by Robert Bloch
Of course, Jerry is going to be utterly furious when he hears about it. Well, let him. All I have to say is, he can get himself another boy.
Statement of Nick Krauss
I was dead on my feet. I'd been on the job ever since Tuesday night and here it was Saturday. Talk about living on your nerves!
But I wasn't missing out on this deal, not me. Because this was the payoff. The payoff to the biggest caper that was ever rigged.
Sure, I heard of the Brink's job. I even got a pretty good idea who was in on it. But that was peanuts, and it took better'n a year to set up.
This deal topped 'em all. Figure it for yourself, once. Six million bucks, cash. In four days. Get that, now. I said six million bucks in four days. That's all, brother!
And who did it? Me, that's who.
Let me tell you one thing: I earned that dough. Every lousy cent of it. And don't think I didn't have to shell out plenty in splits. Right now I can't even remember just how many was in on it from the beginning to end. But what with splits and expenses—like hiring all them planes to fly the stuff down—I guess it cost pretty near a million and a half, just to swing it.
That left four and a half million. Four and a half million—and me going down to the yacht to collect.
I had the whole damn haul right in the truck. A hundred and forty pieces, some of 'em plenty heavy, too. But I wasn't letting nobody else horse around with unloading. This was dynamite. Only two miles from the warehouse where I got everything assembled. Longest two miles I ever drove.
Sure, I had a warehouse. What the hell, I bought the thing! Bought the yacht for him, too. Paid cash. When you got six million in cash to play with, you don't take no chances on something you can just as well buy without no trouble.
Plenty of chances the way it was. Had to take chances, working that fast. Beat me how I managed to get through the deal without a dozen leaks.
But the dough helped. You take a guy, he'll rat on you for two–three grand. Give him twenty or thirty, and he's yours. I'm not just talking syndicate, either. Because there was plenty guys in on it that weren't even in no mob—guys that never been mugged except maybe for these here college annual books where they show pictures of all the professors. I paid off guards and I paid off coppers and I paid off a bunch of curators, too. Not characters, curators. Guys that run museums.
I still don't know what this joker wanted with all that stuff. Only thing I can figure is maybe he was one of these here Indian rajahs or something. But he didn't look like no Hindu—he was a big, tall, youngish guy. Didn't talk like one, either. But who else wants to lay out all that lettuce for a bunch of dizzy paintings and stuff?
Anyways, he showed up Tuesday night with this pouch of his. How he got to me, how he ever got by Lefty downstairs I never figured out.
But there he was. He asked me if it was true, what he heard about me, and he asked me if I wanted to do a job. Said his name was Smith. You know the kind of con you get when they want to stay dummied up on you.
I didn't care if he dummied up or not. Because, like the fella says, money talks. And it sure hollered Tuesday night. He opens this pouch of his and spills two million bucks on the table.
So help me, two million bucks! Cash!
"I've brought this along for expenses," he said. "There's four million more in it if you can cooperate."
Let's skip the rest of it. We made a deal, and I went to work. Wednesday I had him on that yacht, and he stayed there all the way through. Every night I went down and reported.
I went to Washington myself and handled the New York and Philadelphia end, too. Also Boston, on Friday. The rest was by phone, mostly. I kept flying guys out with orders and cash to Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis and the Coast. They had the lists and they knew what to look for. Every mob I contacted set up its own plans for the job. I paid whatever they asked, and that way nobody had any squawks coming. No good any of 'em holding out on me—where could they sell the stuff? Those things are too hot.
By the time Thursday come around, I was up to my damn neck in diagrams and room plans and getaway routes. There was six guys just checking on alarm systems and stuff in the joints I was supposed to cover. We had maybe fifty working in New York, not counting from the inside. You wouldn't believe it if I told you some of the guys who helped. Big professors and all, tipping us off on how to make a heist, or cutting wires and leaving doors unlocked. I hear a dozen up and lammed after it was over. That's what real dough can buy you.
Of course, I run into trouble. Lots of it. We never did get a haul out of L.A. The fix wasn't in the way it was supposed to be, and they lost the whole load trying for a getaway at the airport. Lucky thing the cops shot up all four of the guys, the ones who made the haul. So they couldn't trace anything.
All told, must of been seven or eight cashed in; the four in L.A., two in Philly, one guy in Detroit and one in Chicago. But no leaks. I kept the wires open, and I had my people out there, sort of supervising. Every bit of the stuff we did get came in by private plane, over in Jersey. Went right to the warehouse.
