Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 75, No. 2. Whole No. 436, February 11, 1980

The Theft of the Banker’s Ashtray by Edward D. Hoch

© 1979 by Edward D. Hoch.

As you know, Nick Velvet, the unique thief, steals only the worthless — never anything valuable like money, jewelry, or objets d’art. And for stealing the valueless Nick’s fee is $20,000. Well, inflation has finally caught up with Nick. To filch zilch, to pinch pinchbeck, Nick now charges a minimum of $25,000. (Will we ever have a story in which someone offers Nick $1,000,000 for stealing 0? Mr. Hoch, are you listening?) In the meantime, here is one of Nick Velvet’s wiliest cases...

The bank’s headquarters were on Lexington Avenue, in a great white tower that reached toward the sky. Riding up to the 56th floor in an express elevator, Nick Velvet decided that banks had changed a great deal since his youth when the tellers were all men and the interest rate was four percent. Perhaps the ways of robbing banks had changed too. On the top floor the secretary led him past a computer room where, he imagined, it would be possible to steal $1,000,000 without ever drawing a gun.

Philip Norton’s office was different too, done in chrome and glass that would have turned old-time bankers pale. But then Philip Norton was not an old-time banker. Gaunt and graying, but with the handsome demeanor of a politician on the way up, his presence behind the desk was imposing and just a bit intimidating.

“You’re Nick Velvet?” he asked motioning toward one of the chrome and leather chairs. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Nick smiled and sat down. “I’m curious as to where you heard it. I didn’t know my fame had spread to banking circles.”

“These days bankers deal with all sorts of people. Everyone who has money becomes a bank’s customer in one way or another, and we don’t ask too many questions about where the money came from. But that’s beside the point. I called you, Mr. Velvet, for some advice. Naturally I’m willing to pay for your time.”

“Advice?” Nick asked, not quite knowing what was expected of him. “I have a service business, Mr. Norton. Naturally I assumed you knew the nature of my service.”

“I do. You steal valueless objects for a fee of twenty thousand dollars.”

“It’s twenty-five thousand now. Inflation finally caught up with me.”

The banker waved his hand. “In any event, I don’t need your services, only your expert knowledge. Something has been stolen from me — something valueless — and I need to know why.”

“I’m no detective, Mr. Norton. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

“But over the years you must have come in contact with a great many motives for stealing valueless objects.”

“What has been stolen?” Nick asked.

“The heavy glass ashtray from my desk.”

“Any idea who stole it?”

“Yes — but I don’t know why. It disappeared while I was meeting with a religious quack named Parson Maybee. He’s the only one who could have taken it.”

“What did the ashtray look like?”

The banker shrugged. “Nothing special or in the least bit valuable. You can buy them anywhere. Clear glass, square-shaped, with a concave inside. I’d say it was about five inches square and maybe two inches high.”

“Tell me about Parson Maybee.”

“His full name is Felix Maybee, and he’s the parson of the Church of the One True Hope. They’re out on Long Island now but he wants to build a new church. He came to see me about a loan.”

“You’re the president of First City Savings, aren’t you? Don’t you have a loan officer for things like that?”

“A mutual friend asked me to see him personally and I agreed. Perhaps it was a mistake. In the end I turned him over to our loan officer, but I’m sure we won’t give him anything like the money he wants.”

“How much did he ask to borrow?”

“A half-million dollars, with no collateral but the name of his church. I’m certain we won’t approve it.”

“Could he have sneaked the ashtray out under his coat?”

“He must have. Even when I’m not smoking I’m usually fiddling with it while I talk. As soon as he went out the door I noticed it was missing.”

“There were ashes in the tray at the time?”

“A few, and perhaps one cigarette butt. I’m trying to cut down on my smoking, and Maybee didn’t smoke at all.”

“Anything else in it? Torn scraps of paper?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Did it have the bank’s crest or name on it?”

“No.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Three days ago. Monday of this week.”

Nick leaned back in the chair. “I have no idea how I could be of help, Mr. Norton. My best guess would be that the man’s a kleptomaniac. It’s probably as simple as that.”

“You’ve never come across anything like this before?”

“No, never. The ashtray has no value to speak of, there was nothing in it, nothing engraved on it. He must have taken it simply because he fancied it and couldn’t resist the impulse.”

