Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938

Death Plays a Sucker by T. T. Flynn

There in the quiet bank vault, Bradley’s hands began to tremble as he decided to kill Van Dyke. Steadying himself, Bradley put down the packet of hundred-dollar bills and looked furtively at the others. They hadn’t noticed, they were too busy counting the cash to find how much Van Dyke had stolen.

In the directors’ room, Fosdick, the bank’s president, and Simmons and Cleve, the vice-presidents, and that shaggy-haired badly-dressed little surety company detective, were waiting for the figures.

“Forty-three one-thousand-dollar bills,” announced Gauge, snapping rubber band about the thin packet. “I guess Van Dyke knew these would leave a trail.”

Jordan, number three teller, tossed a canvas money sack onto a heap of other sacks. “Three thousand and ten dollars in pennies.”

Steelman, the head bookkeeper, snapped, “Hurry — they’re waiting.”

Jimmy Allison, the junior teller, grinned from the sacked rolls of nickels and dimes.

“If you ask me, Van Dyke had it all planned. Remember that cutie I saw him with? I wonder if he took her along. Paris, Monte Carlo, Singapore — it’ll be good while it lasts.”

Bradley’s lip curled. Good for nothing but donning their seersucker coats, paying out, receiving other people’s money. They wouldn’t believe Van Dyke was safely away, they were sure Van Dyke would be caught. In the directors’ room it was taken for granted. But Fosdick, the president, Simmons, Cleve, the vice-presidents, were fools. Van Dyke, that hearty, back-slapping fellow, had planned too well. Ten, fifteen years Van Dyke must have planned — and only Alvin Bradley remembered.

“Twenty-three one-hundred — dollar bills,” said Bradley evenly. “Van Dyke evidently took most of the hundreds.”

They were waiting when Bradley entered the directors’ room, a meek, slightly stooped man with thinning hair and prim eyeglasses.

“Well?” said Fosdick impatiently.

Bradley read from the paper in his hand.

“Ninety-seven thousand, six hundred and forty dollars, and fifty cents. That seems to be all the cash Mr. Van Dyke got.”

Fosdick exploded. “Isn’t that enough? Don’t look so sanctimonious, Bradley!”

Bradley flushed. How he disliked them. Not one had been so long with the bank. Van Dyke, the thief, when he had been promoted past the head teller’s post where Alvin Bradley was a fixture, had chuckled, “Stop being a worm, Alvin, and thinking how badly you’re used. The lightning may strike you next time.”

Simmons, lean and good-looking in his expensive suit, mused, “I wonder why Van took that extra fifty cents.”

Cleve, the other vice-president, guessed, “I suppose for the same reason he left this note, and had the repairs rushed on his fishing rod. Van thought of everything.” Cleve cocked an eyebrow at Candleman, the sloppily dressed little man from the surety company. “It was his favorite fishing rod, didn’t his wife tell you?”

Candleman nodded soberly.

“The tip was loose. She still thinks he’s away on a fishing trip.”

“What a shock she’ll get,” said Simmons regretfully. He read again from the note before him.

Candleman looked pained. “That’s a lot of money for us to make good, gentlemen.”

“But necessary,” murmured Cleve. “I suppose you’ll get Van Dyke.”

Candleman nodded vaguely. “We usually do. Where did he usually fish?”

“Everywhere,” volunteered Simmons. “Salmon in New Brunswick — trout in New England, bass in Florida, bone fish along the Florida Keys; now and then he’d have a try at marlin or sailfish. Van was a bug on fishing.”

Candleman absentmindedly fumbled with a coat button.

“Florida, now — that’s handy to Cuba and Central America. I wonder if he’d be fool enough to try to get away on a Pan-American plane.”

Cleve shook his head.

“Van wasn’t a fool — although in a way, I suppose, he was a fool to do this.”

Fosdick slapped the table. “Certainly he was a fool J His life’s ruined!” Fosdick looked helplessly at the others. “I can’t realize Van actually has done this. Why... why... are you still here, Bradley? That’s all. Mind you, no gossiping.”

Three days later Bradley resigned. Fosdick was annoyed.

“I don’t understand, Bradley. You’re not eligible for retirement.”

“I realize it, sir.”

