Once a Widow by Lee Roberts

Even with the secret plan he had, he must remember that Mr. Sprang had gotten him the job at the bank, was his benefactor; he must always seem grateful and sincere. In another few weeks it would not matter. He would be gone then, far away, to Havana, which was in Cuba, where no one would find him.
    Sometimes George was sorry that he’d picked Mr. Sprang’s savings account to loot by means of forged withdrawal slips, the signature carefully copied from the master card, but to carry out his plan he needed money. He had already taken three thousand dollars from Mr. Sprang’s account alone. It was one of the accounts he’d carefully selected. Like the others, all elderly depositors, Mr. Sprang never withdrew from his savings account and never questioned the balance. Of course, George vaguely supposed that he’d be found out eventually, but not until he was safely away from Harbor City and all the memories the city held for him.
    Mortimer Watson said to the lawyer, “Hell, two-handed poker is no good. How about some rum, a dollar a point?”
    “You’ve got a customer. Get the cards.”
    The two older men played their game while George Yundt sat on the seat by the wheel and watched. Watson won consistently and kept goading the old lawyer with disparaging comments on his ability as a gambler. Sprang paid no attention and grimly played his cards. Presently weak sunlight crept into the cabin and the three men gazed out at the sky and water. The lake was almost quiet now, the water rolling very gently, and the clouds on the horizon were moving slowly westward. Then the sun, almost directly overhead, burst through brightly and a patch of blue sky showed behind it.
    “You lose, Lew,” Watson crowed. “Pay up.”
    Sprang looked glumly at his wrist watch, saw that it was seven minutes until one. He sighed, took a fat wallet from a hip pocket, extracted a twenty from a thick sheaf of bills and handed it to Watson. “I’ll get even,” he said. “You wait.”
    “Sure you will, Lew,” Watson said with mock sympathy. “Do you want to pay me now what you lost at rum, or should we finish the game at the clubhouse?”
    “To hell with you,” Sprang said amiably. “We’ll finish at the clubhouse—but it’s going to be poker. There’ll be a game going.”
    “Name your poison,” Watson said cheerfully, and winked at George Yundt. “Anchors away, son. I’ll start the motor.”
    Lewis Sprang went on deck with George Yundt and helped with the anchors. They stood side by side in the stern as Watson backed the boat away from the island. The lawyer lit a fresh cigar, cupping the match flame against the gentle breeze, and said, “By the way, George, I’m closing out my savings account in the morning—going to put it in bank stock. Since I’m a director, I should have done it long ago. You figure the interest and make a cashier’s check for the total and I’ll be in around ten o’clock with my pass book to check it against the bank’s balance.” He laughed shortly. “I don’t even know how much it is, not exactly, with the accumulated interest. I haven’t touched the account in years.”
    It seemed to George Yundt as he stood there in the sun, smelling the fragrance of Mr. Sprang’s cigar, that the world was whirling. The sky and the water seemed to spin around him and his face felt stiff and numb. He hadn’t thought it would ever happen, had not thought about it very much, but it had happened, was happening now. He was caught, found out. When Mr. Sprang brought his pass book in the morning it would show a balance of three thousand dollars more than the bank’s record showed. He stood rigidly and did not speak. He could not speak.
    As from a great distance he heard Mr. Sprang’s voice, mumbling, as if talking to himself. “Let’s see, where did I put that pass book…”
    The boat was well out from the island now and Mortimer Watson shifted the motor into forward gear. They circled and picked up speed, heading for