The banker was obviously disappointed. “I thought you could be of greater help to me.”

“I wish I could,” Nick said. “But as I told you, I’m no detective.” He stood up. “Maybe sometime you’ll have a job that’s a little more in my line.”

Philip Norton stood up too. “Very well.” He seemed about to say something more, but he hesitated.

Nick had his hand on the doorknob when the banker spoke again. His voice, almost a whisper, barely carried across the room. “Mr. Velvet, I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand to steal that ashtray back from Parson Maybee.”

Nick Velvet never asked questions as to his clients’ motives and he asked none that day. He accepted the assignment as if he’d been expecting it, promised results, and left to look up Parson Felix Maybee. He was not a difficult man to find. A phone call to the Church of the One True Hope on Long Island brought an immediate appointment for that same afternoon.

But when Nick arrived at the storefront church shortly before two o’clock, he found more than he’d bargained for. A blonde young woman wearing slacks and a sweater, with a tape recorder dangling from a shoulder strap, was attempting to push her way past a burly man in the doorway. “You don’t seem to understand!” she told him while pushing back. “I’m Lawn Larson from Channel Six News. I’m here for an interview!”

“No interviews today, lady,” the man said, giving her a final shove that sent her reeling backward a few feet. Nick became aware of a television cameraman recording the whole scene from across the street.

The door slammed shut and the camera stopped filming and Nick stepped up to the young woman. “Not very friendly in there, are they?”

She brushed some imaginary dirt from her sweater and shifted the tape recorder to a more comfortable position. Then she turned on her best smile and asked, “Do you have business with Parson Maybee?” Her microphone came up a few inches to catch his reply.

Nick, who’d had problems with a woman columnist on his most recent assignment, didn’t intend getting involved with the press again. “No comment,” he answered politely.

“Have you come to see him about the church’s tax-exempt status?”

Nick edged by her without replying and the guard at the door let him in. “You got an appointment?” he asked.

“Nick Velvet. Two o’clock.”

The guard motioned toward the stairs. “Up there. First office on the right.”

Felix Maybee proved to be a stout man with a halo of white hair that gave him the misleading appearance of a benevolent monk. He greeted Nick with a firm handshake and showed him into a plush office complete with a tank of tropical fish. “You spoke on the phone of a possible donation to our worthy cause,” he said.

Nick glanced at the desk but there was no evidence of the banker’s, ashtray. “I represent someone who may be interested. But I was a bit put off by the commotion at the front door. What was all that about?”

The benevolent parson dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Reporters are always harassing me. Somehow they equate the Church of the One True Hope with those crazy west-coast cults. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“How large a congregation do you have?”

“Two hundred in this area, perhaps seven hundred nationwide.”

“Not too large.”

“Our members are filled with missionary zeal. We will have a million converts within ten years, all preaching the gospel of hope through humanity.”

Nick wondered what that meant but didn’t bother to ask. Instead he casually produced a pack of cigarettes. “Do you have an ashtray?”

“Please, no smoking. It’s one of our Church’s tenets.”

“Sorry.” He put away the cigarettes, wondering if that explained the theft of the ashtray. No, it was too bizarre. One didn’t steal ashtrays to try to stop people from smoking.

“We have great plans for our Church,” Maybee was saying. “And we’re always looking for donations and bequests to help in our work.”

“If your congregation is growing so fast I’d think soon you’d need larger facilities.”

The parson’s eyes glistened. “Certainly a new church is very high on our agenda. But the money—”

“Have you tried getting a loan?”

“The banks are reluctant.”

“I understand First City Savings in New York has been amenable to such things.”

“We have a loan application pending with them now, but I don’t hold out much hope for it. I met their president earlier this week. He is not a man who takes comfort in the workings of the Lord.”

It was difficult for Nick to judge the man’s sincerity. He’d known plenty of con men in his time, and more than one had used religion as a front. Still, there was always a chance that Parson Maybee could be different. Perhaps he’d stolen the banker’s ashtray to use in a prayer service. Maybe he even planned to burn incense in it.

Nick departed after a little more conversation, promising to make contact with Maybee in a short time regarding a possible donation. The parson seemed pleased and saw Nick to the door. Outside, crossing the street to where he’d left his car, Nick encountered the young woman he’d spoken to on the way in. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that Lawn Larson had waited for him to emerge.

