101 Mystery Stories

99 Not the Running Type Henry Slesar

“How dumb can you get!” Captain Ernest Fisher said, and slapped the desk blotter so hard that the calendar pad danced. Hogan, the bright-faced lieutenant of police, looked up from the standing files and asked a question with his eyebrows.

Fisher rattled the sheet in his hand. “I just got a look at this memo that came in last week — the one giving the names of parolees in the vicinity. It’s got Milt Potter listed.”

“Who’s Milt Potter?”

“You mean I never told you about him?”

“No, sir.”

“Take a look at the ’46 file while you’re there — under embezzlement. That’s Milton Potter, spelled the way it sounds. Bring it over and I’ll tell you the story.”

Hogan slid shut the drawer he was investigating and obeyed the order. He brought the manila folder to the Captain’s desk and flipped the cover to the first entry.

“Milton Potter,” he read. “Age thirty-four; single; employment, Metro Investment Services, Inc. ...”

“That’s the man,” Fisher nodded. He leaned back in the swivel chair and put his feet on the desk. “Tamest criminal you ever met in your life, or maybe the coolest. Walked off with two hundred thousand dollars of investors’ money, easy as stealing fruit from a pushcart. But now he’s a free man.”

“Paroled?”

“Two days ago,” Fisher scowled. “I had his release date on my calendar for twelve years — and then I don’t watch the memos! But it won’t make any difference. Two days, two weeks — I got Milt Potter’s number.”

The Captain lit a cigarette, then put the pack in front of him, readying himself for a siege of story-telling.

“It happened back in March of 1946. I was a looie like you then, and maybe even more of an eager beaver than you are now. I got called in when the Metro Investment discovered the shortage, but I didn’t have any work to do. Milt Potter did it for me.

“Potter was a funny guy. He was short and kind of owlish-looking, with sad brown eyes like a cocker spaniel. He had worked for Metro Services since he got out of college, a total of thirteen years, and he was still making only sixty bucks a week. He had no family, and few friends. He was quiet, courteous, commonplace, and careful. Nobody could tell you anecdotes about him, or even describe him very well — we found that out when he showed up missing. He went about his duties without ever complaining or revealing the secret intention that must have burned inside his guts for years.

“Then it happened. One day Potter didn’t report for work and nobody even cared very much. But when he didn’t show up the next day, somebody thought it might be a good idea to call his home and see if he had broken a leg or something. There wasn’t any answer. They didn’t get really disturbed about it until three days after that, when Potter was still unreported. It took all that time to get suspicious — that’s the kind of cookie Milt Potter was.

“Anyway, they finally came to their senses and made a quick check of Potter’s books. They didn’t even have to call in the auditors to determine that something wasn’t on the up and up. There were great big obvious holes in Potter’s accounting, and great big chunks of money missing, amounting to two hundred grand. Sure, Potter was the last guy in the world they would expect it from, but isn’t it always that way?

“So at this point they got real frantic and hollered cop. The Chief put me on assignment, and I went down to talk to them. I made a check on Potter and it was pretty surprising. He wasn’t at his rooming house, and his landlady didn’t know his whereabouts, but he hadn’t covered his trail worth a damn. His clothes and luggage were still in the room, and there were travel folders all over the place. Obviously, Potter had made plans for the money.

“I figured it wouldn’t be too difficult a task to find him, but I never even got the chance to prove myself. I guess maybe that’s why I was so upset over the case — the son of a gun cheated me out of my first big arrest! Because one day after Metro Services called in the police, Milton Potter walked into the precinct house and gave himself up.

“Well, maybe that wasn’t so surprising at that — a lot of first-timers lose their nerve after a job is pulled. But Potter didn’t look like a victim of the jitters. He was calm and rational, and all he said was, here I am, I took the money, do what you have to do.

“I grilled his for hours, but he stayed nice and cool all the time. Not cool the way some of these hoods you’re dealing with are — a respectable kind of coolness. But the one point he wouldn’t volunteer any information on was the location of the money. He clammed up tight every time I mentioned it. He was willing to go to jail for his crime, all right. But give up the dough? Uh-uh.

“Well, I really worked him over — in a legitimate way, of course. I told him that he was being a patsy, that it meant a fifteen- or twenty-year stretch for him if he kept up his attitude. I told him he would probably get off real light if he returned the dough — after all, it was his first offense. If he gave back the two hundred grand, both Metro and the insurance company would go easy on him. I practically promised it.

“But Milt Potter didn’t see it that way; he stuck to his guns. He claimed he had taken the money because he thought he could get away with it, then realized he wasn’t cut out to be a hunted criminal. He couldn’t stand the idea of being hounded for the rest of his life — he just wasn’t the running type. So he had given himself up. But what did he do with the money? That was a different story. He didn’t care a hoot what we did to him — just so long as he didn’t have to return the loot. That’s the way he wanted it, and that’s the way it turned out.

