C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Preston slipped into the quiet foothills village of Lizzy's Falls on a cold but sunny day in mid February. The town had little to offer; the population was so small the mayor, the town drunk and the village idiot were all the same person. The diminutive urban centre did however, serve a rather extensive rural population. 'Foreigners' seldom passed through Lizzy's Falls so folks immediately marked the presence of a visitor despite Diamond casting a very thin shadow. Reserved to the point of being tight-lipped, the locals refused to talk to the newcomer. But locals do talk to each other and a stranger can listen: Rumour suggested that the new banker was “a son-of-a-bitch”.
Since the financial man had arrived in Lizzy's Falls, foreclosures had become a very real nightmare for ranchers, farmers, businesses…everyone. Interest rates escalated, loans were called in early. An exaggeration of the gossip suggested that those who resisted fell into a pattern of “bad luck”. In less than a year, the new bank management owned two substantial businesses and thousands of acres of ranch land; Diamond soon verified this last information finding it quite accurate. He found it difficult to meet with the new banker; impossible to talk to his predecessor — He was dead.
Lizzy's Falls Bank had belonged to the Corbett family since the town began. The Corbetts were well established in the community and had earned the trust of its citizens. Unfortunately, too much trust. There was too much money out on the books. When Earl Corbett was found dead in his home, people wondered at his sudden passing. The doctor, a recent addition to the Lizzy's Falls population, announced it had been heart failure. No one argued, “He's the doctor, he ought to know.”
A stranger, “the son-of-a-bitch”, bought the bank from Earl Corbett's widow.
Preston did not remain long in Lizzy's Falls. He began a comprehensive large-scale investigation, methodically collecting information throughout the territory. The quiet, unobtrusive stranger visited dozens of towns boasting a financial institution. His research revealed that twenty-nine banks had changed hands over the previous two and a half years! Not all, but many had questionable ownership transfer. Tales of client foreclosures similar to those of Lizzy's Falls, accompanied nearly every take-over. All of a sudden, the assignment had grown exponentially. How many people would be required to organize, direct, and successfully manage such an extensive program? Where was the base for the operation? Who engineered the project and now stood at the helm?
Preston Diamond needed a more hands-on approach. He opted to investigate the monopolization from another angle.
One day a slope-shouldered, mousy chap named Frazier Wentworth arrived on the noon stage in Clarkston. People did not pay him a lot of attention for he was quite unremarkable. The newcomer found employment as clerk in the town's only bank. Frazier Wentworth punctually showed up at work and he punctually went to his boarding house accommodation at the end of his work day. He said little around the office; taciturn but courteous with customers, his only complaint was that he feared the loaded .38 calibre revolver stowed in a compartment above the cash drawer at his teller station. He abhorred guns and they frightened him. Wentworth had two co-workers: Mabel Galveston, a prim and strict spinster who, in her opinion, ran the entire banking operation; Herman Goldman the manager, a shrewd financial man who also owned the institution.
The new bank clerk had taken up residence at “Old Mrs. Boyle's” boarding house. Among his fellow boarders (three men of varying age) Frazier Wentworth maintained his quiet, aloof demeanour, speaking only when spoken to, replying in crisp short sentences, discouraging further conversation. The man was so reserved he didn't even complain about the food. Nothing could be said, for meals generally consisted of potatoes, more potatoes and a speck of mystery meat. Weak tea and no dessert accompanied the banquet.
An exception to Wentworth's reserve occurred almost daily while walking the few blocks to his work place. The clerk invariably passed by the little green and white cottage where Clarkston's school ma'arm, Miss Sarah Dickens, resided. Strictly by chance, the lady happened to be on her way to the school house whenever the bank man happened along. Maybe in her late twenties, nearer 'homely' than 'pretty', Frazier decided 'plain' appropriate and, in consideration of the monotony of the western village, he would not deny a physical attraction toward her. She always wore her chestnut hair pulled tightly back from her face wound up in an unflattering knot behind her head. Her long stride and curt manner did not invite conversation but Frazier managed to draw her out after a few encounters. The meetings progressed from a guarded “Hello” from Wentworth, with no response from Miss Dickens, to a cheerful, “Fine day isn't it, Miss Dickens?” with a disinterested, “Good morning,” from the school teacher.