“See?” She held up her hands. “No microphone this time. Will you talk to me?”

“What about?” he asked, unlocking the door of his car.

“Parson Felix Maybee, of course. What’s your business with him?”

“That’s a private matter.”

“He’s nothing but a crook, you know.”

“Judging by his appearance he could be a saint.”

“Judging by appearances I could be a hooker, but I’m not. Felix Maybee is under investigation by a half-dozen federal agencies. It’s very possible that his tax-exempt status will be lifted. There’s evidence that a large share of the contributions to the Church of the One True Hope goes into his pocket.”

“He wouldn’t be unique in that respect.” Nick slid behind the wheel of his car. “You must know the authorities are reluctant to move against any religion, no matter how shady its financial operations.”

“That’s why it’s up to the press to do it,” she argued.

“All I can say is good luck.” He gave her a smile and pulled away.

Gloria was in the little garden at the rear of their house, planting marigold seeds, when Nick returned home. She brushed the dirt from her hands and stood up as he came into view. “How’d it go with your client?”

“About as usual. He’s a banker. I took your advice and raised my fee to twenty-five thousand.”

“I should think so! Is it a dangerous assignment, Nicky?”

“Shouldn’t be. Just a routine thing.”

Since she’d discovered the true nature of his business Gloria never asked too many questions. But she needed occasional reassurance that he wasn’t tempting fate too much. “I’ve started on the garden. It was such a nice day I couldn’t stay inside.”

“Good idea.”

He went in and checked the mail, finding nothing but the usual assortment of ads and bills. One envelope contained a slim catalogue from Star Security Systems. It was part of his job to keep abreast of the latest advances in locks and burglar alarms, and he’d arranged to receive several such mailings. He paused now at a page showing doors and gates on parking areas which could be opened by inserting a magnetized card in a slot. Nick tugged at his lower lip as he read the page. Then he went to the telephone and direct-dialed the New Jersey number that appeared on the catalogue cover.

Nick asked for the sales manager and identified himself with the false name he’d used before. “I was looking over your catalogue, especially some of the new locks that work with magnetic cards and such.”

“They’re very popular items,” the sales manager said.

“I seem to remember reading something about an electronic lock that could be opened only by a fingerprint. Is such a thing possible?”

“Oh, certainly. A signature, a fingerprint. It’s simply a matter of the scanner matching two images. As a matter of fact, a fingerprint match works better than a signature because no one ever signs their name exactly the same way. They have to carry a card with the key signature on it, and that negates the security aspect.”

“Do you manufacture fingerprint locking devices?”

“No, they’re out of our line and terribly expensive. But I can give you the name of a Toronto firm that’s had some experience with them. It’s late in the day but you might catch someone there.”

It took Nick another half hour and three more phone calls to come up with the information he wanted. Yes, a fingerprint-activated locking device had been sold to First City Savings Bank in New York. That was all the information they could release, but it was enough for Nick. In the morning he would call on Philip Norton once more.

The banker was pleased to see him the following day and came right to the point. “Did you recover my ashtray?”

“No,” Nick responded. “But I know why it was stolen.”

Norton eyed him suspiciously. “You do?”

“You said yesterday you usually fiddled with it while you talked. Parson Maybee would have noticed your fingers on the smooth glass of the ashtray. He stole it for your fingerprints.”

“My—”

“You have something in this building — a door or a vault lock — that can be electronically opened only with your fingerprints.”

The banker’s face turned ashen. “How do you know that?”

“It’s my business to know. You hired me, didn’t you?”

“I hired you to get back an ashtray. You have no business snooping into this bank’s security system.”

“I doubt if the bank’s vaults would be controlled by a lock that required your presence each time they were opened. More likely it’s a private safe or strongroom for your own use. In a new building as large as this one, almost anything could have been built into it.”

Philip Norton placed his hands flat on the desk. “Very well, Mr. Velvet. That will be enough. I no longer need your services.”

“But I haven’t recovered your ashtray.”

“You will cease all efforts on my behalf. Kindly submit an invoice covering your time since yesterday.”

“I don’t charge by the hour, Mr. Norton.”

