The Vanishing Thieves (14 page)

“No problem,” Frank said. “He can pretend to be calling long distance from somewhere like San Diego, and he can make his voice low.”

“Laing still might know the names of all the banks in the state,” Joe said. “And probably he has a directory that lists their presidents. He'd be almost sure to look it up after the call.”

“So let's pick an actual San Diego bank and use the real name of its president,” Vern suggested. “We'll take the chance that Laing doesn't know him personally.”

They all looked at him. “How do we do that?” Chet inquired.

“It's simple,” Vern said. “Just follow me.”

He led the way up Fifth Street to the Los Angeles Public Library only a block away. There he went to a shelf of telephone directories.

“They have one for every major city in the country,” he said. “I found out the library had them when I was visiting my uncle once and wanted the address of a friend in Vermont. He sent me down here. ”

Vern took the San Diego directory and carried it to a table. From the yellow pages they picked out a bank called the Bouchercon Trust Company, and Vern wrote down the number.

“Anybody got a couple of dollars worth of change?” he inquired.

The boys searched their pockets and came up with three dollars in nickels, dimes, and quarters.

“That should be enough,” Vern said. “It's only a little over a hundred miles.”

There were several public phones in the library, and he called the San Diego bank.

“Will you tell me the name of your president, please?” he asked when a woman answered.

“Certainly, sir. It's Mr. Jason McGuire. Do you wish to speak to him?”

“Not right now, thanks,” Vern said, and hung up.

“A piece of cake.” He grinned. “The president's name is Jason McGuire.”

“You may as well phone from here, Chet,” Frank suggested. “Let's hear your executive voice.”

In a low, false bass Chet said, “This is Jason McGuire, Mr. Laing.”

A passing librarian gave him a sharp look, and Joe chuckled. “You sound more like a bank robber disguising his voice. We better go outside to practice. ”

Several people were seated on the library lawn, reading. The boys moved out of earshot of everyone, and Chet practiced several different voices. They all sounded false, but suddenly Joe had an idea.

“Why don't you develop laryngitis?” he suggested. “That way, if Laing happens to know Mr. McGuire, you'll have an excuse for your voice being different. ”

In a hoarse, rasping tone Chet said, “Sorry if I'm hard to understand, old chap, but I've got laryngitis.”

“That's perfect,” Frank said approvingly.

They went back in and Chet phoned the Bunker Bank, asking for Barton Laing.

“Who's calling, please?” the switchboard operator asked.

“Jason McGuire, of Bouchercon Trust in San Diego.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Then a hearty voice sounded in Chet's ear. “How are you, Jason, old man?”

Barton Laing was obviously acquainted with the San Diego bank president and for a moment threw Chet off balance. The boy almost answered in his normal tone, but just in time he remembered and said hoarsely, “Fine, except for laryngitis.”

“You sound terrible,” Laing said with sympathy.

“I'll keep it brief, Bart, because it's hard for me to talk. Do you know my son Frank?”

“Not unless he was at some bankers' convention with you. I've never been in your home.”

Chet was relieved. “Frank has the same hobby you do, coin collecting. He's driving up there from San Diego this afternoon, and I wonder if you'd do me the favor of letting him see your collection.”

“I'll be glad to,” Barton Laing said, apparently pleased. “We coin nuts like nothing better than to show off our treasures. When will he be here?”

“He's leaving now, so it shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. It's not quite three. He should make it by five.”

“Maybe he'd like to drop over for dinner about seven, Jason? We'd love to have him.”

Chet panicked and almost choked. “Ah, no, ah, he has a dinner date with friends. Could he come later?”

“Sure,” Barton Laing said. “Tell him to make it eight, then.” He gave an address in West Los Angeles.

“Thanks very much,” Chet said. “He'll be there.”

“Take care of that laryngitis,” Laing said, “and good-bye. ”

When Chet hung up, Joe slapped him on the back. “You did a wonderful job!

“Thanks,” Chet rasped. Then he looked surprised. “I-I think my voice stuck!”

“A soda should fix you up,” Frank told him.

Chet cleared his throat and said in his normal tone, “I've recovered, but I'll still take that soda.”

They found a small restaurant on Fifth Street, across from Pershing Square, and sat in a booth. Over cold drinks they discussed the coin case.

“Even as bank president,” Vern said, “I don't see how Laing could have gotten into that box, because Uncle Gregg's key was needed.”

“He didn't necessarily have to steal it himself,” Joe pointed out. “Maybe he just bought it from the thief.”

“You mean Cylvia Nash?”

“It makes more sense than Laing personally taking it,” Joe said. “Suppose Cylvia, knowing that her boss would do nearly anything to get the coin for his collection, slipped it out of your uncle's box after he handed it back to her to lock it up. She could have taken it while she was walking away from him with the box and her back was turned to him. He wouldn't know it was missing because he never checked the box after that.”

“I think you've got it,” Frank said. “That fifty-thousand-dollar deposit in Cylvia Nash's savings account must be what Laing paid her for the coin. It all fits.”

“All except her being the girlfriend of Red Sluice,” Chet said. “How does he figure in this?”

“He doesn't have to fit into the coin theft,” Joe told him. “Birds of a feather flock together. Probably they met each other because they travel in the same circles.”

The house in West Los Angeles was an expensive home on an exclusive street. Vern parked a quarter block away and Frank got out alone.

