Read Chapter 26: The Honest Thief

The door of the root cellar was barred from the outside, but Walter had spent fifteen minutes working the hinges loose with the buckle of his own belt. He pried the last pin free, shoved the door upward, and heard it clatter against the warehouse floor above. Dust and cold air rushed past his face.

He climbed out into the gray dawn light, moving fast and low between the rusted shelving units. His wrists were raw where the rope had bitten; his ribs ached from where Jack had driven a knee while tying him down. But he was free.

Jack and Sal were arguing by the overturned stove. Their voices carried.

"—say we wait for Roy to come back, then we'll know for sure—"

"Know *what*, Sal? Roy shot Doc. Walter says the paper's a fake. Either way, one of them is lying, and one of them is dead. Waiting gets us killed. Big Jim's men are still out there."

Walter heard the car keys jingle in Jack's coat pocket as he shifted weight. He needed those keys. He needed the Colt in the duffel by the door.

He circled wide through the warehouse, hugging the shadow of the loading dock, until he reached the rusted Ford they'd stolen three counties back. The duffel sat on the front seat. The keys were not in the ignition. He checked under the seat, in the glovebox, behind the visor. Nothing.

Jack's voice came from twenty feet away. "We should have left him tied. We'll come back for him."

"No," Sal said. "We take him with us. If Roy's lying, Walter's the only one who knows what the document actually says."

"If Roy's telling the truth, Walter's the embezzler and we're hauling dead weight."

"He didn't steal from us, Jack. He saved Doc's life. You saw him."

Walter eased closer, keeping low behind a stack of oil drums. Jack stood with his back half-turned, the keys visible in the rear pocket of his trousers. Sal faced him, arms crossed, chin tilted in stubborn refusal. Neither had looked toward the root cellar.

Walter picked up a rusted pipe from the floor. He stepped out of cover, three long strides, and swung.

The pipe connected with the side of Jack's knee. Jack howled, buckled, and Walter was already on him, one hand fishing the keys from his pocket while the other pressed the pipe against Jack's throat.

"You shot Doc," Walter said, quiet, breathing hard. "You didn't pull the trigger, but you held him down while Roy did. That makes you his accomplice."

Jack's eyes went wide. "I didn't—"

"You voted with Roy. You believed him. Now Doc's dead and Roy's gone with the only paper that can prove what DeVries did. You want to make it right? You let me go, and I'll bring you the truth."

Sal stepped forward, hands raised. "Walter, listen. We didn't know. Roy said you were fired for stealing. Doc never said otherwise until the end."

"Doc told me the truth. Roy hired him to make the bank look solvent. That's why the books balanced. That's why nobody saw it coming." Walter released Jack, stepped back, and pulled the duffel open. The Colt was inside, loaded. He checked the cylinder, then tucked it behind his belt.

Jack scrambled to his feet, limping. "Where are you going?"

"To find Roy. And the man he's working for."

Sal frowned. "Roy's not working for DeVries. He's blackmailing him."

"Maybe. But blackmail requires a meeting. A meeting requires a place. And Roy's got a head start and a stolen document that proves DeVries' fraud—or will, once he shows it to someone who knows what it means."

Walter moved toward the Ford. Jack limped after him. "You can't take the car. How are we supposed to—"

"You'll figure it out." Walter opened the driver's door, then paused, looked back at Sal. "If you want to make it right, there's something you can do. Go to the library in town. Ask for the St. Louis papers from nine months ago. Look for a man named Arthur Phelps. He was a bank examiner. Roy killed the only other man who knew where Phelps was hiding. If Roy gets to him first, the whole fraud gets buried."

Sal's jaw tightened. "I know a guy who runs a print shop. He can pull old papers."

"Then do it." Walter slid behind the wheel, fired the engine, and drove out of the warehouse without looking back.

---

The trail was easy enough to follow for a man who knew what to look for.

Roy was not a subtle man. He paid with bills large enough to make clerks stare, ate at the best diners in each county, tipped like a gambler with a hot streak. At a gas station outside Rolla, Walter found a receipt on the counter with a splash of coffee and a smeared thumbprint. The attendant remembered Roy clear enough—"Big fellow, loud voice, drove a Packard with Illinois plates. Wore a suit too nice for the road."

Walter bought a map, spread it across the counter, and traced the route. Neosho. Joplin. Nowhere near St. Louis.

Roy was heading southwest.

Walter stared at the map, tapping the pencil against the worn counter. The document implicated DeVries in the collapse of over a hundred banks. If Roy tried to sell it to him, he'd be walking into a room with a man who had killed more people than the flu. But Roy wasn't stupid. He knew the value of what he carried. He'd want witnesses, leverage, a public setting.

Unless he wasn't going to sell it at all.

Walter remembered the marginal note in Doc's handwriting. Arthur Phelps, St. Louis. The only man who'd survived an examination of one of DeVries' banks. But Roy wasn't heading to St. Louis.

He was heading to Springfield.

Walter unfolded the map further. Just south of Springfield, there was a county road marked in faded ink—a private estate, three miles off the highway. It had no name on the map, but Walter had processed enough loan applications to recognize the pattern of holdings that never showed up on public ledgers. A farm. A private mansion. A place where a man like DeVries could meet with his enemies and no one would be the wiser.

He paid for the gas, folded the map, and got back on the road.

The Ford rattled over the gravel turnoff just as the sun dipped below the tree line. Walter parked a quarter mile from the gate, killed the engine, and walked the rest of the way on foot. The mansion sat at the end of a long, straight drive, columns supporting a wide porch, lights burning in the lower windows. A Packard with Illinois plates was parked out front.

Roy's car.

Walter crouched behind a hedge at the edge of the lawn and watched. A silhouette crossed the window—Roy's bulk, clear even at distance. Another figure joined him, slighter, gray-haired, moving with the unhurried confidence of a man who owned everything he surveyed.

DeVries.

Walter drew the Colt, checked the load, and eased it back into his belt. He needed a plan. A gun against a man who'd survived this long by outsmarting everyone he met was not a plan. That was wishful thinking.

But he had the carbon copy. He had the truth. And for the first time since the bank had failed and his life had been dismantled for a crime he didn't commit, Walter Crane had a clear target.

He moved closer to the mansion, keeping to the shadows, counting the windows, memorizing the exits.

He would not get another chance at Roy. But the man across the table was the real quarry. And if Walter could make this work, he'd bring both of them down.

The distant sound of laughter drifted across the lawn. DeVries, amused by something Roy had said.

Walter's hand tightened on the grip of the Colt.