’t you think, Mr. Scroggs?”

Mr. Scroggs grunted and scraped his nails over his stubbled cheek. “Can’t say I give a damn.” Though the man was no taller than Barton or Reid, he had a laborer’s build, evident despite the heavy coat he wore. He dropped into Margaret’s chair and propped mud-encrusted boots on her desk. “Let’s get on with it, or we’ll have more than one to throttle on the way out.”

“We don’t have to worry about Mr. Woolner.” Reid opened the satchel and drew out a length of thin rope. “He can’t afford to give us away. Not even to protect the bank.”

Curiosity glittered in Barton’s eyes. “No?”

Reid uncoiled the rope. “He has secrets, like any man. I know one in particular that would ruin him.”

Under the weight of their stares, Jonah looked away. His skin was on fire, his gut churning. Fighting to hide it, he knew he hadn’t when Liam snorted. “Damn. I guess you do.” He said to Reid, “Don’t you think you’d better tell us?”

Jonah sat perfectly still, too frightened to breathe.

“Not just yet.” Reid moved in his direction, but Jonah could not raise his head until familiar fingers pushed back his coat sleeves. “We want to give Mr. Woolner every incentive to cooperate.”

Jonah realized what the rope was for. He watched, dazed, as Reid brought it around his wrists. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive.” Reid spoke quietly, but anger still frayed the edges of his voice. He ran a finger under the rope as if to be certain it was neither too tight nor loose, and a silent warning flashed in his eyes before he turned back to Liam. “Let’s get this done. Unless you’re having second thoughts.”

Boots hit the floor, and the chair creaked as Scroggs rose. “What’s Woolner doing here? How do we know he ain’t sent someone to bring the police?”

“A fair question.” Barton drew up a stool beside Jonah’s, smiling as if he imagined he could win Jonah’s trust. “Working on Sunday? A man of your position—shouldn’t you be in church?”

“Oh, he is,” Reid said, with a wry glance at Jonah.

“Right enough.” Gil was as earnest as he’d seemed the day of his hiring—too earnest for his true line of work. “Mr. Woolner will do anything to protect the bank. Liam’s said so.”

Barton’s eyebrows rose. “A banker who would surrender his life before his trust, eh?”

Scroggs did not appear to share Barton’s curiosity beyond the practical. “I’ll stay. But quit wasting time. Abbott?”

Liam and Gil both turned to him, and Jonah saw at that moment the resemblance between the two. “Your name isn’t Charles.”

Barton laughed. “Sharp fellow. A pity Mr. Hylliard couldn’t keep you out of our way.”

“Enough,” Liam said. “I didn’t come for this.”

Barton was still smiling as he inclined his head toward the vault. “You have the keys, sir.”