Mr. Dale G. Clark, retired interior designer and current Berkeley eccentric, could be heard delicately stepping on the marble floor in the wooden clogs he wore every day. Not what we called a High Value Customer at Strawberry Creek Bank, as his accounts totaled only a couple thousand, he was a regular whose presence was welcomed because it meant break time for the lucky teller who assisted him. On this particular day it was me - only I wish it hadn't been."Good afternoon, Mr. Clark," I sang as I locked my station drawers and computer.
"Hello there, Miss Christina. I'd like to go to my safe deposit box, please."
"Of course, Mr. Clark."
Our shoes clicked on the lobby floor - his clogs , my sensible work heels - until we reached the grand flight of stairs that ended in the vault room. Strawberry Creek Bank, Berkeley Main - established in 1910 - actually housed four vaults. Each one in the basement, two for business use, and two for customer use. The door to Customer Vault #1 was the most majestic piece of steel-reinforced concrete you ever saw. A cylindrical door, 10 feet tall and 12 feet wide, pulled open to reveal a ramp that ended at a metal gate. Inside were three aisles with nearly 4000 safe deposit boxes of varied size and a dozen private viewing rooms where customers could be alone with the contents of their boxes. Here is where Mr. Clark spent a solid hour doing God knows what. And since a customer cannot be left unattended in safe deposit, I was gearing up for a nap.
"Might you have a pencil handy?" Mr. Clark called out from behind the metal gate. Sitting at a desk with my back towards the vault meant he couldn't see my drooping eyelids but he surely noticed my head and shoulders snap upright at the sudden sound of his voice. I rummaged through a drawer then rose to hand him a Strawberry Creek Bank pencil with gold lettering.
"You're a doll" he said. I could hear the clogs echo all the way back to his viewing room.
But the echo was cut off suddenly by voices from the top of the grand staircase. My Service Manager, Raul, and a middle-aged redhead decked out in lustrous but tasteful gold jewelry came down the stairs discussing, of all things, the Cal football team.
"Were you at the game on Saturday?" he asked.
"I'm at every home game. We're big Cal supporters- the whole lot of us. Kinda hard not to be when you're sixth generation alumni" she proudly announced.
"Hmm. Impressive. Oh there she is! Christina - just who I'm looking for.
She didn't pick up on it, but he had cut her off with a swiftness he often displayed when one rambled about graduating from UC Berkeley. Sports talk he could manage, but having grown up in downtown Berkeley, just blocks away from the university and its students and their self-indulgence, left him indifferent. Maybe that's why he didn't bother to introduce me, or tell me what was going on. All I knew was that we were going into Customer Vault #2 (which I had never before entered) and I was to act as a dual custodian. In other words, a second set of banker's eyes to witness an official legal transaction..
Customer Vault #2 was located across the lobby from Customer Vault #1, but a different story altogether. Behind an average rectangular vault door was a dark and dusty walk-in closet of sorts - an open space surrounded by metal cages roomy enough to hold a person or two. Inside these cages clients safely stored valuables like paintings, antique lamps, luggage. One cage obviously belonged to a photographer who stored 35mm camera equipment and large black & white landscape prints. This room was called Safekeeping and it had not been in use for the last 50 years.
The redhead supplied a rusted key that opened an equally rusted padlock to Safekeeping A1, the first cage located to the left of the entrance.
"I suppose it makes sense that it'd be the very first one" said the redhead. "They did build the place themselves, you know."
Raul quickly responded, "Yes, makes sense." He slid the gate open.
"I'm sorry, who built what place?" I dared to ask, then saw the back of Raul's head and shoulders slump down in defeat. A year working together and I knew that meant I should keep my mouth shut. But it was too late.
"Oh, my dear, you don't know? The Shattuck Brothers - as in Shattuck Avenue, The Shattuck Hotel, Shattuck Elementary. They owned practically everything Strawberry Creek touches, all the way up to Tilden Park. And they handpicked this very spot in downtown for their bank. You've never heard any of this? Where are you from?"
"Oh, I'm from Los Angeles. I'm a student at Cal."
"Lovely," she grinned.
Raul begrudgingly contributed, "Mrs. Shattuck-Yates here is Executor of the Shattuck Estate - and great-great-granddaughter of Alvin G. Shattuck, the older brother. Now, which one do you need to retrieve?" He gracefully directed the redhead back to the open cage where three vintage steamer trunks rested in dust. She pointed to the only one with an LV logo patterned across its surfaces and I recognized it as Louis Vuitton. I couldn't help but think if a purse cost $500, how much did this thing cost? It was brown leather, impressive, and stamped with stickers from all over the world, just like in the movies: Venice, Cairo, Paris, Tangier, Lima, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, and more. I watched her lift the lid and delicately pull out items plucked out of early 20th century aristocracy: high-collared white lace dress packaged with veil and gloves, double-breasted long coat and trousers and top hat, a stack of fine linens, and a silver Tiffany jewelry box with silk tassel . The redhead paused at the jewelry box. She opened it, removed the only piece she was interested in, and set the box down.
"This is it. The pocket watch originally owned by Sylvester, Alvin's brother and business partner. I guarantee this little trinket will make a splash at auction. Alvin's shy younger brother just disappeared one day at the height of their success, never to be heard from again. According to family lore, Alvin found the pocket watch placed on his desk, upstairs, in this very building. If you ask me Sylvester probably ran off with a woman to any one of these places" and she gestured to the stickers on the trunk.
She held it up in front of me, "It's 18ct. Do you want to see?" I cupped my hand out to her.
Shortness of breath and a disorienting jolt causes my stomach to leap as if on a roller coaster, except my feet feel bolted to the ground. The cages are here - new, shiny even - but the room is unfinished. Containers of cement, steel support beams, and construction tools are scattered around. Shadows come closer. Two men storm in - the older one red-faced with his arms flailing, the other tight-lipped and curled up tense like a wire hanger. Face to face, finger pointing, and neck veins throbbing, the older one slams the other against the Safekeeping vault door. He falls to the floor. A moment of consideration and the older one drags the other to cage A1, turning the key in the padlock and stuffing it in his coat pocket. He runs away breathlessly. My stomach leaps again. My head spins. Time moves forward. The older one shuffles in towards the cage, tie undone, hair falling onto his face. Inside the cage, the other is on his back, a pool of blood around his head, and a steel support beam crushed into his skull. The older one's mouth opens in anguish, his hand clutching the pocket watch still hanging from his brother's vest pocket.
"All done here, Ready to lock it up. Miss Christina, did you hear me?"
My eyes met Mr. Clark's in wonder. He was standing at the entrance to Safe Deposit waiting for me to lock his box with my guard key. "Yeah. Coming. Sorry, Mr. Clark."
After Mr. Clark left up the staircase back to the lobby, I peered into the Safekeeping Vault. The metal gate was locked but I could see through it into a dark chamber surrounded by cages roomy enough to hold a person or two. And to the left I could make out the LV pattern on a trunk resting in dust. The crude cemented wall behind it concealing the skull and bones of Sylvester P. Shattuck.
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