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Hank put two cups of coffee on my desk, our first of the day, but before we could begin sipping and savouring, a potential client arrived. She was around fifty and dressed like a business woman, which she was. Her name was Penelope Coyne, and she was the manager (or manageress?) of the Blandsville branch of the Big Buck’s Bank. Their optimistic motto was “Are you aware/That you may be a millionaire?” If I am a millionaire, I am certainly not aware of the fact.
I offered her a cup of coffee (mine, actually). But fortunately, she refused because it’s so strong I’m not sure it’s legal; besides, we have only two coffee cups.
Her problem, she told us, was robbery. I suggested that this was a matter for the police, but she said they weren’t interested. The thefts were not money, but pens and pads of cheques from the wickets and tables. “The pens are on chains, but a child could break them. They don’t cost much to replace, but the amount adds up. And customers become annoyed by their absence. Three have already switched their accounts to other banks.”
These thefts seemed to be the archetypal petty crimes, so I agreed to take the case and promised to visit the Bank that afternoon. After Ms. Coyne left, Hank and I discussed the thefts. “Why would someone steal pens from a bank?” I wondered.
“To write with,” said Hank logically.
“But they’re so cheap.”
“Not if you’re poor.”
“And the pads of cheques?”
“Paper to write on.” More Hankian logic.
“So we’re looking for someone who writes and is poor, an impoverished aspiring novelist or poet. I wonder how many there are in Blandsville.”
After a moment, I said: “Many world conquerors have been illiterate – for example, Charlemagne, I think.”
“Men who believed that the sword is mightier than the pen,” quipped Hank.
That afternoon I went to the Big Bucks Bank. As I entered, I felt like the protagonist in Stephen Leacock’s story “My Financial Career,” who was rattled by banks. I counted eight pens at the wickets and tables, all on tiny chains. I wandered around, watching the three male tellers and three customers, until a large man approached me. “You’ve been here for twenty minutes. Why don’t you do your business and leave?” I should have known the bank would have some kind of security. Not wanting to blow my cover, I headed for the door when a loud scream filled the Bank: “A bat! A bat!” I have never understood the fear of these creatures, but pandemonium broke loose. A caretaker appeared with a broom and began swinging at the small flier, but he was no Ty Cobb as a batter (no pun intended). After a few minutes, however, the bat, probably as frightened as the people, found its way out and order returned, but as I left the Bank, I noticed that two more pens had been stolen.
Back in my office, I telephoned Ms. Coyne and asked her to tell the guard not to eject me again. Reasoning that the thief would not strike every day, I waited a couple of days before returning to the Bank. When I did, I immediately spotted an older gentleman in a well-tailored suit… of Santa Claus red. A perfect disguise, I thought. I watched as he withdrew a large amount of cash, left the Bank, and departed in an expensive chauffeur-driven car.
Then an alarm went off, causing as much panic as the bat. It turned out to be a false alarm, but when things calmed down, more pens and cheques were missing.
Two days later, I was in the Bank again, watching a good-looking young woman, not because she looked suspicious but because she was good-looking, when – I could not believe my luck – I saw her, with amazing speed and dexterity seize a pen, break its chain, and pocket it. I signalled to the security guard and we approached her from two directions and took her to Ms. Coyne’s office where we learned that her name was Bonnie Barker and that she was a prolific writer of stories, poems, and essays, all unpublished and, as Hank had surmised, too poor to buy pens or paper. Ironically, she specialized in crime pieces, especially about robberies.
“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you manage the bat and the false alarm?”
“I didn’t. They were pure luck.”
Ms. Coyne decided not to prosecute the thief, but she asked her to do her banking somewhere else in the future. Miss Barker promised to.
I hope someday to add one or more books by Bonnie Barker to the bookcases in my office, perhaps autographed, but not with a pen from the Big Bucks Bank.
