CHAPTER XII

A SIGNATURE CARD

Peter looked at his watch as he ran down the stairs of the Westmoreland Theatre Building. It was nearly one o'clock, and he decided that he would have time enough to snatch a bit of lunch before he made the attempt to see Mr. Walter Dunne, of the Scoville Bank. He stopped in at a public telephone booth in a cigar store, and called Donald Morris and O'Malley. To the one he reported what slight progress he had made, and from the other he received the information that he, O'Malley, had been down to the apartment and seen the janitor and that there was nothing new there. No one had called to see either of the sisters and no word of any kind had been received from them.

"Get the photographs down here as quick as you can," O'Malley urged. "I've wired our correspondents all over the country, but you know, Pete, they can't do such a hell of a lot without the pictures, and neither can the boys here."

"Send Maggie over to the Fifth Avenue Bank," said Peter, quickly. "I've got to go there, anyway. Have her meet me in half an hour and I'll give her the photographs. You can get them copied, p. d. q., and broadcast 'em all over the map, see. Tell her to meet me in twenty minutes, I can make it by then."

Hastily he hung up the receiver, snatched a sandwich and a glass of milk at a near-by drug store, met Maggie, his switch-board operator, at the Fifth Avenue Bank and delivered the photographs to her with instructions to rush them back to the office.

"Holy cats!" said Maggie, pensively, as she looked at the pictures of Mary Blake. "Ain't she sweet!"

"Never mind whether she's sweet or not, Maggie," said Clancy, hastily. "Put 'em in your bag, and don't lose 'em. Chase yourself back to the office just as fast as you can, there's a good girl----And for the love of Mike, stop chewing that gum. You make me nervous! How many times have I told you----"

"But I ain't in the office now, Mr. Clancy. It's me lunch hour and me time's me own and me tastes is me own. If you don't like----"

"There, there, Maggie. Never mind," said Clancy, soothingly. "I didn't mean anything; but if there's one thing more than another that spoils a pretty girl, it's that infernal chew, chew, chew! It gets on my nerves."

Mollified by the subtle compliment, Maggie blew the offending gum nonchalantly into the gutter. "'S all right, Mr. Clancy," she said, and with a wide smile she flappered rapidly away.

Peter's errand at the Fifth Avenue Bank, where he and his partner kept their modest but reliable account, was to get a note, accrediting him to the cashier of the Scoville Bank. The reputation of the firm of Clancy and O'Malley was above question, and the note was easily forthcoming.

Armed with this, Peter proceeded at once to the Scoville Bank and was readily admitted to an interview with the cashier.

Mr. William Dunne proved to be a pleasant young man of about Peter's own age, who looked attentively at the detective's business card, and asked him to state wherein he, the cashier, could be of service.

"I want to find out a few things about one of your depositors," said Peter, proceeding at once to business. "Anything you tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence, and I'm sure the questions I want to ask you can answer without any trouble. It's about Miss Mary Blake."

"H'm'm----" said the cashier. "Miss Blake, the actress? Yes. She has an account here. Been running up bills somewhere?" with a slight grin.

"Nothing of the sort," said Peter, readily, "though it may turn out to be a more serious matter than that. At any rate, it isn't anything against the lady. It's in her interests that I'm here."

"Why don't you ask her the questions you want to put to me, then?" asked Dunne, shrewdly.

"Because she's out of town and the matter is urgent," explained Peter, imperturbably.

The cashier hesitated.

"Of course I'd be glad to help you out in any way, Mr. Clancy," he said, doubtfully, "but the relations of the bank to its clients are very confidential. We have to be very careful about disclosing anything of their private affairs. You know how you'd feel, yourself. We have to be very certain that we're not doing anything prejudicial to their interests."

Peter saw that it was necessary for him to be very frank if he were to gain the information he desired from this conscientious and astute young man. He, therefore, returned the cashier's questioning glance with an open, candid smile.

