A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

“Professional misanthrope. Supposedly humorous rudeness is essential to his less-than-respectable trade.”
    With that, she walked past us, closing the door behind her as she left.
    “I’ve been bested by a cop and an ancient harridan in Altoona,” said Fields, moving toward the desk. “My mood is sinister. You drink?”
    “Well,” said Farber. “I …”
    “Top drawer, left,” said Fields. “Saw your eyes move. Steady yourself and we’re on to business. I can always deal with a man who’s had a healthy snort in the a.m.”
    Farber looked at me and opened the drawer. He removed a half full bottle.
    “Rum,” Fields said, focusing on the bottle. “I’m a martini man myself.”
    Farber poured a healthy dose of his rum into a paper cup, put the bottle away, downed the drink in one gulp, and dropped the cup in a wastebasket.
    “Farber,” said Fields. “I wish to withdraw my funds from this worthy establishment.”
    “Of course,” said Farber, looking more in control of mind and body than he had before his drink.
    “Deposited a sum of nine thousand dollars and fifty cents,” said Fields. “That was back in nineteen twenty-two. With interest, I calculate that the sum is now close to eleven thousand.”
    “Quite likely,” said Farber. “I hesitate to say this, however, but one of my responsibilities is to examine the accounts on which there has been no activity, deposit or withdrawal, within a year’s time. I don’t recall a W. C. Fields account.”
    Fields consulted a folded sheet of paper, which he extracted with the flourish of a presidential candidate about to make a speech.
    “Used the name Hopencrotch,” Fields said. “Sidney Barchester Hopencrotch.”
    Farber shook his head and smiled.
    “You’ve made a mistake,” he said.
    “Many,” said Fields. “But it’s best not to admit them.”
    “Mr. Hopencrotch withdrew his funds this morning,” he said.
    “Couldn’t have,” Fields said. “My compatriot and I, with the aid of a small midget who dresses better than Doug Fairbanks, Jr., have been watching the door of this bank since it opened. The man who could have claimed to be Hopencrotch never came out.”
    “Tall gentleman in his late forties,” said Farber. “Deep voice. Straight back. Nice smile.”
    “Sounds like the culprit,” Fields said.
    “Mr. Hopencrotch came to the bank almost a month ago,” he said. “I spoke to him personally. He made a respectable deposit in his account, several thousand dollars, and then said he was thinking of entering the banking business. Said he was tired of traveling. Said he would return in about a month and would appreciate a brief apprenticeship, unpaid, if that were possible. I told him that it was irregular but it could be arranged. He called yesterday and asked if he could come in today. He was here on time, at eight, with the other employees.”
    “He’s here?” I said.
    “No,” said Farber. “Shortly after opening, he informed a teller that he had a family emergency and had to withdraw all of his cash immediately. Miss Ochmonic had no choice. He had his bankbook, with a recent deposit, and his signature was an exact match for the one in the bankbook and on our deposit slips.”
    “We were watching the front door,” I said.
    “Mr. Hopencrotch asked to leave through the employee exit because he had parked in the back,” said Farber. “I let him out myself and he promised to return soon with a large deposit. The account is still open. He left almost two hundred dollars.”
    “How long ago did he leave?” I asked.
    “Ten, fifteen minutes,” said Farber, glancing at his desk drawer. “It was all very fast. Family emergency, you know.”
    Fields removed his mustache, pocketed it, and examined Farber before saying, “You let the son of a bitch steal my money.”
    “Under the circumstances …” Farber began, but I was already dragging Fields toward the door. We left the bewildered Farber standing behind his desk with an