Clarkston's town officials had voted in favour of establishing a library in their community. That had been two years previous, however no books, no shelves, no librarian and no edifice to accommodate them had as yet been provided. One evening Frazier Wentworth had been out for stroll when he noticed the door of the village school ajar. The thought occurred to him that fresh reading material might be obtained here. He knocked on the door, pushed it open and stepped in. Over the top of her spectacles a very surprised Miss Dickens glared at the intruder. The teacher had a fountain pen in her hand; she had been correcting some examination papers.
Wentworth stuttered, “Um… Good evening, Miss Dickens… sorry to barge in… the door was open….”
“What is it you are looking for Mr. Wentworth?” she asked coldly.
“Er… the town doesn't have a library… Er… And I was wondering if I might borrow a text or two from your school.” He added quickly, “I'll return them right away….”
Realizing the man's intentions were decent Miss Dickens's voice mellowed. Removing her spectacles and placing them on the papers she had been perusing, she asked, “What kind of reading are you interested in?”
A lengthy conversation ensued, Wentworth grew impressed with her knowledge, Miss Dickens impressed with his. They realized a common bond.
“There isn't anything in the school which would satisfy your reading demands, all we have here are children's books and school texts.”
Wentworth failed to conceal his disappointment.
“But I do have some of my own books which you might enjoy… in my house.”
Stars and a full moon lit the avenue as the book enthusiasts made their way to the little frame home where Sarah Dickens resided.
Noting Frazier's hesitation at the entrance Miss Dicken's assured, “It's quite all right, Mr. Wentworth, you may come in.”
Frazier Wentworth waited on the step; Preston Diamond went inside.
The scholarly stoop, the shuffling, hesitant stride, the shy, gauche Wentworth cast, disappeared while the teacher lit an overhead lantern. The pale warm glow illuminated a tiny kitchen. Sarah issued no surprise upon turning to face her new guest. Preston, on the other hand, was absolutely shocked to witness the change in Miss Dickens. The stern, no-nonsense pedagogue evaporated before him. In a low, seductive voice, a very arousing Sarah Dickens said, “Follow me, the best stories are in my bedroom.”
Lighting a second, portable lamp, she led Preston through a low doorway into a room adjoining the kitchen. Sarah placed the lamp on a bedside table, reached behind her head and extracted the pins binding up her hair. Beautiful chestnut curls cascaded down her shoulders. She shook her head allowing the locks to tumble further. Preston stood riveted, speechless as she began to unfasten the dress which here-to-fore had been unflattering. While her hands were busy the lady watched Diamond, she seemed amused by his immobility. The dress slipped to the floor, soon followed by frilly white undergarments. Naked, she stood before him holding out her hand in invitation. “I have a book you may wish to read.”
His anticipation visible, Preston came forward, taking the proffered hand, “I trust it is written in Braille…”
Boredom in Clarkston disappeared for Preston Diamond as he regularly honed his reading skills under the tutoring of the eager Miss Sarah Dickens. However, the banking problem, his reason for being in Clarkston, had not reached any specific conclusions. Preston Diamond, in his guise as Frazier Wentworth, kept a watchful eye on the comings and goings at the Clarkston financial building. Mostly routine transactions were in order with nothing out of the ordinary cropping up. On night time forays Preston Diamond, as himself, often checked the bank and watched Mr. Goldman's house. Time passed and still there continued to be no indication of a glitch in the small town's monetary matters. It appeared that Clarkston may be spared the financial woes suffered by so many other institutions in the territory. Preston began to feel uneasy about his decision to move to this location. He had no 'outside' information and could not know what may be happening elsewhere. A man of physical action, the banking industry did not stimulate Preston at all.