“You’ve done well as head teller. The bank is willing to recognize satisfactory service — say an increase of a hundred dollars a year.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My health...”

Ah, it was good — after twenty-three years. Bradley took his savings, better than thirty-four hundred, in twenty-dollar bills. But as he walked away from the bank, fright suddenly laid hold of Bradley like a cold hand. He stopped, looked back. There was still time. They’d take him back. Suppose he didn’t find Van Dyke? Suppose these new fantastic dreams of wealth went flat?

They couldn’t! He had guessed right. Tonight he’d know. After a moment, Bradley walked on, a meek-looking figure, inconspicuous in the crowd...

Mrs. Van Dyke, in her apartment doorway, was the same fleshy, carefully made-up woman who had often appeared at the bank. Tonight she wore a rose tea gown, held a half-eaten chocolate cream, and looked disappointed.

“Mr. Bradley, from the bank? Of course — come in.”

Bradley apologized, “I’ve some fishing tackle Mr. Van Dyke lent me.”

“Heavens — more of that!” She had her peevish grievance. “Van is away now, you know, I don’t even know where. He was to meet a friend in Washington. Have they heard from him at the bank?”

“I don’t believe so. These are flies — wet flies I borrowed. Mr. Van Dyke said he’d be glad to lend me more. I was wondering if he’d taken all his trout flies and rods.” Bradley smiled apologetically. “I’m planning a little fishing trip myself.”

“I don’t see how you men can like it, Mr. Bradley. I don’t even eat fish, and I loathe mosquitoes and the impossible places Van goes. He won’t even take a bridge hand if he can beg off to putter with that mess of fishing things.”

A bridge table, cards, cigarettes, chocolates, waited in the living room. She’d get her mind off bridge quickly enough if she knew how fast Van Dyke’s life was running out.

The thought gave Bradley a little glow of humor, but he was earnestly apologetic:

“If I could look at his tackle...”

“I wish you’d take it all away. I’m sick of it. In here...”

Van Dyke had fitted up a large closet. Racks held fishing rods. Shelves, hooks were filled with heavier equipment; cases of drawers contained flies, hooks, lures, reels. Fishing was a passion with the man, had been so when he first came to the bank, had increased as Van Dyke’s income enabled him to gratify his hobby.

In the closet Bradley was suddenly uncertain. All the tackle looked alike. Three days of studying the stuff, buying the wet flies to bring here hadn’t helped much.

He asked, “Did Mr. Van Dyke take his trout tackle?”

She shook her head. “You’ll have to see. After all these years, I can’t tell a dry fly from a wet fly — although goodness knows Van has showed me often enough.”

Several rods were missing from the racks. Bradley was suddenly relieved to find the shallow drawers neatly labeled. Dry Flies — Wet Flies — Plugs — Sinkers.

Two drawers were labeled Dry Flies. Bradley held his breath as he looked — and suddenly his heart was pounding and he was almost giddy with relief. Only an odd dry fly or two was left. Van Dyke had taken only what he wanted in the immediate future. The missing rods were at the small end of the rack, trout rods of course. Van Dyke had left with trout on his mind...

“Take anything you can use, Mr. Bradley.”

He was husky and couldn’t help it.

“Thank you — very generous — this big rod and — and this reel and some of these hooks. And this creel, if you don’t mind, so I won’t have to bring them back on a string...”

Anything to make talk, to have something to carry away. Bradley left the apartment with the smaller stuff inside the creel and the heavy rod case in one hand, and now he was feverish with impatience.

There wasn’t much else to do. The drab Mrs. Bradley who had never kept their walk-up flat very neat had died three years back. Bradley had not missed her much after the first month. He had taken a room, eaten out, found it to his liking.

Bradley boarded a train in the morning, taking the fishing tackle. It was a visible excuse for the trip. He had given up the room. He had few friends, none close. His trail would end at the rooming house. No one would worry about what happened to Alvin Bradley.

Precautions had to be taken. Bradley rode from Philadelphia to Indianapolis on the first ticket, and on a different railroad and fresh ticket to Chicago.

There Alvin Bradley passed out of existence.

George Henderson, from Boston registered at a modest hotel. It was George Henderson who wandered into a State Street pawn shop and purchased a second hand thirty-eight caliber automatic pistol. And later at a sporting goods store a box of cartridges.

