A Handy Death

A new chrome-and-glass-and-ample-parking-space shopping center adorned the corner of Lakeland Avenue and Edwards Boulevard on the town line of Glens Falls; across the highway in the adjoining township of Queensbury — and a hundred or more years distant in time — stood the Queensbury Central Bank. Spurning all exterior modernity, it was housed in a grey fieldstone converted post-Revolutionary residence, and the officers would not have had it otherwise. Nor would the depositors. It gave a sense of permanence. No one would dare embezzle from this place, its appearance seemed to say; if they haven’t since the War of 1812, why should they start now?

Mr. Norwood Howard, president emeritus of the bank, was still permitted an office, albeit small — it had been the pantry of the original dwelling — and Mr. Howard fitted into the decor perfectly. Hank Ross, entering the tiny room which the president emeritus shared with several wooden filing cabinets, looked about admiringly. Obviously, no computer in this establishment would be given the opportunity to multiply a deposit by a million, or delay a customer’s statement an extra week.

Mr. Howard was a very old, round-cheeked little man with twinkling hazel eyes, snow-white hair cut very short, and a surprising bounce for his age. He greeted Hank with old-world courtesy, offered first tea and then bourbon, both refused, and only reseated himself after his guest had made himself comfortable.

“Mr. Ross,” he said with obvious sincerity. “I’m a great admirer of yours.”

He saw the look of surprise that crossed Hank’s face and smiled. When he spoke there was a touch of irony in the gentle voice.

“Don’t let the decorations fool you,” he said in his quiet voice. “We have all the accoutrements of any modern bank in the country. We have electricity and our janitors gave up green sweeping compound at the same time our bookkeepers gave up green eyeshades, and that was at least a month ago. And our town has radio and television, and even an occasional copy of The New York Times finds its way here in the luggage of some stranger passing through on the stage. We’re quite up to date, Mr. Ross, and I’ve followed your cases with interest.”

He smiled across the pristine blotter on his desk benignly.

“Now, Mr. Ross — what can I do for you?”

Ross laughed. “You might stop making me feel so foolish, although I suppose I deserve it. It’s true, I suppose I expected to see little men with arm garters perched on high wooden stools writing in ledgers with quill pens. I apologize.” He became serious. “Actually, Mr. Howard, you can help me a great deal on a case involving a local resident.”

“Billy Dupaul, of course,” Howard said calmly. “I read you’d taken on the case. But how can I help?”

“You were acquainted with Billy’s grandfather, John Emerich?”

“Very well. From boyhood, to be exact. Why?”

“Did John Emerich bank here?”

“Of course.” There was a touch of disdain in the reedy voice, hinting that only infants under fifty, or idiots, banked at one of the newer banks in Glens Falls. “Why?”

Ross hesitated.

“I’m afraid I’m looking for information that might be considered confidential.” Howard’s hazel eyes were unwavering, his pink-white face expressionless. He made no comment, merely waiting. Ross pushed on. “Well, frankly, what was the state of John Emerich’s finances?”

A frown appeared on the round face. “May I ask what you know of his finances?”

Ross said frankly, “Nothing.”

“Then, could you tell me why you want to know?”

“I’m not sure myself. A hunch.” The lawyer frowned. “For example, Billy’s folks — Old John’s daughter and her husband — were killed in an accident, as I recall. Did they leave any insurance?”

“Pierre? No. He never carried any. Never had enough money for premiums.”

“Did the railroad make any settlement?”

“The railroad was without fault, and their lawyers were quite adequate. No, there was no settlement.”

“That’s what I gathered from the little I knew,” Ross said. “Yet Billy says that his grandfather, while having no money, gave Billy anything he wanted. In fact, he gave him enough, apparently, to allow him to indulge in hospitality to his friends — hospitality that cost money. It seems to me to be a contradiction, and I like everything clear. I hate surprises.” He smiled. “Especially surprises from the prosecution.”

“I see.” Howard stared down at his desk gravely. At last he looked up. “Suppose that any information I gave you proved — as I am sure it would prove — to be utterly useless to your case?”

“Then it would remain completely confidential.”

“Even from your client? Billy, I mean?”

“Especially from Billy.”

“Well,” Howard said, almost to himself, “John’s been dead a long time, and the checks stopped even before then—” He didn’t wait for Ross’s question. “Mr. Ross, John Emerich received a check every month from the time Billy was born until Billy was eighteen years old.”