Murder Most Merry

THE EMBEZZLER’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT – Ennis Duling

Entire mornings could pass at the First National Bank without anyone speaking to Herb Cubbey about anything that wasn’t business. Checks were cashed, and money was entered in personal accounts at the window where Herb worked. Customers were rewarded with a nod and a barely audible thank you. At the end of the day his records were always in perfect order.

Twenty-five-year-old Sue Rigney, who worked two windows away, thought that Herb moved around the bank as if he were a frightened herbivore (she liked the pun) in a jungle of meateaters. He might have blended into a paneled wall, his brown bow tie and the pattern of his remaining hair serving as protective coloration. Like a mouse at the cat’s water dish, he poured water for tea, allowed it to steep weakly, and then darted away, leaving only the spore of the tea bag. Sue noticed that he used a tea bag more than once.

Sue had heard the other tellers and the secretaries discussing Herb’s personal life. He spent his evenings at home with his widowed mother, and that was the sum of his life. Probably he kept a goldfish, watched the same television shows each week, and made his mother breakfast in bed on Sundays.

The secretaries made occasional jokes about Herb’s saintly mother, but he was such little game that they usually found other targets such as the newly appointed assistant manager, Edward Bridgewright. who at thirty-three was exactly Herb’s age. In fact, they had both entered the bank’s employ at the same time, and while Herb remained at his original position. Bridgewright had risen to better things.

One morning before opening, a group of secretaries and tellers gathered near the coffee machine and talked about the Christmas presents they were giving their boyfriends and husbands. When Herb appeared, Sue, who at the moment had no boyfriend and wanted to keep the fact a secret, said, “What are you giving your mother for Christmas, Herb?”

Herb squeezed his tea bag between two spoons. “I really shouldn’t say.”

“Aw, come on, Herb,” Dot Levin said. After twenty years at the bank, she liked to play mother to the younger employees. “Your mother is such a wonderful woman.” Sue wished she hadn’t said anything.

“I know I shouldn’t tell you this,” Herb said, “but I’m giving her ten thousand dollars.” The water in his cup had turned a light amber. “Merry Christmas to you all.” He looked down at his cup as he balanced it in retreat.

“Did he say ten thousand?” Dot asked.

“Where would the little man get that kind of money?” said Jan Washington, a strikingly beautiful black woman.

At that moment Mr. Bridgewright stepped out of the elevator and marched toward the conversation. “Girls, girls, girls, this is no time to stand around and talk. Back to work!”

“This is my break time, Mr. Bridgewright,” Sue said.

He gave her one of his sincere smiles, the type she always saw before he asked her for a date.

“And Herb Cubbey has lots of money,” Paula Kimble said.

“No, he doesn’t. Work!”

Sue slipped away with the rest of them.

In the parking lot after closing. Herb’s money was again the topic of conversation. “Maybe the man lied,” Jan suggested.

“No!” Sue insisted. She thought that Herb deserved his privacy as much as anyone. She hated it when the others started to pry into her life.

“Herbert has never told a lie since he was born,” Paula said. “He’s afraid his mommy might slap his hand.”

“Then he inherited it,” Sue said.

John Franks from the trust department said, “I drove him home two years ago during the bus strike. He lives over in Bultman Village. You know those little bungalows built back in the Roaring Twenties. They looked better then, I imagine. He asked me in, and the old lady served me tea and biscuits. She looked like she was posing for a painting with her knitting. She kept telling me how hard it was to make ends meet and how her husband had been a wonderful man but didn’t have a head for money. No, Herb didn’t have any money then.”

“A rich uncle,” Sue said.

“A man like that with no idea in the world of how to spend money would be lucky enough to have an uncle leave him a bundle,” Dot said.

“Worry not, ladies,” John said. “I see Herb coming now. I’ll just ask him.”

As Herb walked by, he touched his hat. John said, “Sorry to hear about your relative dying like that, Mr. Cubbey. Your uncle, wasn’t it?”

Herb glanced down. “You must be mistaken, Mr. Franks. My family has excellent health, except for my father, of course, and that was years ago. Good night all.”