That afternoon Bradley boarded a train for Denver. From a Denver hotel he walked out and purchased a second hand sedan, paying cash in the name of George Henderson. The dealer helped him get Colorado tags.

In the morning Bradley drove out of Denver on the winding grade that writhed up into the heart of the Rockies. Twice during the day when the road held no traffic, he got out and practiced with the gun. Now the feverishness urged him on. Suppose Van Dyke had not found things to his liking? Suppose Van Dyke had left, was getting ready to leave? This time there would be no clues. Trust Van Dyke for that.

The mountain grades were terrifying, distances seemed endless out here in the West. This vast world of great mountains, staggering vistas, lonely solitudes brought a slow pressure of uneasiness.

It occurred to Bradley when he had driven twenty miles without seeing a car that he had never been so alone before. His mouth dried out when he thought of Van Dyke and what must be done. After a little he found he could put that aside by thinking of the tens of thousands of cash money Van Dyke had along.

Then, suddenly, in the late afternoon, the crossroads was there, as Van Dyke had described it long ago. A faded sign said, Indio Springs. A poorly graded dirt road led up a lonely mountain valley sided by rocky tree-covered slopes.

Long ago Van Dyke had told it with the gleam of a fanatic in his eye.

“Star Lake, the old fellow called it, and he said the creek emptying into it was full of rainbows and the lake itself alive with fighters. Snow water, and no one ever went in there to fish. They’d have to walk the last three miles. Never be able to get a road any nearer. So I went to his place for a few days — and he hadn’t told half of it. Big ones. Fighters. The most perfect dry-fly fishing I’ll ever see. Before I left I bought his cabin and the acre of ground he owned on the lake edge. Bradley, I’m going to forget it until I retire; and then I’m going back and drop dry flies to those fighting beauties until my arm gives out or t hey’ re all gone.”

Van Dyke had never mentioned the Colorado lake again, or gone to Colorado.

Fantastic, perhaps, to be certain Van Dyke was here — but then you had to know Van Dyke’s phobia. And he had taken his dry flies. Bradley’s heart was pumping with excitement when he reached the rocky pinnacle “like a church spire” that Van Dyke had described.

There beyond the pinnacle were the rain-gutted ruts that struck up the valley slope, steep, steeper, until the low gears ground heavily, the motor labored and the sedan bounced and bucked over the road rocks. But another automobile had passed this way recently.

A mile beyond a gap in the ridge, where the road ended beside a great rocky gully, Bradley found an expensive sedan off in the brush. It bore Colorado tags, but he was calmly certain now. He took only the loaded automatic, thrusting it down inside his belt, out of sight under his coat.

Somber shadows were already darkening back in the trees. Bradley’s shoes scuffed audibly on the trail rocks. He was quickly panting. The loneliness felt like a weight crushing down. The wind soughing softly through tree tops was almost sinister, and the cold fright came back. Once Bradley thought he heard an automobile in the far distance. A mistake, of course. It was nerves. His mouth was dry again, his palms felt clammy, and a heavy knot was growing in his middle. Nerves again. When this was over, he’d never get out of sight of another human.

Then the little lake was there before him, down the slope through the trees — and he was calm. Someone was chopping wood. It stopped as Bradley moved quietly on the down-slope of the trail.

He was close before he saw the cabin huddling near the lake edge, with a thin gray spiral of smoke rising from a rock chimney.

A lean-to behind the cabin had fallen in; otherwise the years had treated it kindly. An axe had cleared new brush back some yards, and a folding canvas boat was drawn up on the stones. Van Dyke was whistling as he stepped out and started toward the boat — a tail, broad-shouldered man wearing comfortable khaki trousers, an old shirt, and a stained khaki fisherman’s hat.

A stick cracked under Bradley’s foot. Van Dyke whirled, reaching to his hip pocket.

“Hello, Van,” Bradley called.

Van Dyke stood rigidly, staring while a man might breathe twice; then slowly Van Dyke’s hand left his hip pocket. “What the devil are you doing here?”

He was shaken, suspicious, dangerous. Bradley knew fear again, but he came on, a meek, smiling little man peering through his eyeglasses.

“I... I remembered you telling about this place, Van. I had to hide and I couldn’t think of any better place.”

