A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Author:Stuart M. Kaminsky [Kaminsky, Stuart M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Historical, Private Investigators
Amazon: B0073M92T8
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-02-26T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Whenever a lion starts chasing you, don’t stop to change your clothes.

Gunther came hurrying to the front of the bank and I watched Saunders’s face. The small benevolent smile he had perfected over many years, the bank official’s smile, remained.

“Sorry to get you out on a Sunday night,” I said.

Saunders took out his keys and opened the front door of the bank. We stepped in.

“For a man of Mr. Fields’s stature, and on the basis of this being an emergency, I am most willing to be of service,” said Saunders, closing the door and switching on the light. “I have already informed the police that we are here so that no officer will come running in when he sees the lights.”

“Thought of everything,” said Fields.

“Not everything,” said Saunders, still smiling, “but it is almost always possible to rectify errors or learn to live with them and go on to other endeavors.”

The bank was small, the smallest we had been in yet. Two tellers’ cages, a wooden table around arm height where people could make out their checks or calculate their wins and losses, a pair of doors to our left, both to offices with clear glass windows so the occupant could look out at the bank and directly at customers and the tellers.

Saunders opened his office door and stepped back, after turning on the light, to let the three of us in. The office wasn’t large, but it would do. An oak desk and chair with a barred window behind them, a small round table, also oak, with three plain chairs.

“Humble, but adequate for a town this size,” he said. “We get a substantial business from the farm community. Shall we sit?”

He pointed to the table. We sat and he went behind his desk to a solid-looking swivel chair. With my hand under the table, I pulled out my .38 and aimed it across at Saunders.

“A quaint establishment,” Fields said, looking around as he had in the lobby. “Character. Small and neighborly.”

“That’s what we strive for,” said Saunders, his smile growing a bit larger. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I wish to make a withdrawal,” Fields said. “Many years ago, under the name of Oscar Treadmill, I opened an account when I passed through your delightful community while on tour. I should now like to liquidate that account of six thousand dollars, plus all interest incurred.”

Saunders stopped smiling.

“I have been president of this bank for twenty-two years,” he said. “Only once before have I been called upon to come in on a Sunday to conduct a transaction. Today I have been called in twice.”

“He’s been here,” I said with a sigh.

“Someone calling himself Oscar Treadmill appeared here today and made a withdrawal?” asked Fields.

“Called this morning,” Saunders said. “Said it was a matter of life and death, could only stay in town a few hours and then had to get back to New Orleans to pay for an operation for one of his children. Said he planned to drive all night to get the money in the doctor’s hands by sometime tomorrow.

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