Old Money

Under the steamer the old wallpaper paste loosened and smelled like stale pancake batter. As Tracy worked her putty knife beneath the edge and peeled it back, a soft spot in the wall revealed itself – the plaster and lath beneath had been cut away creating a small void. Inside was stuffed a tight burlap-wrapped bundle. Surprised, she set her tools aside, worked it out, then turned to her makeshift workbench lit by the antique chandelier to inspect its contents. The burlap was brittle. Out tumbled two banded stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills, some loose bills, and a few newspaper clippings. Adrenaline jolted through her! The money was old, with blue stamps and blue serial numbers. The banding valued each stack at ten thousand dollars. Tracy instinctively looked around as if to protect her find, but she was alone. Her mother had recently passed and the house, essentially unchanged from the time of her grandparents, was in dire need of a refresh before she could put it on the market. She’d been slowly working on it in the evenings and weekends, making small repairs room by room, removing the hideous wallpaper and painting to make it presentable to a buyer.

She turned back to her find, picking up a loose bill. A portrait of Franklin in profile. On the back, half-naked Greek gods and goddesses. Real money for sure. Definitely old. Next, she unfolded the largest news clipping, which was brown and brittle. From the Tennessean, dated September 29th, 1924, it featured an article about Army Fliers Circumnavigating the Globe. That seemed random. Turning it over, an article about a bank robbery in Rutledge Hill caught her eye. Quickly scanning it, she read how three hooded gunmen and at least one driver robbed the American National Bank on Broadway and made off with approximately twenty-two thousand dollars. The getaway car was a black Model T Ford. Many witnesses but little to identify the robbers. Police were seeking tips.

There were two other smaller clippings, both obituaries. One was for a Marshall Landry, of Nashville, who was found strangled in his shed. The shed had been rifled and the police had questioned his wife who was distraught. They had no children. And the second obituary was for an Irwin G. Maynard, of Mt. Juliet, who had also been strangled to death during an apparent robbery. His pregnant wife, who was not home at the time, claimed that the house “had been turned upside down by the assailant,” but there was no apparent theft.

Tracy pulled up a chair. Reaching into the sack, she removed one last item: A slim, palm-sized, black notebook. She carefully opened it. The inside cover was signed in a fine, light pencil “CH, 1924.” Her grandfather, Caleb Henry! She didn’t know much about him other than that he’d died young from an accident. He’d been drinking and – on his way home – had been hit by a train and killed. Surely this notebook was his! The handwriting was difficult to read, the pencil lead hard and sharp, but with the context of the money, the article and the obituaries, a narrative unfolded. Pages were variously dated from July 1924 through August and into September and described meetings. CH, IM, JW, and ML – or subsets of that group – were marked as in attendance. The “target,” listed once as “ANB”, must have been the American National Bank. It had been thoroughly cased. There were sketches of its front and interior, the alley behind, and shops around it. Brinks delivery timetables were detailed. They were tracking bank deposits! There were a couple of street maps showing routes into and out of the surrounding neighborhood: 4th Avenue going one way south, 3rd Avenue one way north, Broadway, Commerce; garage in an alleyway a few blocks away off Almond Street was circled.

“JW” apparently had access to a vehicle owned by “Mr.B” and would be the driver. They were all to be “bold and fearless but not violent.” The date and time, “Monday, Sept. 28, 1:30pm” was underlined three times.

Tracy was absorbed. A bank heist! She marveled that any criminal would leave such compelling evidence of their crime behind. She chuckled to herself that just because it was her grandfather didn’t mean that he made for a particularly smart thief. What was twenty thousand worth back in 1924? she asked her smart phone. About three hundred thousand in today’s money! Unbelievable, although she realized that for her it was just twenty thousand. Just. Still, it would go a long way to finishing the renovation.

Their plan, she inferred, was to hit the bank immediately after its weekly cash deposit. The last meeting entry was dated Sept. 26th. Each of them would immediately take two hundred dollars, and “ML to secure remainder in undisclosed location for six months.” There were four initials on this page attesting to this agreement, each signed in a different hand. There was also an admonishment: “Trust the plan!” The next few pages were blank.

Tracy sat back. Wow, they did it, she thought. But the obituaries? She flipped ahead, wondering if that was it. There then came a different kind of entry. No dates were ascribed to these pages.

“JW deemed untrustworthy. Threatened ML for additional $,” the first one said.

“JW incensed. ML offered another $200 “in a couple of days.” Claimed (smartly) access to capital not immediately available.”

On another page, “ML transferred remainder to IW. Concerned.”

Tracy turned the page. “ML strangled. Heartbroken. JW Culprit. All contact broken.” She felt her heart pounding, anxious over something that happened nearly one hundred years ago.

Another page. “IM transferred remainder to me. Will be hidden, left untouched. Blood money.” Now the money in the wall made sense. And had her grandfather written these notes where she now sat?