“Make whatever arrangements you want. But you’re no longer in my employ.”

Nick left the building, sorry he’d allowed himself to be so frank with the man. He stood on Lexington Avenue, watching the flow of traffic, wondering what to do next. Obviously he’d been fired by Norton because he mentioned the strongroom with its lock that opened by fingerprints. Norton feared that knowledge, perhaps even feared Nick would use the ashtray to his own advantage if he recovered it.

But Nick wasn’t being sidetracked that easily. He’d been hired to steal the banker’s ashtray and he intended to do it.

He waited till Sunday morning, when Parson Felix Maybee was busy conducting services for a handful of the faithful in a small rented hall down the street from the church’s headquarters. Then Nick went to work, entering the back door of the headquarters building with an ease that showed the parson was not on Star Security Systems’ mailing list.

He went quickly to the upper office and began to search. There was nothing in the closet but a filing cabinet full of mailing lists. The desk contained only one surprise — a.38 caliber revolver nestled in the bottom drawer. Nick could hardly have been more startled if he’d found a Bible there.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of frustrating search, Nick stood in the center of the office and turned slowly around. Since Parson Maybee had personally stolen the ashtray Nick felt he’d have hidden it in his private office rather than elsewhere in the building. Downstairs any of his workers or congregation might come upon it. Up here it would be reasonably safe. Still, Maybee was the sort who’d want to keep his eye on it every minute. An ashtray could be hidden in plain sight most places, but not in the office of a parson opposed to smoking. Here something more subtle was called for.

Then he noticed the tropical fish tank once more.

He walked over to it and peered through the glass and water. Then he reached down among the colorful fish and there it was.

Philip Norton’s solid glass ashtray, upside down at the bottom of a tropical fish tank. All but invisible.

Nick carefully lifted it out and wiped it off. It was too big for his pocket, so he slipped it inside a folded section of the Sunday newspaper which he nestled beneath his arm. He left the building the way he’d come in, carefully relocking the door behind him.

When he got back to where he’d parked his car he recognized a familiar truck in front of him. The Channel 6 news team, on the job. “Hello, there,” Lawn Larson called out, catching sight of him. “Come out to hear the parson’s Sunday sermon?”

“Not especially.”

“You should have caught it. He’s gone legit.”

“How do you mean?”

“He just announced to the congregation that First City Savings has approved a half-million dollar loan for a new church.”

Nick went down to the bank again on Monday morning, carrying the glass ashtray in his briefcase and looking for all the world like one of the vice-presidents. Philip Norton’s secretary first said he’d be tied up with meetings all day, but Nick was persistent. “Tell him I have something very important which can only be given to him personally.”

She spoke to Norton on the phone and turned back to Nick. “He can see you in fifteen minutes.”

When Nick entered the familiar office Norton greeted him with a cool expression. “What is it, Velvet? I told you our deal was off.”

Nick opened the briefcase and set the ashtray on the banker’s desk. “One ashtray, as ordered.”

Philip Norton sat and looked at it. “Where did you find it?” he asked at last.

“Where Parson Maybee hid it — in a tropical fish tank in his office.”

“The fish tank!”

“Sounds as if you took a look yourself.”

“I’ve been out there, yes.”

“Too bad the bank went for that half-million loan before I had a chance to recover this for you.”

Norton’s face reddened. “That loan had nothing to do with the theft of my ashtray.”

“What is this door that your fingerprints unlock? What’s behind it, Mr. Norton?”

“Good day, Mr. Velvet. Our business is at an end.”

“Not quite. You owe me twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“I told you the deal was off. Your delivery came too late.”

“Nothing was said about a time limit. I delivered in less than a week’s time.”

“Sorry, Velvet.”

“I’m not leaving without my money,” Nick said, but the banker must have anticipated trouble. Almost at once, in answer to some silent alarm, the door behind Nick opened and a uniformed guard entered.

“Show Mr. Velvet out,” Norton said.

Nick stood up. “I’ll send you a bill,” he said and walked out with the guard.

All the way down in the elevator he thought about it. The situation was not unlike that in the old Gothic novels — a hidden room with a nameless secret that must be kept locked away. Except that this hidden room wasn’t in a cliffside mansion but in a 56-story Lexington Avenue building.