An unkempt, self-appointed tough in the town, who went by the name of Ballard —whether his first or last name, no one specified— often made jeering remarks to Frazier Wentworth whenever chance allowed them to meet along the street. Preston ignored the tormentor and easily stepped around him. The man held no obvious employment for he always seemed to be in the way. Growing tired of the harassment Preston allowed himself to be cornered by the brute. “You be'n stepping out to see that school marm!” Ballard accused. “I don't like no scrawny bank boy hanging around with the teacher. Maybe you ought to take some learn'en from me.”
In Preston Diamond's voice the scrawny clerk growled softly, “Unhand me now or I'll break your arm.”
Ballard, surprised and confused, released Frazier's shirt, allowing him to pass.
“That won't be the end of that,” Preston mused to himself as he shuffled away.
Early spring chiselled at the ice of late winter when one bright afternoon two well-dressed strangers bearing the dusty signs of coach travel entered the bank building. They cordially asked to see Mr. Herman Goldman. Mabel Galveston ushered the pair into the banker's office and closed the door. The retreat was not entirely sound-proof as Preston had determined on other occasions, so he now moved closer to the glass window separating the inner office from the main chamber. Ostensibly working with a file of papers he strained his hearing. The strangers were unsuccessfully attempting to coerce Goldman into selling his establishment. The meeting lasted more than half an hour. Voices raised and Frazier could see that his employer steadily lost patience; his florid face turned redder and his eyes began to bulge as he argued with the intruders. At last, blustering to the point of spitting, the banker unceremoniously held the door for the strangers asking them in no uncertain terms to, “Get out!”
One of the men smiled mirthlessly. Stepping past the banker he said lubriciously, “When you change your mind, and believe me Goldman, you will change your mind, send word to Way-cross.” He roughly stuffed a small paper in the bankers vest pocket.
Diamond would have dearly loved to see what had been written on that note.
Further visits were not paid to the bank but Preston could see the agitation growing. Goldman, normally of reasonably good humour, became withdrawn. He spent long hours in his office seldom even speaking to his staff. Mabel Galveston expressed concern and Frazier Wentworth stepped up his surveillance.
Night time found Preston Diamond disappearing in the familiar deeper darkness of the maple tree trunk just outside Herman Goldman's parlour window. The investigator had spent considerable time in this spot: Waiting; guarding; spying. A cheerful fire blazed on the hearth making Diamond wish he could stand a little closer instead of skulking out here in the garden. He studied Goldman through the glass: Vexation grew on the banker's face as Preston watched him tear open a mail delivery, hastily reading through it. This marked the third such delivery Diamond had witnessed. He could only guess as to the contents, for inevitably, Goldman angrily threw the paper in his fire.
There were times Preston Diamond would have liked to reveal his identity but he could ill afford any acclaim or recognition. If he could confide in Goldman the riddle may unfold much quicker. Could the financier be trusted to discretion? Conceivably, Goldman would confer with Mabel Galveston; perhaps, like Frazier Wentworth, her role ran deeper than appearances suggested. The second time the beleaguered banker had received a disturbing letter, Diamond quietly forced a window and slipped into the parlour after his employer had gone off to bed. By the pale orange light of the dying embers he found a corner of the charred missive: ay-cross was all he could make out.
But it was enough.
“Why stay on in Clarkston?” he asked himself. Instinct? Gut feeling? A vague fragment of subconscious haunted the rim of his thinking; something suggested more of the puzzle lay here. Perhaps a wish to help Goldman? Sarah Dickens certainly held an attraction but Preston Diamond refused to allow pleasure to supersede the demands of his work. He reflected a moment upon the school teacher: She understood more of Diamond than he had wanted revealed. She knew full well that Frazier Wentworth was not the man inside the skin of the shuffling, bumbling bank clerk. Sarah asked no questions, apparently content to have Diamond any way he cared to present himself. One day he would leave and she would miss him.
The Clarkston Bank opened to the public at ten AM, Monday through Saturday. Herman Goldman gave his employees a day off on Sundays and if things were quiet they closed early on Saturday afternoon. Frazier Wentworth and Mabel Galveston personified punctuality, arriving precisely at nine AM, giving themselves an hour to prepare before customers were allowed inside the bank. At eleven-thirty, Mabel took her half hour lunch break. When she returned, Frazier went out for his repast. Mr. Goldman kept his own hours, putting in more time than his employees and did not adhere to Mabel's strict routine. There weren't many customers in a day, however, work held steady enough to warrant a second clerk.