"I'm perfectly aware, Mr. Dunne," he said, "that all good banks protect their depositors' interests to the limit, so I'll just put my cards on the table. Miss Blake has disappeared, and her sister also, under most peculiar conditions, and I have been employed to try to trace them. I was summoned to their apartment by Mr. Donald Morris."

"Stephen Morris's son?" asked the cashier, quickly.

"Yes," said Peter, and seeing that the well-known name had its effect, he added, "Perhaps you'd like me to get him on the wire, and assure you that----"

"I don't like to seem to doubt you in any way, Mr. Clancy," the cashier interrupted. "I'd be very glad to be of service to any friend of Mr. Morris's. He has an account here. Suppose I get him on the wire."

This suited Peter perfectly. Knowing that Morris would be at home, waiting for news, he realized that there would be little delay, and waited imperturbably while the cashier verified his statements. In a few minutes Dunne turned away from the telephone.

"So far, so good, Mr. Clancy," he said, smiling. "Now bring on your problem."

"Well, this is the way it stands," said Peter, with an answering smile. "It looks as if Miss Blake's apartment has been robbed. Of course we can't be sure, because we don't know what was there originally, but things were tossed about a lot, bureau drawers and desk drawers opened, and that sort of thing. And both the sisters have disappeared."

"All right. I get that," said the cashier. "Now what do you need to know about them?"

"First of all, do you know Miss Blake by sight?" asked Peter.

"H'm'm--I've seen her on the stage, yes. But I don't recollect ever having seen her in the bank here."

"Perhaps one of the tellers----"

"One of them might have, of course, but I doubt it. You see, I was paying teller, myself, up to a month ago, and as far as I can remember, it was always Miss Anne Blake who came to the bank."

"You know her, then, by sight," said Peter, eagerly.

"Oh, yes. She comes in almost every week. Quiet, retiring sort of woman, with a bad birthmark."

Peter nodded.

"When was she here last, Mr. Dunne? Do you think you could find out for me? Would the tellers know her?"

"Think they would. In fact, I'm sure Parsons knows her. He was my assistant and is paying now. I'll ask him. Just a moment."

He left his desk, and went through a glass door at the back of the metal-latticed cages. Peter could see him, through the grille, talking to first one man and then another. Presently he came back.

"Miss Anne Blake was in the bank and cashed a check on Saturday morning," he informed Peter.

"On Saturday morning," Peter repeated, thoughtfully. "Do you know how much she drew?"

"I do," said the cashier, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Would you mind telling me, in strict confidence, the amount of the check?" asked Peter, persuasively. "I promise you, on my word of honour, that it'll go no further. You can see for yourself that, if there was a robbery, it's important for us to know whether there was any large sum of money in the house."

"I see," said the cashier, thoughtfully. "Well, I don't think there's any harm in telling you. The Fifth Avenue vouches for you, and Mr. Morris does, too. No. There can't be any harm. It was a check for five thousand dollars."

Peter sat up in his chair.

"Five thousand!" he exclaimed. "Five thousand dollars? Did she often draw as much as that?"

"No, never anywhere near as much as that before. And she took cash, too. Parsons warned her that it wasn't very safe, these days, to carry so much money around, and suggested that she take it in A.B.A. checks. He thought she was going to, for she asked to see the blanks, and then she decided that she wasn't afraid to take the cash."

"I'm not awfully familiar with those checks," said Peter, apparently, for the moment, losing interest in his main subject, "but I understand they're a great convenience when you're travelling. Got one handy? I'd like to see one."

"Yes, they're great," said the cashier, producing a pad of blanks from the drawer of his desk, and laying it before the detective.

Peter looked at it for a moment, curiously.

"You sign here, in the body of the check when purchasing, don't you," he said, slowly, "and then, when you sign again, here at the bottom, it identifies you. Yes. Very clever. Very convenient. I'll remember, when I have another long trip to take. Thanks."