Parson Maybee had learned the secret, or at least he’d acquired the key to unlocking the secret. That had earned him a half-million dollar loan for a new church. There was little doubt in Nick’s mind now that Maybee was something of a con man, but the jury was still out on whether Maybee or Norton was the bigger villain of the piece. Whichever was the case, it began to look as if Nick would never collect his fee — not unless he could pull off an especially tricky maneuver.

He thought that was something he just might be able to do, with a little help from Lawn Larson.

She listened carefully as Nick talked, chain-smoking the cigarettes she wasn’t allowed on camera. “Let’s get this straight now. You want me to do an interview with Philip Norton, the president of First City Savings?”

“That’s right,” Nick said. “In his office at the bank. It must be in his office. I’m sure you can arrange that.”

“What’s in this for me?”

“A story. A damn good story, if my suspicions are correct. At the very least you’ll be following up on the Parson Maybee thing. After all, it’s Norton’s bank that’s granting the loan.”

“You’ve convinced me,” she decided after a moment’s thought. “But where do you fit in?”

“I’m going along,” Nick said with a smile. “Find a job for me.”

“That’s impossible. The union—”

“Nothing is impossible.”

By Wednesday, Lawn Larson had arranged the interview, and Wednesday afternoon she arrived at Norton’s office with a cameraman and a sound technician. The latter was Nick Velvet, wearing a wig and a bushy mustache that hid his mouth. It was not an ideal disguise, but he relied on the fact that with Lawn in the room the banker wouldn’t be looking at anyone else.

“I really don’t have much time, Miss Larson. Just what did you want to ask me?”

“It’s about the loan your bank is making to Parson Felix Maybee’s Church of the One True Hope.”

“I can’t discuss decisions of the loan department.”

“But isn’t it true that you personally approved the application?”

“The church is a tax-exempt religious institution. As long as it remains so there’s no reason to deny the loan.”

“Will you say that on camera?”

He looked distastefully at the man with his shoulder-mounted television camera and shrugged. “Sure. I have nothing to hide.”

They started filming, and Nick busied himself with the sound equipment. Even when he leaned over Philip Norton’s desk to adjust a microphone the banker never gave him a second look.

By the time they packed up and left, twenty minutes later, the banker’s glass ashtray was safely stowed in the box with the sound equipment.

Nick telephoned the bank later that same afternoon. When Norton came on the line, Nick said, “You can have your ashtray back when you pay my bill. That’s twenty-five thousand, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Velvet! How in hell did you—?”

“I should charge double, since I had to steal it twice.”

“Keep the damned ashtray! It can’t hurt me now.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Nick said, and hung up.

The following morning he went once again to Parson Maybee’s office on Long Island. The monkish minister received him with a smile, rubbing his pudgy hands together in anticipation of the contribution to come. “Happy to see you again, Mr. Velvet. Have you discussed the donation with your client?”

Instead of answering, Nick strode over to the tropical fish tank. “Water level seems down a bit from last week,” he observed.

“What?”

“As if something had been removed from the tank.”

Maybee eyed him suspiciously. “Just who are you, Velvet?”

“I’m the man who took Philip Norton’s ashtray from your fish tank.”

The parson dove for his desk drawer, but Nick was too fast. His foot kicked the drawer shut, catching Maybee’s wrist in it and bringing a yelp of pain. “You won’t need that pistol, parson. I’m after Norton, not you.”

“What do you want?” Maybee asked when Nick had freed his hand.

“Information. You used the ashtray to force Norton into approving the loan for your church.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that strongly.” He was rubbing his wrist and looking frightened.

“I want the full story, and if I don’t get it I’m going to the press with what I know. I’m sure that TV reporter, Lawn Larson, would be interested in learning about the secret vault which can be opened only by Philip Norton’s fingerprints.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s my business to know things.”

The parson pondered his position. “Are you accusing me of some impropriety?”

“Only stating the facts. If blackmail is an impropriety, then I guess I’m accusing you of it.”

Maybee hunched over his desk. “Let me tell you something — he’s guilty of a hell of a lot more than I am!”

“What, for instance?” Nick asked. He knew he had the man now.

