Man on a Leash Read Online Free Page B

then Bolling asked, “You understand what I’m saying?”
    “Oh— Sure. I guess I was just savoring the moment. How many other people have lost a quarter million dollars in a few seconds?”
    There was admiration in Bolling’s smile and shake of the head. “Well, I’m glad you don’t shatter easily.”
    “Oh, it’s not all that heroic,” Romstead protested. “You might say I didn’t have it long enough to get attached to it.”
    “Our only hope is that it may be recovered yet.”
    “Could he have deposited it in another bank? Or stashed it in a safe-deposit box?”
    “No. We’ve exhausted that possibility—with help from the police, of course. We’ve checked every bank chain in California and Nevada and even furnished a description just in case he used another name for some unknown reason. Not a trace.”
    “Doesn’t look very promising,” Romstead said. “But what was the other effect you referred to?”
    “On probating the will and settling the estate. The whole thing’s at a standstill, for the reason that we don’t know how much the estate is.”
    “I see what you mean. For federal tax purposes?”
    “Sure. It would make a big difference. And the tax people don’t accept figures like give-or-take-a-quarter-million-dollars. As far as they’re concerned, the last person to have possession of that money was your father, and if that wasn’t the case, it’s up to him—or us, that is—to prove otherwise. If he bought something with it, whatever he bought has to be appraised and the arrived-at value added to the tax-liable value of the estate. If it was stolen from him between the time he drew it out and the time he died, that might change the picture, but we’d have to prove it was stolen, and when, where, and by whom, and if we were in a position to do all that, we could probably recover it anyway.
    “Practically all of your father’s worth is in securities; the only real property he owned is his place here, which consists of ten acres, the dwelling and other structures, and furnishings. Total assessed value, about seventy-five thousand dollars. You inherit that, along with the car, plus whatever’s left after taxes, bequests to the San Francisco Opera Association, the San Francisco Symphony, and three women in Europe and the Far East that I gather are old girlfriends. If the other money’s never recovered, but is still taxed, that’ll be roughly eighty thousand.
    “So as it stands now, you’ll get a little over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars instead of the four hundred thousand dollars it would have been.”
    Romstead nodded. “Well, that’s considerably better than a kick in the ass with a frozen boot. I didn’t expect anything.” He went on. “But about that money—how’d he draw it out? He surely didn’t keep anything like that in a checking account?”
    “Oh, no. He asked his broker to sell securities in that amount and deposit the proceeds in the bank.”
    “In person or over the phone?”
    “On the phone.”
    “What day was this?”
    “July sixth, I think—just a minute.” Bolling pressed a lever and spoke into the intercom. “Rita, will you bring me that file on Captain Romstead?”
    The gray-haired, rather matronly secretary came in with a file folder and went back out, closing the door. Bolling consulted some of the papers in it. “His brokers are a small firm, Winegaard and Stevens; it was Winegaard who handled his business. Your father called him just at seven A.M. on Thursday, July sixth—that’s local time, of course, which would be the opening of the New York Stock Exchange. He read him a list of securities to sell and asked him to deposit the proceeds in his checking account at the Northern California First National Bank, which is practically next door on Montgomery Street. He said to sell it all at the market opening and to expedite the deal as much as he could; he needed the money not later than the following Wednesday, which would be the