The blind man’s mouth twitched. “The call might pass through Tessie’s switchboard,” he said dryly.
The boy groped, and stumbled, and sought to find the meaning. The afternoon sun was low; the first cool breath of evening breeze blew over the dirt road. He waited outside while his uncle talked with the tailor; when the man came out he was whistling.
“Police station,” he said.
Captain Tucker was at his desk. “Doctor,” he burst out, “this thing is baffling. Lay those two checks side by side and you can’t tell the signatures apart. I’ve talked to New York. There isn’t a forger known to the police in this part of the country.”
Dr. Stone asked: “Did Albert Wall give you a description?”
“Of the man who cashed that first check? A lot of good that does. Five feet eight, about 155 pounds, dark, clean-shaven, blue suit. It fits a million men.”
“It would,” the doctor said blandly. His face was inscrutable. “You heard Pelle’s story and Albert Wall’s. Get statements prepared.”
“For what?”
“For them to sign.” His hands felt along the desk for the telephone and he called Bryan Smith’s house. “Bryan? Dr. Stone. Do you know where you can find Albert at this hour? He’s with you now? Can you have him at the bank in an hour? I’ll be along with Captain Tucker and Pelle.” He put down the telephone. “You have an hour, Tucker, in which to get those statements ready and dig up Pelle. He’s probably at the factory.”
“But why signed statements?” Captain Tucker demanded impatiently.