“Last year a woman joined our church — an elderly widow looking for salvation. We get ’em all the time. If I was running this church in California I’d he after the kids, but here in New York it’s the rich old widows you go after. Only this time I discovered somebody had gotten to her first.”

“Philip Norton?”

A nod. “He got friendly with her, see? He was her banker, and a handsome devil besides. Her husband had left some things, mainly a collection of rare coins and stamps valued at more than one hundred thousand dollars. She wanted them to go to her children after she died, but not before. The problem was what to do with them. Around the house they weren’t safe from thieves, and in a safe-deposit box they’d be found and taxed when she died. Her banker Philip Norton provided the perfect solution. As a close personal friend as well as her financial adviser, he offered to keep the collection in his private vault at the bank, and to pass it on to her heirs after her death, thus avoiding both inheritance and gift taxes. Since she trusted him completely, it was a perfect solution. He placed a letter in his files identifying the collection as her property — in case he died first, he said — but he was careful not to give her a copy. She told me she never asked for one.”

“So why did you want his fingerprints on that ashtray? Could you have gained access to the vault in that closely guarded building?”

“Probably not,” Maybee admitted. “But it was enough to scare the hell out of him. He knew that I knew, so he gave the word to approve my loan.”

“All because of this widow’s coin-and-stamp collection?”

“She wasn’t the only one. I discovered another widow who gave him her silverware and some valuable jewelry for safekeeping. All off the record. Nothing in the safe-deposit boxes. It was a private bank within a bank. I’ll bet that vault of his looks like a treasure house.”

“The government would certainly frown on such activities,” Nick said. “So would the bank’s stockholders. He’d be out on his ear in a minute.”

The parson nodded, smiling. “So maybe it was blackmail and maybe not. Who’s to judge?”

Nick simply shook his head. “A couple of con men, each of you trying to outsmart the other. Except, of course, that we don’t know if Norton was pulling a con. Maybe he’ll pass the collection on to the woman’s heirs when she dies.”

Parson Maybee’s smile broadened. “She did. And he didn’t.”

“The woman died?”

“A month ago. And he’s made no effort to contact the heirs. I know because I asked.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“I had no proof for anything like that. It seemed better to handle it my way.”

“Listen,” Nick said suddenly. “I’ve got the ashtray back. I’d returned it to Norton but he didn’t pay me, so I stole it again. We’re going to use it to get into that private vault.”

“There won’t be any fingerprints on it now. He wouldn’t be that dumb!”

“No, I don’t expect any prints.”

“Then how will we get into the vault?”

“Philip Norton is going to open it for us.”

The first thing Nick had to determine was the location of the vault. The Toronto alarm firm was no help, but the New York company which had erected the building had blueprints still on file. For a small bribe to the right person, Nick got to spend an hour alone with them. There were no vaults shown on the 56th floor, where Norton’s office was located, but there was a small strongroom about the size of a walk-in closet on the floor below. Checking the building directory, Nick found that floor was given over to a secretarial pool. It was unlikely they would need a vault.

“You know what to do?” Nick asked Parson Maybee as they arrived at the building the following morning.

“I know, but I don’t like it. You’re getting me in too deep.”

“You were in pretty deep already, Parson. If this stunt gets Lawn Larson off your back you should be grateful.”

“Yes, where is she? I thought you said she was in on this.”

“She’ll turn up when she’s needed.” They took the elevator to the 55th floor and Nick followed the blueprints’ directions to the electrical fuse box. “The alarm system should tie into this,” he said.

“How do you know his private vault has an alarm?”

“In a bank like this everything has an alarm.”

“You tamper with the fuses and you’ll set it off,” Maybee warned.

Nick smiled. “That’s the idea.”

Philip Norton was in the midst of a branch managers’ meeting when his secretary brought him the word. “The alarm’s gone off on fifty-five, sir. Someone’s tampering with your private vault.”

Norton was annoyed. “Get the security men up there.”

She returned after a few moments. “It appears that someone’s locked in the vault, sir.”

“That’s impossible! No one could have entered it without—” He glanced around the table at the faces of his branch managers. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. Some business that needs tending to.” He hurried out of the room, following his secretary to the elevator.