Mabel Galveston had been gone five minutes for her lunch break when two gentlemen, not regular clients, entered the bank. Frazier did not recognize the men as one strode directly toward Goldman's office, the other approached the cashier.
“Trouble!” Preston Diamond's instinct warned immediately.
The near stranger confronted Wentworth with a muzzle of cold steel aimed at his chest. Through the thin brass bars of the teller cage the man barked gruffly, “Empty that cash drawer into this bag.”
From the corner of his eye Preston watched the second man push open the door to Goldman's office. The intruder very coolly raised a cocked pistol and casually, deliberately, shot the banker in the head. Goldman went over backward taking his heavy, high-backed chair with him. The thief at the teller window risked a quick glance toward the commotion.
It wasn't quick enough.
Through the oak board below the wicket opening Preston fired the hidden .38 that Frazier Wentworth had so often complained about. Lead and splinters entered the gunman's abdomen, ripping through his body and smashing viciously into the lower spine. A look of gray sickening horror aborted the spreading shock of surprise on his face. The smoking gun came out of the powder burned cabinet and Preston swung toward the office window in one smooth motion. Deliberately he waited until the assassin turned to face him. The second shot from the .38 blew out the pane of glass in the office showering the target with deadly shards of glass. The wicked little slug deflected minimally, catching the assassin full in the face, lodging somewhere inside his skull. Knees buckled, torso folded, head tilted forward, chin rested on the chest, then the body collapsed like a blood splattered house of cards on the office floor.
Fortunately, or most likely through careful timing of the attackers, no other customers were in the building at the moment. Preston ran along the stall, vaulted the doorway and checked the misguided soul writhing in agony on the floor in front of the teller station. He fired a killing charge, a mercy shot, into the fatally wounded fellow. Reaching through Mabel's wicket window Diamond grasped a three-quarter full tumbler of sipping water the spinster always kept at her till. Dumping the contents inside the front of his pants he smashed the glass against the oak frame of the wicket. Overturning several chairs, he strewed papers about the foyer and randomly fired off the remaining cartridges in the pistol.
When town sheriff, Wiley Beason, arrived seconds later, through the acrid smoke hanging in the room he found Frazier Wentworth trembling uncontrollably, the front his pants soaked from crotch to boots, cocking and firing the empty pistol which he held aimed at the dead man on the floor. Beason stepped over and gently tugged the gun from Wentworth's reluctant fingers.
“They… they shot… they shot Mr. Goldman,” Wentworth stammered, his chest heaving great gasps as he failed to regain composure.
Mabel Galveston burst into the foyer, stopping abruptly to survey the carnage then rushed to Goldman's office. Her cries turned to heart-broken sobs as she sank to the floor kneeling beside the body of her former employer.
Sheriff Beason read the scene exactly as Preston Diamond had directed it: “Two strangers tried to hold up the bank, shot the manager and were in turn shot by a fear crazed, panic stricken clerk.”
The word spread around the town Frazier Wentworth had gone berserk during a robbery attempt at the bank. Sheriff Beason repeated over and over again, to anyone who might listen, “Wentworth was so scarit, he pissed hisself!” Shaking his head in mock disbelief, he chuckled, “He jist stood there a'shooten off that empty gun. I had to take it away on 'im and set 'im down on a chair. Never seen a man so scarit.”
The distracted clerk had left the bank building still trembling with fright and embarrassment as he shuffled miserably toward his lodgings.
Frazier Wentworth entered the front door of Mrs. Boyle's Boarding House; minutes later, Preston Diamond emerged out the back. Neither Sheriff Beason nor his audience made any connection between the dark clad, solemn stranger who rode out of town late that afternoon and the timid, gun-shy Frazier Wentworth.
Ballard, sporting a new plaster-of-paris cast on his right arm, watched him go.
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