“I shouldn't be long,” he said. “As soon as I spot your coin, Vern, I'll make an excuse to leave and we'll drive straight to Parker Center.”

He mounted the steps to the wide veranda and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a distinguished-looking man, and Frank gaped. It was the same man he had photographed entering the warehouse!

Trying to control his expression, Frank asked, “Mr. Laing?”

“Yes,” the banker said cordially, holding out his hand. “You must be Frank McGuire.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank said, shaking hands. Barton Laing led him through a front room into a library and offered him a seat. Frank took a leather-covered easy chair, while the banker sat behind a desk.

Tapping his fingers on the wood surface, the man said, “So you are a collector, too.”

“Not on the same scale as you,” Frank said modestly. Then, using some of the knowledge he had picked up that afternoon, he made himself sound like an expert. “My only complete set is Lincoln Head pennies with the wheat ears on the reverse. I have all one hundred and forty-three in uncirculated coins.”

“That's quite a start for a young man your age,” the banker said, impressed.

“May I see your collection?” Frank urged.

Rising from his chair, Barton Laing went over to an oil painting on the wall, slid it aside to disclose a safe, and opened the box with a key. He removed a stack of blue coin folders, but left one in the safe.

Laing set the folders on the desk and carefully relocked the safe. Since nothing was left in it but a single folder, the boy couldn't help wondering why he was being so cautious.

Standing alongside of Frank, the banker now opened the folders. In descending order he displayed collections of silver dollars, half dollars, quarters, and dimes, then set them aside.

“Now come my favorites,” he said, opening the first of the remaining covers. “I specialize in nickels. I have everything from the first nickel coined in the United States in 1866, the shield type, through the latest Jefferson nickel. With one or two exceptions, the sets are complete.”

Looking at a folder containing Liberty Head nickels, Frank said, “This is complete except for 1913.”

Barton Laing smiled. “That's not hard to understand, is it?”

“Not considering that there are only five in existence,” Frank agreed. “Did you know that the DuBois estate is offering one for auction?”

“Yes, I heard that,” Laing said. “But bidding for that is a little out of my class.”

Since Frank knew the man had bid ninety-eight thousand dollars for a Liberty Head eight years ago, he figured the real reason Laing was not going to bid was that he already had the coin.

“I noticed you left one folder in the safe,” Frank pointed out. “Is that something special?”

“Just an empty cover.”

The doorbell rang and Barton Laing went to answer it. Frank got up to try the safe door, but it was locked tight. Quickly, he resumed his seat when he heard the banker returning.

As he entered the room, Laing said, “I have some unexpected company. Have you finished looking at everything?”

“Yes, thanks,” Frank said, rising to his feet.

The banker replaced the coins in the safe and locked it. Then he gestured for Frank to precede him to the front door.

As they started through the living room, four of the five people seated there gaped at Frank. Angrily, Big Harry Knotts, Crafty Kraft, Red Sluice, and Anton Jivaro jumped to their feet! Cylvia Nash was the only one who remained seated as the men rushed at Frank, grabbing him before a single word was said.

“What's the matter with you?” Laing asked indignantly. “How dare you manhandle my guest!”

“Do you know who he is?” Big Harry challenged.

“Certainly. Frank McGuire, the son of a colleague.”

“You've got the first name right, but the last name's Hardy!”

“What!” The banker glared at Frank in outrage. “Frank Hardy! You came here to spy on me!”

Frank saw no point in replying.

“Wait here,” Laing ordered his gang. “I'll be back in a minute.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying a coil of rope. “Follow me!” he said as he went past.

He led the way into the library while Frank's captors forced the boy along. Cylvia trailed after the group, her face tense.

Laing pointed to a straight-backed chair. “Tie him to that!” he ordered.

When the boy had been bound hand and foot, the banker said, “His brother and his two friends are probably nearby, too. Search the neighborhood and don't let them get away. Cylvia and I'll keep our eyes on this one.”

The four rushed out. Frank could hear the front door open and close. Meanwhile, Laing and Cylvia were standing side by side, watching him closely. Frank started to feel panic. How could he possibly get out of this situation? Just then, he saw a window behind his captors being pushed up slowly.

To divert their attention, he said to Cylvia, “How did a nice lady like you get involved with this gang of crooks?”

“None of your business!” Laing snapped.

“I don't get it,” Frank went on. “I just don't. When we met on the airplane—“

He kept talking on and on in a loud voice, while the window was being raised all the way. Joe noiselessly threw a leg over the sill, pulled himself inside, and tiptoed up to Barton Laing. Vern was right on his heels and Chet followed.

Frank was still talking when Joe and Vern suddenly grabbed the bank president from behind. Chet ran to the doorway to block Cylvia Nash's escape in case she tried to run.

Laing struggled to get out of the boys' grip, but in vain. Vern had pushed a handkerchief into the man's mouth so he could not scream and alert his companions.

Cylvia was too scared to make a sound. She stood motionless, watching the boys subdue her boss.

“Okay, Miss Nash,” Chet said. “Untie him.” He pointed to Frank.

The woman gave the banker a frightened look, and went up to Frank. When he was freed, Joe and Vern forced Barton Laing down into the chair and bound and gagged him.

Then Joe turned to Cylvia. “You behave, and we won't have to do the same to you.”

“I'm not going to make any trouble,” she said meekly and sank into a leather love seat.