On the fifty-fifth floor the secretarial pool was in wild disorder. An alarm bell was still ringing somewhere in the distance as Norton strode past the offices to his private vault. When he reached it, out of sight of the other employees, he found two security guards standing with Parson Felix Maybee. “What in hell are you doing here?” Norton demanded.

“Velvet’s in the vault!” Maybee exclaimed, pointing to the familiar glass ashtray on the floor. “He lifted your fingerprint from that and used it to open the door!”

Norton turned to one of the guards. “Shut off that alarm bell! Did you see him get locked in?”

The guard shook his head and Maybee said, “When he heard the guards coming, Velvet tried swinging the door shut from inside. Somehow it locked oh him.”

“I don’t see how that could happen,” the banker muttered, staring at the door.

“You’ll have to open it,” one of the security men said, drawing his pistol.

“It’ll be a pleasure,” Norton responded. “I’ll see Velvet rot in prison for this stunt. There’s no way he can beat a bank robbery indictment.”

The banker stepped to the strongroom door and placed his right thumb against a small square of glass. As he pressed in, the electronic gear was activated and his fingerprint was matched against the print on file in the computer’s memory unit. There was a low hum and the steel door clicked open. Norton swung it open the rest of the way, carefully shielding himself from the possible line of fire.

The little room was empty.

“Looking for me?” Nick asked, stepping out from behind the banker.

“Where—?” Norton’s face had suddenly drained of color.

“I was hiding in the next office. It was just a trick to get you to open the door. I wouldn’t want to be guilty of such a thing myself.”

Norton turned on Parson Maybee. “You lied to me! You said he was inside!”

“I might have given that impression,” Maybee conceded.

Surrounded by the guards and some girls from the secretarial pool, Norton began to recover his composure. “All right, Velvet. You can see I have nothing to hide. The so-called private vault of mine is empty. There’s nothing at all inside.”

Nick looked past him and saw that it was true. There were shelves on either side, like those in a walk-in closet, but they were all empty. Philip Norton’s dark secret was nothing at all.

“That’s good enough for me,” Nick said. Then, raising his voice, he called. “This way, Lawn. Right in here!”

Suddenly Lawn Larson appeared, charging in from the direction of the elevators with her cameraman and sound technician. “What have we got, Nick?” she asked, peering into the vault.

“An empty room. Film away, and get it on your six o’clock news. I’ve got a story to go with the pictures.”

Philip Norton’s jaw dropped.

“What’s this? What can you do with pictures of an empty vault?”

“Just the opposite of what. Maybee was planning to do,” Nick admitted. “He wanted that ashtray so he could break in and steal the treasures you had here — or at least threaten to steal them. I simply want to show that the treasures no longer exist. A lot of wealthy widows are going to watch the news tonight and wonder what happened to their jewelry and silverware and coin collections. You’ll have some explaining to do in the morning.”

Norton dropped his voice. “Damn it, Velvet, call off this woman! I’ll give you your fee!”

“Right now. In cash.”

“Agreed.”

Nick smiled and waved his hand. “That’s enough, Lawn. End of photo opportunity.”

Nick left the bank twenty minutes later with the money in his pocket. Two hundred and fifty hundred-dollar bills, still in their bank wrappers, withdrawn from Norton’s personal account. Lawn Larson was at his side, shaking her head. “I saw it but I still don’t believe it! He actually gave you money!”

“An overdue fee on a business deal.”

“He’ll probably call the police and say you stole it.”

“Not when he handed it over in front of witnesses.”

“Does he think paying you off will keep me from using the story?”

“He may have gotten that impression,” Nick admitted. “He’s a bad one for jumping to conclusions.”

“Where does Maybee fit in?”

“He can fill you in on what was supposed to be in that vault. Treasure from a lot of wealthy widows who trusted their banker.”

“I can’t believe the president of First City Savings would stoop to defrauding widows.”

“No one could believe it, and that’s how he got away with it. Check out his personal life and you might find he was in financial trouble — maybe using bank assets to secure personal loans. Whatever the case, he probably sold all that stuff the widows left in his private vault. It took a crook like Maybee to think him capable of it.”

“And a crook like you to outwit him?”

“Something like that,” Nick admitted. “But leave me out of your story. I don’t much like publicity.”

He left her there in front of the bank, but all the way home it still bothered him that he’d stolen the ashtray twice for only one fee.