He sat considering in silence for a little time. Then he asked:

"How does Miss Blake's account stand with the bank? I mean, is it a joint account? Can she and her sister both draw checks against it?"

"Yes," Dunne answered, promptly.

"Then, if Miss Mary should--die--Miss Anne could still go on drawing against the account without any bother about a will, or anything."

"Naturally, but I don't quite see how this applies----"

"No," agreed Peter, genially. "It probably doesn't. I was only thinking----"

He continued thinking silently for a moment, then he went on:

"Would you feel that there was any harm in telling me how much money Miss Blake has on deposit here?"

"I really couldn't do that, Mr. Clancy. It's against the rules of the bank. I'm sorry."

Peter grinned--computing swiftly in his own mind.

"Would I be safe, do you think," he asked, "in extending credit to Miss Blake to the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars?"

The young cashier laughed.

"You would, Mr. Clancy. You certainly would."

"Suppose it were necessary, and I doubled the credit?"

Dunne's eyes twinkled with merriment, and he shook his head.

"I wouldn't advise you to go much above that, Mr. Clancy," he said, "but at the present moment you wouldn't be risking your fifty thousand to any extent."

The grin left Peter's face, and his eyes narrowed. He had, indeed, found food for thought. A joint account, for about fifty thousand dollars, which would be entirely under Anne's control if Mary--should die. Had he found a motive, a sufficient motive? And why had Anne drawn so large a sum on Saturday? Saturday! The very day before the one on which Anne and Mary had both vanished, leaving no trace.

Did someone know of the large sum in currency which the sisters had in their apartment, presumably, on Saturday night?... But Anne, at least, had left the apartment, herself unharmed, on Sunday evening. That was an established fact.

And why hadn't Anne made use of the safe and convenient A.B.A. checks, as the paying teller had advised her? She had evidently considered doing so, for she had examined the blanks--and found, not only that she must sign them first when purchasing, but also that the signature at the bottom must agree with the one in the body of the check when it was cashed.

There was only one possible conclusion in the detective's mind. She did not wish to use her own name, and that was why she would not buy them of the bank where she was known. If she was clever, she would see that she could purchase the checks elsewhere and use any name she saw fit. Peter was confident that when, or if, they found Anne Blake, it would be under some other name.

These reflections occupied but a moment, so swift were Peter's mental processes. He had noted and tabulated each circumstance for future application to the problem in hand, and there had been scarcely a perceptible pause in the conversation when he said:

"I'm awfully obliged to you, Mr. Dunne, for the information you've given me. There's just one thing more. Would you mind showing me any vouchers you may happen to have on Miss Blake's account? It would be a great favour."

The cashier pursed his lips, and shook his head.

"I'm afraid I really couldn't do that, Mr. Clancy," he said, apologetically. "Cancelled checks are the property of the client, and not of the bank. I could show you the signature card, if you'd be interested in that. It shows both signatures, if that's what you want to see."

Peter did not care to explain that he had hoped to get from the vouchers some clue which would indicate with whom the sisters were accustomed to have dealings, or that he might stumble on some other valuable bit of information. This proving impossible, he might as well look at the signatures. As O'Malley always said, "You never can tell----"

"Why, thanks. I would like to see them, Mr. Dunne," he said, "if it isn't too much trouble."

"Not a bit," responded the cashier, rising.

He passed again behind the network of grilles, and presently returned with the usual signature card in his hand. Seating himself, he laid it before the detective.

Peter examined the signatures carefully. Mary Blake's was, so far as he could judge, precisely like those he had seen at Frederick Jones's office, the writing rather large, and slanting in the ordinary way. Anne's signature was small and cramped and written "backhand," very different from her sister's generous, spirited writing. And yet, in some ways, they were similar, Peter noted; a fact probably due to long association. The e's, for instance, were formed in both cases, not in a loop, but like a written capital e, and they were separate, not joined to the letter k which preceded in the word "Blake."

Peter remarked these points in passing, but their full significance did not dawn upon him for many, many anxious days.