“The trial was short and sweet. He pleaded guilty, and got a fifteen-year sentence.

“I knew what he was up to, of course, and so did everybody else. He was making an investment — an investment of his time and his freedom in exchange for riches when he got out of prison. I guess he was a type that didn’t mind prison life too much. He had spent five years in the army during the war, and the regimentation suited his personality to a T. He liked being told where to go and what to do; I tried to convince him that prison wasn’t the same thing, but he didn’t seem to care.

“That was back in ’46, like I said. Potter was a model prisoner from the day he walked through the gates. He worked in the library most of the time, and did a lot of reading — travel books, mainly. He got three years clipped off his sentence for good behavior. Well, now he’s got two days head start, but it won’t matter.”

Captain Fisher crushed out his third cigarette, and Hogan said:

“What happens now, Captain? Does he get away with the dough?”

Fisher shook his head sadly. “That’s the tough part. He wouldn’t believe me when I told him twelve years ago, but he’s not going to profit from his investment. That two hundred grand doesn’t belong to him, even if he thinks he earned it by a stretch in prison. I’m going to pay him a visit and tell him the facts of life.”

“You mean you’re going to see him today?”

“Sure,” Fisher said. “I’ve had this appointment for a long time.”

The address Captain Fisher obtained from the parole officials was a boarding house in the twenties, not far from Milt Potter’s old neighborhood.

Potter was in his shirt sleeves when he answered the Captain’s knock, and Fisher wondered if the dozen years had had so little effect on himself as it had on the ex-convict. He was still a short, owlish man with sad brown eyes, and the only marked inroads of time were a few light lines on his face and a patch of thinning hair on his head. He looked puzzled when he saw the Captain, and then distraught when recognition lit up his eyes.

“I’m Captain Ernest Fisher — you remember me, Mr. Potter?”

“Of course,” Potter said nervously. “Come on in.”

“Thanks. I was Lieutenant Fisher when we met the last time, Mr. Potter.” He took a chair near the window and looked around the room casually. There was a closed suitcase on the wrought-iron bed.

“What was it you wanted, Captain?”

“Just to talk. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has.”

“I understood you did pretty well in prison — nobody has any complaints about your conduct that I know about. Pays, doesn’t it? Getting out sooner, I mean.”

“Yes,” Potter said, not looking at him. He went to the wash basin and rinsed his hands in cold water.

“I won’t beat around the bush, Mr. Potter. I’m here for a reason, and I think you know what it is. There’s still a matter of two hundred thousand dollars, and neither the police nor the insurance company are going to forget it. The fact that you served your sentence doesn’t entitle you to the money, no matter what you think.”

Potter didn’t answer. He dried his hands on a thin towel and gazed out of the window towards the skyline. In the distance a ship blew its horn twice.

“There’s no use being coy about it, Mr. Potter. It was obvious to everybody what your plan was. You thought you could earn that money with your time, but that’s not the way these things are done. And I just wanted you to know that I’m making it my personal duty to see that you don’t carry out your plan.”

Fisher waited for Potter to say something. Finally, the parolee turned and answered, almost in a whisper.

“You have things all wrong, Captain.”

“Really?”

“You have it all wrong about me. I know that’s what everybody thinks, but they’re wrong. I took that money because I wanted it, wanted it very much. I’ve always dreamed of traveling round the world, ever since I was a little boy, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to take the money when it was so easily available. But after I took it, I realized that I wasn’t the criminal type — not in the least.”

He came over and sat in the chair opposite.

“I couldn’t bear the idea of being hunted, living in fear all the time. Always jumping at shadows, always looking over my shoulder. Oh, maybe I had some wild idea about serving out my sentence and then running off with the money when I got out. But that would be exactly the same thing — running, afraid to live in the open, unable to enjoy any of the pleasures the money would bring me. I’m just not made that way, Captain.”

Fisher stared at him.

“I thought prison wouldn’t be hard to take, and in some ways it wasn’t. But I had time to think everything out, and now I know what I have to do. So if you want the money, Captain, I’m ready to give it back.”

“You’re what?”

“All I want is to be let alone, Captain. All I want is to live in peace. Don’t you understand?”

“Then where’s the money?”

Potter swallowed.

“Right here — right here in this room.”

He got up, went to the suitcase on the bed, and opened it. It was crammed with money.

The travel agent beamed when the short, owlish man walked into the office and said:

“I’m interested in a round-the-world cruise.”

“Yes, sir!”

“But I want the best, understand? I don’t care about the cost.”

“I understand perfectly,” the travel agent said.

Milt Potter sat down, gratefully. The last three days had been fatiguing. It had been an effort, visiting twenty city banks, signing twenty different names to twenty withdrawal slips. But the task was over, and he had his money. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was more than he could have saved or even earned in the last twelve, tax-free, all expense-paid years. $84,000 interest, compounded over a dozen years on his capital investment.