Joe Morrow, still clutching his two dollars and his pass-book, went with his uncle and the dog, and the door closed upon them. Inside the room three men stood about the bank president’s desk. The veins in Mr. Pelle’s neck were swollen with rage; Albert Wall, the cashier, tapped his fingers against the desk and frowned, and a third man, who looked lost and bewildered, held on to the back of a chair near the window. This third man, whom Joe had never seen before, smelled of antiseptics and carried his right arm in a sling.
“Doctor,” Bryan Smith sputtered, “this bank has been robbed of five thousand dollars. Robbed right under our noses. Not fifteen minutes ago.”
“By whom?” the doctor asked quietly.
“We don’t know. Somebody put a forged check through the window. At least Pelle says he signed only one check and——”
“What do you mean I say I signed only one check?” the canner roared. “I tell you I signed only one. I should know! If you were fools enough to pay——”
“But I telephoned you, Mr. Pelle,” Albert Wall broke in. “You said——”
“I know what I said. I told you I had given a check to Fred Hesset for five thousand dollars. If you paid five thousand dollars to another man on a forged check that’s your funeral. The real Hesset is here.” Mr. Pelle pointed to the man with bandaged arm. “Pay him.”
“Not so fast,” Bryan Smith fumed. “One check has been paid already. Now we have another and you say you signed only one. Which one?” The bank president held out two slips of paper.
Joe had a glimpse of them. Both were dated that day, both were made out to Fred Hesset, both were for five thousand dollars, both were signed “Paul Pelle.” The canner stared at them for a long minute.
“This one,” he said, and pushed one of the checks across the desk.