David L. Slick,* a bank teller in charge of the cash vault at a leading California bank, was a personable fellow of 33, a good dresser, companionable, fond of golf and girls. He had many friends. His only weakness: He liked money and didn’t care how he got it.

On a night in 1947, he sat alone in his room, jotting down notes on a yellow writing pad. He struck out one memo after another but still scribbled on. At last he paused and a grin lit his handsome features, a face marred only by a one-inch scar at the left corner of his mouth.

"That’s it—that’s it exactly," he exulted. "Why didn’t I think it before?" He destroyed his notes.

Already he knew the exact weight of the wrapped coins under his charge at the bank, and the next morning before the bank’s opening hour he visited a local shopsmith.

"I’m an inventor," he announced," and need some specialized metal gadgets. Can you make them?"

"Prob’ly," said the proprietor.

Slick then wrote specifications for a large number of short round lengths of solid metal, similar to roller bearings. Strangely, the metal lengths were the exact size and weight of rolls of packaged coins—dimes, quarters, half dollars and dollars. To throw the shopsmith off the track, the caller also ordered a variety of other gimmicks, such as elbow pipe and tin cannisters.

Several weeks later when he picked up his merchandise, he discarded everything but the roller bearings. Later, in his room, he produced wrappers intended for coins and he wrapped the roller bearings tightly and professionally. When wrapped, the metal lengths looked for all the world like rolls of coins. Slick grinned more broadly than ever, his mouth scar whitening, and he celebrated with a drink.

Thereafter, he was never without funds. His modus operandi was simple. When he reported for work in the mornings, his pockets would be crammed with his wrapped roller bearings; before he left in the afternoons he would substitute them for rolls of money, which he would take from wooden boxes in the rear of the cash vault. And it was there, of course, that he would leave his make-believe coin packages.

Only one thing bothered him—could he quit and skip before discovery?

Discovery wasn’t long coming. On a day a circus was in town, a local woman dashed up to his cage and slapped one of the bare metal lengths down in front of him.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "One of you people gave me this instead of a roll of quarters!" She began to sputter.

Slick, self-confident in the extreme, didn’t lose his composure for an instant. "Sh-h," he admonished. "Even some of our own tellers don’t know what I’m about to tell you. The circus people tried to pass these off on us. We’ll catch ‘em, never fear. Police are quietly working on the case right now. Here, I’ll give you a real roll of quarters for that phoney metal. Satisfied?"

In confusion, the woman left—and Slick started sweating. He knew the game was up. That afternoon, a Friday, he departed with $58,405 in stolen cash and securities.

Monday morning he failed to report for work. A fellow worker, fearing him ill, telephoned his boarding house to offer aid.

"Why, Mr. Slick hasn’t been here since Friday evening," said the answering voice. "I do hope nothing has happened to the poor man."

On checking, the bank discovered its losses—and wryly found it was now the owner of many pounds of raw, uncashable metal.

The hue and cry was quick and loud. Police throughout the nation were notified. Fireman’s Fund posters, carrying the photo of David L. Slick alias Dave Morgan, and offering $1,000 reward, were posted by the FBI in post offices throughout the land. rest had gone into high living.

Months elapsed. A Seattle man became suspicious of his girl friend when she started breaking dates. One night he stood in shadows across from her home to see if another fellow was courting her.

Sure enough, shortly before midnight she arrived home in a fine LaSalle automobile. Stepping onto the street, she was kissed goodnight by the driver. The street light showed a scar at the left corner of his mouth.

The cast-off boyfriend puzzled over the driver’s face. He had seen it somewhere. Then he remembered. It was the face on the "wanted" poster. That very night he notified the FBI, and within hours Slick was in custody. His principal remaining possessions were the car and only $1,000 of the loot. The rest had gone into high living.

Fireman’s Fund had paid off promptly on its Blanket Bond. But Slick, in San Quentin, had years to ponder Circus Day; the trouble cause, "blondes and booze"; and the imps that hide inside solid metal.

*Name has been changed

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