“You know I don’t like my shirts starched,” I told her.
“Sure,” she agreed. “But Lanihan does.”
I looked at her for a minute. She didn’t know, but she’d be a rich woman today. I knew why I was doing it, against everything that warned me not to. Blue-black hair in soft waves, smooth olive skin, a wonderful figure—my wife was one gorgeous woman. Her lips would always be soft and red, her eyes a gentle deep blue.
But her eyes could get like blue steel. As hard as the steel in the door of the bank vault. And with the same thing behind them—money. I’d tried hard not to think about it. But it was no use trying any more.
“Got the afternoon off,” I told her. “See you around one. Dress up. We’ll go out some place.”
Her eyes rounded mockingly as she smoothed her canary-yellow housecoat over her hip. “Can we afford it, Harve?” she asked, smiling. “It won’t break the bank?”
I swallowed. “We’ll afford it, all right.”
I kissed her, and it was wonderful as always.
“You’re a darb, Harve,” she whispered. “Honest.” Her warm hands stroked the back of my neck. “Sometimes, I really think you love me.”
I gave her a hefty pat on the right place, broke away, and beat it down the steps into the street.
Eight blocks to the bank. I needed the walk. Late fall winds strong-armed the big elms. The air was knife-cold. Clear. It was a fine morning—for somebody else. I felt like I was walking on my own coffin.
I wanted Millie to be happy. With all my heart, I wanted that. After seven years of marriage and ten years at the Hawkinsville National Bank & Trust Company, I was precisely no place. At forty-five dollars a week.
“Get a better job, Harve. Ask for a raise. Good Lord, we aren’t living. We’re existing!”
“Look, Millie, it’s steady. In a few years, maybe—”
“In a few years you’ll be dead. You’re drying up now. I watch it happen. Your color’s getting gray, and the light’s gone out of your eyes. Pretty soon, Harve, you’ll be happy at the bank. Content. And I’ll sag, Harve, and bulge. Do you want that? Don’t you want some life, like we’re supposed to have? We love each other—don’t freeze it out. I’ve got to have a piece of life, Harve, or I swear, I’ll go mad. I’ve wanted things. But I’ve stuck. Give me credit.”
A week ago she’d said that. A month ago. A year.
I didn’t want to do what I had to. But without Millie I’d be as good as dead. I needed her. We’d had big dreams. Maybe someday I’d be president of the bank. Maybe. The way things stood our future was an empty promise we both knew was a grim joke.
So the bug bit. Nibble, nibble.
I’d be in the vault. See all that money. I could even put my hands on it. One time I did and couldn’t take my hands off. Carried ten one-thousand-dollar bills around in my pocket for five days. It was grand. Feeling it, crisp and ready, in your pocket.
Maybe that’s what did it. Nobody knew, or suspected. I was trusted beyond even mention of the word.
“Caldwell?” they’d say. “Cripes. He is the bank!”
At forty-five a week. And Lanihan, the pompous old buzzard, with his food-sleek face and a different suit every day and two cars—he’d see. President James R. Lanihan.
I’d say to myself, “Harve, you’re crazy! You can’t get away with it.”
And I’d answer back, “Why not! Plenty of them get away with lots worse. At twelve sharp everybody leaves for lunch. Just J. R and you are in the bank. Alone until one o’clock. Then you and J. R go out. You go home for your cheese on white, and J. R heads for the Hickory Steak House for his cocktails and filet mignon. Only, Harve,” I’d say, “what if you went into the vault while J. R was back in his office? What if you filled that black valise of yours, fast, left the bank at twelve-five, and checked it in a locker at the bus terminal, two doors down? Then back to the bank. Who’d know? Nobody at all, if you picked the right day. By morning Millie and you’d be gone. South America, Europe, some place.”
“But suppose—”
“Shut up and pay attention, Harve. You’ve got to.”
* * * *
So I paid attention. Millie never had mentioned robbery. She’d only said, “Get a new job, more pay. Ask for a raise. Try, Harve. Don’t get in a rut. We need things.” But it added up to one thing, and I wasn’t blind. She wanted money.
Today was the day. It works on you like that. You don’t want to. But you get to looking at all that dough; you handle it. You hate yourself. You plan, all by yourself, and you get scared. You get cold feet.
