A Handy Death

Ross felt that familiar tingle that told him that he was onto something. How that something could help him in his case he didn’t know at the moment, but at the moment it didn’t matter.

“Where did the checks come from?”

“They were drawn on a New York bank — the Hudson River Bank.”

“And who signed them?”

“They were cashier’s checks.”

Ross felt a sudden pang of disappointment. Was he going to get so close to something he was now sure was important, only to lose it?

“Didn’t John Emerich ever tell you who was sending them?”

“No, he never did.”

“Were these checks always for the same amount of money?”

“They were for five hundred dollars each. They always arrived on the fifth of the month, or the nearest Friday, if the fifth fell on a weekend.” Howard considered Hank Ross. “That may not be a lot of money in New York City, Mr. Ross, but as supplemental income up here, especially in those days, it was quite a bit.”

“I believe it,” Ross said sincerely. “What else can you tell me about them?”

“Not much. John Emerich came into the bank with the first check, handed it to me, and asked me to deposit it to his account. I was a vice-president then, but John always worked directly with me. He endorsed it and I personally entered the amount in his passbook and put the check through. John told me there would be a check every month, but that in the future they would be sent directly to the bank to my attention, and they were. For eighteen years.”

“Who were they made out to?”

“They were all made out to ‘William Dupaul or John Emerich,’ for deposit only. They didn’t require any endorsement after the first. That hadn’t been marked for deposit.”

“When did Emerich die? Before or after Billy’s eighteenth birthday?”

“John died about a month after Billy graduated from high school, but the checks had stopped a month before then. As I said, on Billy’s eighteenth birthday.”

“Was any of this public knowledge here in town?”

Norwood Howard shrugged. “Mr. Ross, people are always curious about other people’s affairs. I imagine some wondered how John Emerich could raise Billy the way he did, but up here people tend to mind their own business.” He shook his head. “If anyone knew of it, or suspected it, nobody said anything, and that’s the important thing.”

“I see,” Ross said. He sighed. “And John Emerich never gave you any idea of who was sending those checks?”

“John? Never.”

“Or why they were being sent?”

There was a long moment of silence. Then the old banker spoke softly.

“Mr. Ross, I detest gossip, but if what I’m about to tell you will help young Billy, I’ll indulge. Mary Emerich was a hellion. We had a good many soldiers around here during the war. One day, for no good reason, Mary went up to Canada. Ten months later she came back with a husband and a baby she said was one month old, but it was awfully big for a one-month-old baby. She moved in with her folks — her and her new husband — and sponged off them until Mary and her husband were killed. Riding in John’s car, incidentally.”

Ross frowned. “I don’t understand. You mean, Billy Dupaul was born in Canada? That he isn’t an American citizen?”

“No, sir. That’s precisely what I don’t mean. Billy Dupaul was born in Chicago, Illinois. I know, because the money orders for the nursing home and the doctors cleared through me. John Emerich knew he could trust me.” The round face looked a bit forlorn. “Or he could until today...”

Ross disregarded the statement.

“What you are saying, Mr. Howard, is that Pierre Dupaul was not Billy’s father. And in your opinion it was the real father who kept sending Emerich money for the boy’s support. Until he came of age.”

“That’s right, Mr. Ross.”

“And you have no idea who that man was?”

Again there was a long pause from the elderly banker. Ross suddenly knew he was on the verge of discovery.

Mr. Howard spoke slowly.

“Mr. Ross, you asked me before if John ever told me who was sending the money that supported Billy, and I said he didn’t. Nor did he. But even us old codgers in these small towns get to banking conventions once in a while, and the chief cashier of the Hudson River Bank is a friend of many years. And one night, over cocktails, I asked him who was sending these cashier’s checks to a little bank like ours in Queens-bury—”

“And he told you?”

“Blame the infernal martinis, Mr. Ross, and my unconscionable curiosity. Don’t blame my cashier friend. But he told me.”

It was like squeezing blood from a rock; then he saw the hazel eyes twinkling and he knew Mr. Norwood Howard was purposely keeping him on tenterhooks.

Ross smiled. “And it was?”

“His name was Quirt,” Mr. Howard said evenly. “Charles Quirt.”