The Chase by Clive Cussler Page B

traffic and vehicles before he nonchalantly exited the bank, locked the door, and strolled leisurely from the building, swinging his cane. By four o’clock, he had returned to the Peery Hotel, had a bath, and come down to the restaurant, where he enjoyed a large smoked-salmon plate with dill cream and caviar accompanied by a bottle of French Clos de la Roche Burgundy 1899. Then he read in the lobby for an hour before going to bed and slept like a rock.
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    L ATE IN the morning, Ruskin took a taxi to the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. A crowd of people were clustered around the front door as an ambulance pulled away from the bank. Police in uniforms were in abundance. He pushed his way through the crowd, saw a man who was dressed like a detective, and addressed him.
    â€œWhat happened here?” he asked courteously.
    â€œThe bank has been robbed and five people murdered.”
    â€œRobbed, murdered, you say? This is disastrous. I deposited half a million dollars in cash here yesterday from my bank in New York.”
    The detective looked at him in surprise. “Half a million dollars, you say? In cash?”
    â€œYes, I have my receipt right here.” Ruskin flashed the receipt in the detective’s face. The detective studied it for a few moments and then said, “You are Eliah Ruskin?”
    â€œYes, I’m Ruskin. I represent the Hudson River Bank of New York.”
    â€œA half million dollars in cash!” the detective gasped. “No wonder the bank was robbed. You better come inside, Mr. Ruskin, and meet with Mr. Ramsdell, one of the bank’s directors. I’m Captain John Casale, with the Salt Lake Police Department.”
    The bodies had been removed, but large areas of the mahogany floor were layered in dried blood. Captain Casale led the way to a man—a huge, fat man with a large protruding stomach behind a vest and massive watch chain. The man was sitting at Cardoza’s desk, examining the bank’s deposits. His brown eyes appeared dazed beneath the bald head. He looked up and stared at Ruskin, annoyed at the intrusion.
    â€œThis is Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” announced Casale. “He says he deposited half a million dollars with Mr. Cardoza yesterday.”
    â€œSorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. I am Ezra Ramsdell, the bank’s managing director.” Ramsdell rose and shook Ruskin’s hand. “A terrible, terrible business,” he muttered. “Five people dead. Nothing like this has ever happened in Salt Lake City before.”
    â€œWere you aware of the money Mr. Cardoza was holding for my bank?” asked Ruskin flatly.
    Ramsdell nodded. “Yes, he called me on the telephone and reported that you had come in and placed your bank’s currency in the vault.”
    â€œSince Mr. Cardoza, God rest his soul, wrote me out a receipt, my directors will assume your bank will make good on the loss.”
    â€œTell your directors not to worry.”
    â€œHow much cash did the robber take?” Ruskin asked.
    â€œTwo hundred forty-five thousand dollars.”
    â€œPlus my half million,” he said, as if agitated.
    Ramsdell looked at him queerly. “For some inexplicable reason, the robber didn’t take your money.”
    Ruskin simulated a stunned expression. “What are you telling me?”
    â€œThe bills in a large, brown leather suitcase,” said Captain Casale. “Are those yours?”
    â€œThe gold certificates? Yes, they are from the bank I represent in New York.”
    Ramsdell and Casale exchanged odd looks. Then Ramsdell said, “The case you and Mr. Cardoza placed in the vault still contains your currency.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œIt hasn’t been touched. I opened and checked it myself. Your gold certificates are safe and sound.”
    Ruskin made a show of acting perplexed. “It doesn’t make sense. Why take your money and leave mine?”
    Casale