But one day something clicks and you give in.
The wonder was that the Hawkinsville National hadn’t been robbed before this. The noon-hour thing was a natural. Five days out of six nobody came into that small-town bank between quarter to twelve and one.
For years it’d been going on, wide open, waiting.
And J. R. insisting the men starch their shirts until they were like white pine plank.
Oh, it sounds easy. You talk big, to yourself, think big—to cover up the wrestling match inside you. To cover up the memory that you’ve never stolen a nickel, that your record in life is bright and shiny. You say, “I love my wife. I’ve got to give her what she wants. She’s got to be happy. I can’t lose her!”
I was two blocks from the bank, now, and I was scared right down to my heels. I glanced at the watch Millie’d given me for Christmas, sneaking a buck or two out of food money, just to please me. It was eight-fifteen. I wondered how I’d get through the morning.
Suppose they sprung a surprise audit, like they sometimes did? Suppose somebody came in, saw me stuffing that black bag full of money? Suppose J. R. insisted on talking, instead of sleeping on his couch, and caught me robbing the vault? Then what?
The valise was already in the vault, in a steel drawer, waiting. All I had to do was pack it full.
By noon my shirt wouldn’t be starchy. I was bleeding sweat. But I had to do it. Millie acted funny lately, as if she didn’t care. There was a twist of scorn on her lips when I handed her my weekly pay; four tens, two ones. I kept three dollars for smokes and coffee.
I jerked up at the curb. A swell big car, kind of misty gray, sailed by like a cloud with a couple of laughing men inside. That was the way Millie liked to live. I could see her against a flaming sunset on some ocean beach in one of these skimpy bathing suits they wear. She had what it takes.
Did I?
I stopped at the corner drugstore and had a fifth cup of coffee. Marge, the blonde waitress, glanced sharply at me.
“You look shaky, Mr. Caldwell,” she said. “Anybody’d think you was plannin’ to rob the bank.”
It was a standard gag. I grinned. “Got a headache, I guess.” I left there, went across to the bank. My heels smacked on the marble floor. They raised echoes. As if somebody were keeping pace with me, just a little behind, where I couldn’t quite see.
Everybody said, “Good morning, Harve.”
J. R. took my arm. He looked hung over this morning, in a pinstripe blue suit, with a white carnation. “Harve, I want to see you. Step into the office.”
I swore nervously under my breath. He flounced into his office, with me following. A moment later, I was grateful. He wanted to talk. We talked. Time began its crippled limp across my worried morning.
I was glad of anything that would help keep my mind off what I was going to do. I looked at J. R.’s bland, florid, well-fed face, and watched his eyebrows wiggle up and down as he discussed some new procedure he wanted to introduce in the bookkeeping department.
“I’ll admit,” he said, “we’re a bit, well—old-fashioned. Let’s face it.”
“Let’s face it,” I agreed.
“So, well, I think...”
A little over two hours later I went out and opened the vault, brought him some of the old books to go over. It was a break for me. And it’d keep J. R. occupied. When he had a hangover, he liked to nod the day away over the book
s. He slept mostly.
The vault was open. Nobody had reason to go near it but me. My hands were soggy with sweat. It was an old vault. I recalled that a New York detective, passing through, once said a professional safe-cracker could whistle it open. I’d told J. R. we should see about a new vault. But, let’s face it, we were a bit old-fashioned.
At eleven-fifty-five the girls powdered their faces and fingered curls. Then they were on their way.
I stood in the middle of the big marble floor. I stared at the vault and shook. I wiped my palms on my trousers and went to check on J. R. He was spread out on his leather couch snoring. This was it...
It was like blacking out. I was nervous and sick inside, but my movements were like a robot’s. The bank was still as a tomb, save for J. R.’s sawing.
I swung the vault open, walked inside, closed the door to finger-width, got scared, opened it a yard. Then I went to work.
* * * *
My goal was two hundred and fifty thousand. Plenty, and there was more here this time of the month. There’d be no income tax on this. At foreign-exchange some place, it would be maybe quadrupled in value.