A few more blank pages, then the last entry. Different than the others, it was a confession in bold, strong cursive. A message hard pressed into the soft paper. Dated 2 Nov., it read, “James T. Watson of 1719 Pearl Street, Nashville, was complicit in the robbery of the American National Bank on Sept 28th, 1924, and responsible for the deaths of Marshall Landry and Irwin Maynard, also complicit. My own life is in danger, but I’ll never give in to Jim’s threats. Whosoever may find this, Godspeed.” It was signed, “Caleb Henry.”

Tracy sat back, shaking. Almost the entire story there in front of her. She wondered if her grandfather had been killed by accident? It seemed unlikely now. Clearly – JW, James Watson, Jim – never got his hands on the money. That was worth something, she thought, though two and quite possibly three men had lost their lives by his hand. She rubbed her eyes. She gathered the money, the newspaper clippings, the notebook and carefully returned them to the burlap sack which she put it into her purse. She turned off the lights, locked up, and drove home.

Sleep did not come. Her mind searching in the mists of the past. Tracy tossed and turned – images of secret, smokey meetings, maybe in the very dining room where the money was later hidden. Of armed men and a daring getaway. Of confrontations and threats. Of strangulation and frantic searches for money. Did MawMaw know about any of this? She wished there was someone to ask, but there was no one. With nothing else to go on, she focused on the one piece of evidence she had: James Watson’s address.

The next morning Tracy drove over to Pearl Street on her way to City Hall. It was early so she drove slowly looking for a house numbered 1719. No such house existed. Modern apartments covered the entire block.

Later, she approached the clerk at the City Revenue window. “Hi, I’m looking for sales or tax records for a house owned by a James T. Watson of 1719 Pearl Street in Nashville.”

The clerk looked at her. “When was the house bought or sold?”

“Well, see, I’m not really sure. The house is long gone. There’s an apartment building there now. I’m trying to track down Mr. Watson. His family, actually.”

A sidelong glance. Some curiosity. “Why?”

Tracy laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Conspiracy and bank robbery and murder, one hundred years ago!” she exclaimed without filtering her thoughts.

The clerk laughed at this, said, “Sure, what you want to do is—.”

A few days later, Tracy was apprehensive, heading west on I-40 toward Camden and a little town called Eva. She’d located and contacted a Terrence Watson who’d agreed to speak with her about his grandfather. Perhaps Terrence was the “T” in James T. Watson? She’d definitely ask. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d say to him. Did you know your grandfather was a murderer? Probably not that.

“Come on in,” Terrence offered. Maybe he’s what she expected in a little place like Eva? Rumpled khakis and a button down. Stubble. Hair combed but greasy. His place bookish and tidy, though infused with a slight, undefinable odor. He seemed welcoming, though. “Want some coffee?” he asked, gesturing toward the kitchen.

“No, I’m ok, thanks.” She noticed a signed photograph of Hank Aaron hanging in the hallway. “You a Braves fan?”

“My whole life. I was there the night he hit 715!”

“That’s very cool! My dad was a huge fan. Guess I was raised on them, too.” She smiled and felt her shoulders relax.

They sat at a small kitchen table. A dried blob of what appeared to be grape jelly on the placemat. She started right in, “as I said on the phone, I wanted to ask you about your grandfather, James Watson.”

“Yeah, so, I didn’t know him well,” Terrence admitted. “He was born around 1900, I think. Died in like ’74, ’75, something like that. So yeah, I knew him as a little kid, you know, but not that well. He was kinda old by then.”

“Did you ever hear any stories about him? About things he did or what he was like?”

“Not that I can recollect, really.”

Tracy looked at Terrence. Kind eyes. She decided to tell him everything. Or almost everything. “So, here’s the thing: Your grandfather and my grandfather and a couple of other guys robbed the American National Bank in Rutledge Hill in 1924. September 28th, to be exact.”

“The hell you say!” Terrence exclaimed in a surprised, not angry way.

“It’s true. My grandfather kept a little notebook documenting all their planning and everything. And there are even newspaper articles.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Renovating my folks’ home. Which used to be my grandparent’s home. Hidden in a wall I found a sack with a notebook, newspaper articles, and bundles of old cash—.” She hadn’t meant to mention the cash. Oh well, too late.

“Cash? Like how much?”

At this point there was no reason to be coy. “Twenty thousand. A little more. Old $100 dollar bills.”

“Old paper money –” Terrence considered. “Antique bills are worth significantly more than face value, you know. Do you have it? Can I see it?” he pressed.

“Well, no, I…”

“What does your family think?”

“No, see … I’m an only daughter, my folks are passed. There’s no one—."

“I hope you secured it.”

“Yes, I —,” she started. The money was still in her purse, exactly where she’d put it the night she found it. She hesitated, then reached into her purse, pulled out one of the bundles. He was not his grandfather.

“Woah! Uncirculated!” he exclaimed as he flipped through the stack. “Anyone else know about this?” he asked.

“Well, no. I’ve only just started trying to figure out what to do about it. I found it last Friday. Your grandfather’s address was my only—.”

Tracy didn’t have time to finish her thought. Terrence’s hands were hard and tight on her throat, making true his grandfather’s threats.