I said, “Where did you deposit the cheque? Did you go to the bank on which it was drawn and cash it?”
“No, don’t be silly. I went to our bank. I had the bank telephone to find out if the cheque was good. They looked it up and said it was, so I deposited it. On the strength of that telephone call, our bank gave us the credit.”
“And then what?”
“Then this morning, when the cheque went over to clear, the account of Claire Bushnell had been debited on account of a cheque which had been deposited by her being no good. Donald, lover, they can’t do this to us.”
I said, “If you sent the cheque in for collection through our bank, they’re absolutely right. They don’t have to pay it, if there aren’t funds enough to cover.”
“But they said it was good over the telephone.”
“So it was, Saturday morning,” I said. “This is Monday. The situation is different now.”
“Damn!” Bertha said. “That’s hell. We’ve already done all the work for the little shyster.”
I said, “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t let anyone know what I’m working on. Don’t dare to tip anyone off to where I can be found. This thing is loaded with dynamite and I’ve got to be very, very careful.”
“I won’t tell anyone a thing,” Bertha promised. “But you got to get hold of that Bushnell girl. She’s got some money somewhere. She has some rings or something she can pawn. She has this rich aunt. Let her go strike the aunt for some money.”