The bag packed, I looked at it in my hands, turned toward the vault door. And I knew it was no go. I simply couldn’t do it.
I’d had my teeth clamped so tight that when I released the pressure, my jaws went bright with pain. The relief all through me was intense. I laughed, looked out through the vault door. I’d left the outer cage door open, too, and I thought of closing it then. But I didn’t. The tight, lousy sick-feeling inside me vanished.
Millie need never know. It just didn’t come off. I’d quit the damned bank, get a job some place else. I hesitated. Maybe I’d never get a job any place else because maybe I was afraid. Maybe I didn’t think I was good enough.
I didn’t let that get me, though. I felt too good. It was knowing at the last moment that you were really okay, I guess—strong enough. I sure knew.
I’d been gripping the bag. I dropped it. Zipped it open. I was humming and the whole world was just a song.
I hadn’t heard the vault door open farther. I hadn’t heard footsteps. But he was standing there, all right. Looking down at me over the glinting barrel of a snub-nosed revolver. His lips were set. A big guy I’d never seen before, in a gray suit. Pale faced he was, with little black eyes that were dull and flat.
“All right, you,” he snapped. “Stand up. Keep your hands steady.”
I stood. From out in the office some place, it sounded like somebody coughed loudly, twice. Then footfalls, and another man stood beside the first.
“The cashier!” the newcomer said. “What’s up, Sloan?”
This one was tall, thin, with a long face that I thought I’d seen before. I thought of J. R. Maybe if I yelled, maybe tripped an alarm, maybe...
“Don’t do anything,” Sloan said. “Damned if I get it. He’s got a bag full of lettuce, Bill. What about Lanihan?”
“He went for the alarm. He’s sleeping good now. I had to,” Bill said. They both eyed me questioningly.
“What d’you want?” I said. My insides were knotting up, and my voice was hollow and high-pitched.
“This is nutty,” Sloan said. “But, damn it, Bill, I think Caldwell, here, is robbing his own bank! He’s beat us to the job.”
I reached for the bag. Sloan stepped forward and smacked the gun against my wrist. The pain zipped up my arm into my shoulder. I fell back. Then I saw the knotty thing on the muzzle of the other man’s gun. A silencer, I guessed. My knees felt weak, thinking of what must have happened to J. R.
Bill’s gun raised. “Shall I—?” He left the sentence unfinished.
“No,” Sloan said, his flat, rubber eyes on me. His voice was rusty. “Bill, we’re going to use him.” Then, to me. “How much you got there?”
The thin one, Bill, laughed. “God,” he said. “It takes all kinds, don’t it?”
“Watch the door,” Sloan said nervously.
“I work here,” I said desperately. “This isn’t my—”
“Don’t kid me,” Sloan said. “You’re marked. You were robbing the bank, pal. It’s scrawled all over you. How much dough have you got stashed in that bag?”
“Two—two hundred and fifty thousand,” I said. The minute I’d said it, I wished myself in hell. “What’d you do to J. R.? Mr. Lanihan?”
“Like I say,” Bill repeated, “he’s sleeping on the couch.” He turned to Sloan. “We better make it snappy.”
Sloan stared at me and shook his head. “Uh-uh. No rush now. We cased this good. He even leaves the cage open. Get to work, Caldwell. Fill the bag. Pack it tight.”
I took as long as I dared. Sweat popped out all over me and my hands shook so I dropped packs of bills on the floor. Sloan cursed me. Bill had gone to watch the door.
They were both plenty nervous. Sloan’s face was slick with sweat. He rubbed his left hand on his suit coat all the time.
“Okay,” he said abruptly. “That’s it.” He checked drawers, hefted sacks of silver, dropped them on the vault floor. “Bring the bag, Caldwell.”
Then I cursed myself again. Because I was glad he’d said that. I’d thought, somehow, that he’d kill me. But if he made me carry the bag, then I’d live. But deep inside, it was a hell of a way to live, believe me. Because I was afraid.
I’d had my chance. I could have tripped an alarm. Even old J. R had tried—and failed. I could have tried. But I didn’t.
They were in a hurry now. Sloan said, “You’re coming with us. Too bad you killed your boss, Caldwell. A murder rap. Wasn’t he good to you all these years?”
