The Dr Josiah Bartlett Mysteries: Books 1-3 by Daniel Bjork

Author:Daniel Bjork [Bjork, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2020-11-11T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

On my way to the Union Bank I stopped by the Parker House in the hope I would catch a glimpse of Father or John. It was a step up from the Tremont House, no doubt about it. The Parker even smelled new. But the lavish furnishings in the lobby, the deep cherry wood all about, the stylish patrons and impeccable staff made it clear that this was the top of the line for lodging in Boston. But Josiah and John didn’t appear and I guessed they were out making plans. I knew John was going to talk to William Farragon. So I continued walking toward the bank.

I was actually enjoying being a well-dressed man. As I passed someone said: “Hello Sir, How are you this fine day? You look smashing, sir.” I felt a surge of importance, stuck out my flat chest and moved on down the street with arrogance. It felt odd, but wonderful.

I was about to enter the Union Bank and ask for a withdrawal, a small one but a withdrawal nonetheless. I had nothing but the telegram from Mr Hoar to authenticate my identity. But the bank also had been informed that Ethan B Greene might be making withdrawals. For a bank the building looked bank-like, I mean a sizable stone building with two lofty columns and 15 steps up to the large, stained wood doors. I lifted the door handle and entered a long hallway, which I thought led to the interior of the bank. As I walked the hall I saw on either side offices for real estate agencies – at least six – two restaurants, a woman’s clothing shop, a cigar shop, a liquor store and a barbershop. So at the end of the hall must be the bank. At the end of the hall, however, was a small carefully etched sign on a brass plate attached to the wall next to a door: ‘Union Bank’, and underneath in slightly smaller letters ‘We welcome Individual and Commercial Accounts’.

I opened the door and saw nothing but a teller looking out at me as if he was a ticket agent on the Fitchburg Railroad.

“Can I be of service, sir?”

What a let-down! Our Middlesex Bank in Concord would put this pathetic excuse for a financial institution to shame. Maybe Samuel Hoar had made a mistake; maybe he had contacted the wrong so-called bank. He was old, older than Father by ten years, probably prone to make errors. But I was here and Mr Hoar had made it clear that I could withdraw from the Union Bank of Boston, so I went ahead anyway – thinking that this was surely not the Union Bank he had contacted.

“I would like to make a withdrawal of $1000 of Union Bank notes please. Make it in notes of nine $100s and the rest small denominations – $1, $5 and $10.” I handed him the telegram authorizing me to do so.

“One moment, sir,” and he disappeared behind the teller’s cage for less than a minute.

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