“Hide?” said Van Dyke in the same husky-harsh voice. He was still pale, still taut, ready for action as he looked past Bradley to see who else might be following.

“When they started checking closely to see how much you had taken, I had to leave too,” said Bradley meekly.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You’re here alone?”

“Yes.”

Van Dyke stared — and abruptly the blood was back in his face and his laughter was incongruous and jeering.

“So you were doing the same thing! You! Alvin Bradley, the sanctimonious little rabbit had his hand in the cash all the time! I’ll believe anything now!” Van Dyke sobered and almost snarled, “Are you sure you got away clean?”

“Yes. I... I changed trains at Indianapolis, and again at Chicago, and used another name when I bought an automobile in Denver. I didn’t want to be followed, Van.”

“I suppose not,” Van Dyke muttered, staring. “But you always were a spineless fool. No imagination. Damn it, Bradley, why did you have to come here? I ought to throw you in the lake.”

“I’m sorry, Van. I’ll go away.”

“Like hell you will!” objected Van Dyke. “I’ll keep you here under my eye. Are you sure you didn’t let anyone know about this place?”

“Of course not.”

Van Dyke grunted skeptically. “How much did you take?”

Bradley gave the first sum that came to mind — his savings. “Thirty-four hundred.”

“Good heavens!” said Van Dyke in disgust. “I’d have given you that much to keep away from me! Damn that memory of yours. I remembered I’d mentioned this place to you, but I hoped you’d forgotten it. Did you bring a suitcase?”

“It’s back in the car.”

“We’ll take a flashlight and get it after supper. Come on in — as long as you’re here. I was just about to put some trout in the pan. Beauties. What a wonderful spot to fish!”

Van Dyke turned to the cabin door, asking, “What did they say at the bank?”

“They thought you were a fool,” said Bradley, reaching under his coat.

Van Dyke laughed — he was still laughing when the first bullet caught him in the back and knocked him sprawling... The last bullet in the pistol entered the back of his head.

Bradley jumped back, shaking, gagging, looked once with horrified fascination, and plunged blindly into the cabin still holding the smoking pistol.

He was panting, sweat was on his face as he looked wildly around, saw the expensive leather suitcases against the wall, and jumped to the nearest. It was unlocked, and when he snatched it open, neat bundles of bills tumbled out on the floor.

Bradley dropped to his knees, fingering them. All here! Some fifties — all readily passable, almost impossible to trace. He steadied as he handled the money. All over now, all as he had planned — nothing but the vision of Alvin Bradley, wealthy and free, with the world before him.

Van Dyke’s body, weighted with stones, would be safe in the lake for some time. Through the night hundreds of miles could be covered — Utah, Nevada, California. With most of the money hidden, the car disposed of, there were a thousand places in the United States, Canada, Mexico, where an unknown man might enjoy himself.

Bradley closed the suitcase, stood up and spoke aloud. “So you thought I was a fool? We’ll see now.”

He was out the doorway, halfway to the body when the quiet voice at the corner of the cabin said, “I’ll kill you if you move!”

He looked as sloppily dressed as ever, that little bonding company detective, but no longer vague and helpless as he came forward with a nickel-plated revolver.

“I didn’t think you’d be crazy enough to do this. I should have stopped you last night,” said Candleman regretfully.

“Stopped me?” Bradley repealed stupidly. He was dazed with fear. “You... you were following me?”

“All the way,” said Candleman. “Where’s that gun?”

“B-but I hadn’t done anything!”

“That was what made me curious,” said Candleman. “I couldn’t figure what you were up to, borrowing fishing tackle an hour before I dropped in to see Mrs. Van Dyke.”

“What was wrong about t-that?” Bradley stammered.

“Nothing, mister. But when a man borrows a deep-sea fishing rod made to catch ’em weighing hundreds of pounds, and a small creel to carry them back in, I get curious. Cleve, at the bank, told me over the telephone you never fished. And when you started inland to Indianapolis next day with a deep-sea fishing rod, I thought I’d better tag along. But I didn’t dream you were up to this. It’s first-degree murder. I suppose you know what it means?”

Saliva was running from the corner of Bradley’s mouth as he looked toward the suitcase with its neat packets of bills.