I choked and my knees caved a little. He prodded me outside the vault, shoved the door closed. I glanced in the partly open door of J. R.’s office. J. R was sprawled out on the leather couch, but he was more than just asleep.
We went outside the cage to Bill. Sloan closed the cage door, and the lock clicked. Just then Helen Staggart, a teller, entered the front door. A mousy girl with no sense.
“Walk slow,” Sloan whispered. He was deadly now, and steady as a rock, but I knew he was afire with excitement. “Pretend we’re friends. If the dame asks about your boss, say he’s sleeping. We know you go out for lunch now, anyway. Don’t miss-step.”
I was falling apart inside, piece by piece. If there was only some way to warn her, let her tip the cops. Then we were beside her.
“Hi, Harve. Quick lunch today.”
“J. R.’s asleep,” I said. “Going out to eat now.” My voice was loud and strong. The moment I’d had to say something to her had passed.
Sloan and Bill both tipped their hats to Helen. We paraded out the door onto the windy street.
“Snappy now,” Sloan said. “Right there.” He motioned toward a big, misty gray car at the curb.
Then I knew. Somehow I’d felt I’d seen at least one of them. I remembered now. The same car had passed me this morning when I came to work. I remembered thinking how Millie would have something like that.
They had probably been staying in town. Getting ready for the job. Today was the perfect day. They seemed to know everything. I had laid it in their laps.
Bill drove. I sat in the middle. Sloan held the gun, and his dry, rubbery eyes stayed on me.
“To Caldwell’s home, Bill,” Sloan said. “You’re married, aren’t you, pal?” he said to me.
I nodded, gnawed the inside of my lip. The car wooshed away like an easy breath, and Bill chuckled.
“You’re smart, Sloan. Plenty. Gotta hand it to you. We stumbled onto a set-up. We take him home, pick up his wife and go for a ride. When they find out Caldwell’s robbed the bank and killed his boss, he’s guilty as hell. But he’s vanished. He’ll never be found. And us? We got the money, all the time. We don’t have to worry this time, Sloan.”
“You’ll never get away with it,” I blurted. And then I recalled my own words. Why not? Plenty get away with lots worse.
“Sure, we will,” Sloan said. “We would’ve, e
ven if you hadn’t served it up to us. Hell, Caldwell. You’re as bad as us. Maybe worse. You’re a sneak. At least, we admit we’re thieves. Good ones. You—you’re a punk, Caldwell. A lousy, yellow punk. You didn’t even make a try to get away.”
Before I realized it, we were turning in my driveway. Bill parked the car tight against the back porch. They’d even known where I lived.
Then I saw Millie on the porch.
She said, “Hey, who are your friends?” as we got out of the car. Her long, curved legs were creamy in the bright autumn sunlight below the playsuit she wore. It was white. Her smooth black hair glowed bluish around her lovely face.
Bill whistled. Sloan had the gun in his hand. He said to Bill, “Be careful, you rummy. One mistake and we’re sunk.” He picked up the bag. “Get in there. You too,” he told Millie. “Inside the house. Quick!”
We stood in the kitchen. Millie’s eyes were big and round as they traveled from the men to me to the bag on the floor.
“Tell her, Bill,” Sloan said. “She may as well know.”
I listened as the tall, thin one told Millie that I was a punk thief. They’d caught me robbing the bank. Only they had planned the same thing. So matters were a bit difficult—for Millie and me. He told it all. I watched her face change. Then she smiled.
“I never thought you had it in you,” she said to me. Her teeth flashed whitely between her red lips.
“No, Millie! Don’t listen. It isn’t true. I was going to do it. But I couldn’t. It was just for you, baby.”
There was scorn on her lips. The other men saw it, too. Sloan chuckled rustily.
“Hurry up,” he said to Millie. “You put on some other clothes. It’s chilly outside. You and your dumb hubby are going to take a ride.”
I saw her turn on the juice. “Could I see in the bag?” she asked dampening her lips with her tongue as she smiled at Sloan. “Just a peek for a poor country girl?”
“Sure,” Bill said. He even took her arm, helped her bend over to look. I heard her gasp.
The Cutthroats and Criminals Megapack Page 14