I do not know whether the police were consulted or not.
Sometimes in such cases the banks prefer to resort to more private methods and, perhaps, save the necessity of making a public admission of their stupidity.

When my friend, the superintendent, was called in, the officers of the bank were making the wildest sort of guesses as to the identity of the master mind and hand which had deceived the cashier.

He must, they felt sure, have made the forgery with a camel's hair brush of unrivalled fineness.
"A great artist!" said the president.
"The most skilful forger in the world!" opined another.
"We must run down all the celebrated criminals!" announced a third.
"Great artist-nothing!" remarked the boss, rubbing his thumb over the certification which blurred at the touch.

"He's no painter! Why, that's a rubber stamp!" What a shock for those dignified gentlemen! To think that their cashier had been deceived by a mere, plebeian, common or garden thing of rubber! "Good-day, gents!" said the boss, putting the check in his wallet.

"I've got to get busy with the rubber stamp makers!" He returned to his office and detailed a dozen men to work on the East Side and a dozen on the West Side, with orders to search out every man in New York who manufactured rubber stamps.