The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

I

The heavy front doors of the Citizens’ Saving Bank swung in. A woman in rusty black entered the cloistered silence of the main banking room, strode purposefully across the tiled floor and halted at one of the depositors’ windows. The woman had a savings bank book in her black-gloved fingers, with some soiled bills folded inside it. The outside of the savings book said, “Sarah Watson.”

She shoved the book and the money under the elaborate wicket, put an elbow on the marble shelf of the window and swung the thick, rigidly corseted column of her body around, waiting and staring from under bristling iron gray eyebrows.

The clerk behind the wicket made haste to enter her deposit, murmuring polite nothings. She paid no attention to the nothings. She was watching the door. The armed guard stalking from marble column to marble column bowed respectfully to her. Her gray eyes glinted on him a moment, and returned to the door.

The door swung in. A long, lank young man with red hair and gingersnap freckles entered. The woman’s craggy chin grew a trifle more prominent. She reached around, took her savings book from the clerk, thrust it into her shabby, capacious black handbag, and bore down upon the young man.

“Ben Todd!” she said in a voice which echoed hoarsely back from the vaulted ceiling. “Thought you’d be along, feller. Which are you going to do — put or take?”

The young man grinned sheepishly. He said: “Whadya think?”

“How much you got left, squirt?”

“Nine dollars and two cents. Not that it’s any of your damn business. Just because I’m a ground down underling in your measly detective agency is no reason...”

Sarah Watson adjusted her ancient black headgear more firmly upon her hard knob of gray hair. She said: “You put your bank book back in your pants, young man.

“We’re going to see the president of the bank.”

“Good Lord! You don’t think the president of this mausoleum is going to take pity on my plight?”

“From what I know of him, he never took pity on anything,” said Sarah, grasping the young man’s arm firmly, “but we’re going to see him, because he telephoned and asked us to see him. After we’ve seen him, maybe you won’t need your piddling nine dollars. Come on.”

Two minutes later, Sarah Watson and Ben Todd were behind the door which said, in gold letters, “Adolph A. Hecker, President,” and Sarah was being bowed into a chair by Mr. Adolph A. Hecker himself.

“Mr. Hecker,” said Sarah, leaning forward stiffly from the waist, “meet Mr. Todd, my assistant. We came as soon as possible. Of course we have a great press of work at the office...”

“Quite,” said Mr. Hecker, nodding grudgingly at Ben Todd and settling himself behind his large mahogany desk. Mr. Hecker had some difficulty settling himself, because the distance between the edge of the desk and the edge of Mr. Hecker’s pot belly had to be nicely judged.

Mr. Hecker made a steeple of his thin white hands and turned his bleak eyes upon Mrs. Watson. He said: “Quite! Mrs. Watson, I will state the case frankly and concisely. I find myself in need of an agent upon whose discretion I may rely. I make it a practice, as you know, to be informed regarding each and every depositor in my bank...”

“The case, please,” said Sarah.

“And so,” said Mr. Hecker, “knowing you, Mrs. Watson, and your excellent reputation, I... ah... that is to say — Mrs. Watson, what would your fee be for recovering a stolen diamond necklace belonging to my wife?”

“Ten per cent of the value of the necklace,” said Sarah promptly.

“Ten per cent? I had no idea! Does that not seem excessive, my dear lady?”

“Ten per cent,” said Sarah, firmly.

“Ten per cent. Well... ah... perhaps in that case, you would not care to undertake my...ah... job. The necklace I wish recovered is, you see, only paste. A very clever imitation, but paste. The value is relatively small — not more than two thousand dollars.”

“Ten per cent,” said Sarah, “and expenses, of course.”