John watched him until he was out of sight and then he said. “He’s a sly one. If he inherited the money, he’s not telling.”

“He seems to be a very private sort of person,” Sue said.

“He has responsibilities,” Jan said.

“He’s not shy; he’s just a Scrooge,” Paula said.

“Goes home and counts it at night,” Jan agreed. “Won’t let anyone get any use out of it except his mother and what’s she need with the cash?”

“Maybe he just saved that much and decided to give it to his mother,” Sue suggested.

The next morning John steered Sue into Mr. Bridgewright’s office. “Ed, I just want you to know how poorly trained your employee is,” he said grinning.

“What?” Mr. Bridgewright gave his supervisor’s frown.

“I was trying to explain to Susie here that Herb Cubbey could no more save up enough money to give his mom ten thousand dollars than I could convince the trust department to play the ponies. Now I don’t want you giving away any state secrets, but let us put down a round figure for Herb’s salary.” He switched on a calculator and pushed Sue in front. “Look about right, Ed? Now let’s subtract food and clothing for two, house maintenance, and taxes. We can multiply the small remainder by fifty-two weeks in a year. He could save that much, but the canary would have to go hungry. Women just don’t have a head for money. That’s one of the things that’s so charming about them.”

She twisted out of John’s grasp and hurried to the door. “Maybe he made it on Wall Street!”

There was a long silence. “Maybe he did,” Mr. Bridgewright said.

“Several hundred thousand,” John added with awe in his voice.

At the coffee machine that noon Paula touched Herb’s arm. “Would you be willing to give a poor girl like me a little advice, Herb?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Advice. You know—good ideas from your storehouse of wisdom.”

“Certainly,” he said doubtfully.

“What percent of a portfolio should a small investor have in stocks?”

Herb backed away as if she had been making demands on him in a foreign language. “I don’t understand.”

By Christmas Eve most people had concluded that there had been a misunderstanding. Dot said that Herb was probably giving his mother “ten towels and a dollar.”

“Weird present!” Jan said.

“But he can afford it,” Dot said.

But Paula, who wouldn’t let go, cornered him by the drinking fountain. “Is your mother’s present all ready, Herb?” she said.

“All but the signature.”

“Won’t she be surprised by such a large sum of money?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. She’s used to it.” And then Herb smiled. Nobody had seen him really smile before, but they were sure it made him look roguish.

So as Christmas passed, Sue noticed that people’s attitude toward Herb had begun to change. His fearful movements around the bank were clear signs of the secretiveness that had made him his money. His near baldness reminded them of the complete baldness of a TV star. His bow tie was like that of a famous lawyer who had been in the news. His tea drinking was a sign of international tastes.

“How are you doing today, Herb honey?” Paula said each morning.

Jan put forward the theory that Herb was a gambler. “He couldn’t admit to it and still work in a bank, could he?”

Once Sue met Herb by the candy machine in the basement. “I’m sorry for how the others are treating you,” she said. “I feel like I started all this.”

“I don’t mind really. Sue, although I don’t understand a lot that they say to me. John asked me today what I thought of a copper kettle in the third. I don’t know anything about kettles.”

“I wish I could make it up to you in some way,” she said. “Maybe dinner. How about New Year’s?” Then she realized that she was doing exactly what she was apologizing for.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to check with my mother. She usually has some friends over, and she might need me.” He had a surprised, cornered look on his face.

Sue wasn’t sure she wanted to go out with Herb—she was certain she wasn’t going to mention the possibility to anyone—but he was kind and polite, characteristics that made him a good deal more attractive than John Franks or Mr. Bridgewright.

Instead of the gambler’s image fading, it grew, along with that of the Wizard of Wall Street and the fortunate heir. Only Mr. Bridgewright scoffed at the entire question. Later Sue figured that he would have continued to pay no attention if it hadn’t been for her.

“I just want to give you one last opportunity to go out with me on New Year’s, Susie,” he said after calling her into his office.

“No, thank you. I have a date already.” And then before she could clamp her mouth shut, she said, “With Herb!”

The word got around the bank fast. Paula said that Herb might not be much to look at and that his mother might be a millstone, but money made up for a lot of faults.

“We never took you for the greedy type,” Dot teased.

“I’m not going out with him for his money.”

“With a man like him, what else is there?” Paula said.

“I kind of feel sorry for him.”

“You’ll feel sorry for him all right when he starts giving you diamonds.”

For the next two days, Sue noticed Mr. Bridgewright standing at the door to his office watching Herb. When Herb left his window for the men’s room. Bridgewright would make a mark in a notebook. Jan noticed, too. “The man goes to the john more than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

John whispered the conclusion first: “Embezzlement!”

“What an awful thing to say,” Sue said.

“First thing you know he’ll figure out a way to steal thousands at once, and he’ll be off to South America,” Paula said.

John laughed. “I can just picture him in a hotel room in Rio wishing he could understand what they were saying on TV.”

“Are you serious?” Sue demanded.

“Bridgewright is,” John said.

“He can’t be.”

“I expect the examiners to swoop down at any moment.”

The next afternoon, December 31st, Bridgewright stepped over to Herb’s cash drawer at the end of the day. “We’re going to have someone else check your drawer tonight, Mr. Cubbey,” he said. A grim-faced young man in a gray suit stood at his elbow.

“Certainly,” Herb said in a voice filled with surprise.

“And Mr. Hamilton wants to see you in his office immediately.” Mr. Hamilton was the bank president.

“Yes, sir.” Herb walked a few steps away and stood looking out the plate glass window at the bustle on Main Street. Sue could see his shoulders slump in defeat.

Mr. Bridgewright came over to her. “Well. Miss Rigney, we’re going to be at the bottom of the Herbert Cubbey case soon enough. Mr. Hamilton has been informed. We’ve played games far too long.”

“I don’t think Herb even knows what game we’re playing.” Sue said.

She went to where Herb stood and squeezed his arm. “Whatever happens, Herb, I know you’re innocent.”

“Am I in some sort of trouble?” He seemed terribly afraid, and she wanted to mother him.

“They say you stole the money.”

“What money?”

“The ten thousand dollars you gave your mother for Christmas.”

He swallowed hard. “You didn’t really think I had all that money?”

“You said you did.”

“If I did have that much, I’d take you out on New Year s to the best restaurant in town. You’d have flowers, and we’d drink champagne and dance all night.”

“It doesn’t take that much money to have a good time,” Sue said. “I already lied and told Mr. Bridgewright we were going out.”

“All right then,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “We’ll make some plans when we get back from talking to Mr. Hamilton. Will you come along with me?”

Sue followed him to the elevator.

“Could I have the opportunity to explain?” Herb said to President Hamilton.

“I expect you’d like one, Cubbey,” Hamilton said. He was a short, heavy man with bushy eyebrows. “You should anyway! I’m an old man, so I don’t need to be subtle. No time for it. So let’s hear it. Bridgewright tells me you’ve been giving away thousands of dollars and the only explanation is you’ve got your hand in the till.”

“I’ve honestly accounted for every cent that I’ve handled.”

“Thought so. What about the gift?”

“I wrote my mother a check for ten thousand dollars at Christmas. I never should have told anyone.”

“How’s that again?”

“We haven’t had much since my father passed away, so we pretend. Every year we write each other large checks. This year she gave me a check for two thousand. The year before I wrote one for five thousand, and she gave me one for eight thousand. Checks that is. We sit around and talk about what we’d like to buy until midnight, and then we burn the checks in the fireplace. We’ve always had a good time doing it. It must sound strange to outsiders.”

Mr. Hamilton chuckled. “It’s unusual, that’s for sure, but not a bad idea. You get the pleasure of the money without the cost, which is not bad management at all. Not bad at all. Shows a good deal more sense than Mr. Bridgewright just exhibited.”

“Do you have any further questions, sir?”

“Why hasn’t an honest, imaginative young man like you received a promotion recently? Who’s running this bank anyway? That’s what I’d like to know.”