And I had the whole works, 143 pieces, on the truck when I went down for the payoff.
It took me three hours to cart that stuff onto the yacht. This guy, this Mr. Smith, he just sat and watched the whole time.
When I was done I said, "That's the works. You satisfied now or do you want a receipt?"
He didn't smile or anything. Just shook his head. "You'll have to open them," he said.
"Open 'em up? That'll take another couple hours," I told him.
"We've got time," he said.
"Hell we have! Mister, this stuff's hot and I'm hotter. There's maybe a hundred thousand honest johns looking for the loot—ain't you read the papers or heard the radio? Whole damn country's in an uproar. Worse than the war crisis or whatever you call it. I want out of here, fast."
But he wanted them crates and boxes open, so I opened 'em. What the hell, for four million bucks, a little flunkey work don't hurt. Not even when you're dead for sleep. It was a tough job, though, because everything was packed nice. So as not to have any damage, that is.
Nothing was in frames. He had these canvases and stuff all over the floor, and he checked them off in a notebook, every one. And when I got the last damn picture out and hauled all the wood and junk up on deck and put it over the side in the dark, I come back to find him in the forward cabin.
"What's the pitch?" I asked. "Where you going?"
"To transfer these to my ship," he told me. "After all, you didn't expect I'd merely sail off in this vessel, did you? And I'll need your assistance to get them on board. Don't worry, it's only a short distance away."
He started the engines. I came right up behind him and stuck my Special in his ribs.
"Where's the bundle?" I asked.
"In the other cabin, on the table." He didn't even look around.
"You're not pulling anything, are you?"
"See for yourself."
I went to see. And he was leveling.
Four million bucks on the table. Five- and ten-thousand dollar bills, and no phony geetus either. Wouldn't be too damn easy passing this stuff—the Feds would have the word out about big bills—but then, I didn't count on sticking around with the loot. There's plenty countries where they like them big bills and don't ask any questions. South America, such places. That part didn't worry me too much, as long as I knew I'd get there.
And I figured on getting there all right. I went back to the other cabin and showed him my Special again. "Keep going," I said. "I'll help you, but first time you get cute I'm set to remove your appendix with a slug."
He knew who I was. He knew I could just let him have it and skid out of any time I wanted. But he never even blinked at me—just kept right there on steering.
He must of gone about four–five miles. It was pitch-dark and he didn't carry spot, but he knew where he was going. Because all at once we stopped and he said, "Here we are."
I went up on deck with him
and I couldn't seen nothing. Just the lights off on shore and the water all around. I sure as hell didn't see no boat anywheres.
"What the hell you got, a submarine or something?"
"Something." He leaned over the side. His hands was empty, he didn't do anything but lean. And so help me, all of a sudden up comes this damn thing. Like a big round silver ball, sort of, with a lid on top.
I didn't even notice the lid until it opened up. And it floated alongside, so's he could run the gangplank out to the rest on the lid.
"Come on," he said. "I'll help you. It won't take long this way."
"You think I'm gonna carry stuff across that lousy plank?" I asked him. "In the dark?"
"Don't worry, you can't fall. It's magnomeshed."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"I'll show you."
He walked across that plank and climbed right down into the thing before I thought to try and stop him. The plank never moved an inch.
Then he was back out. "Come on, there's nothing to be afraid of."
"Who's afraid?"
But I was scared, plenty. Because now I knew what he was. I'd been reading the papers a lot these days, and I didn't miss none of the war talk. Them Commies with all their new weapons and stuff—well, this was one of them. It is no wonder he was tossing around millions of bucks like that.
So I figured on doing my patriotic duty. Sure, I'd haul these lousy pictures on board for him. I wanted to get a look inside that sub of his. But when I finished, I made up my mind he wasn't gonna streak out for Russia or someplace. I'd get him first.
That's the way I played it. I helped him cart the whole mess down into the sub.
Then I changed my mind again. He wasn't no Russian. He wasn't anything I ever heard of except an inventor, maybe. Because that thing he had was crazy.
It was all hollow inside. All hollow, with just a thin wall around. I could tell there wasn't space for an engine or anything. Just enough room to stack the stuff and leave space for maybe two or three guys to stand.
There wasn't any electric light in the place either, but it was light. And daylight. I know what I'm talking about—I know about neon and fluorescent lights too. This was something else. Something new.
Instruments? Well, he had some kind of little slots on one part, but they was down on the floor. You had to lay down next to them to see how they'd work. And he kept watching me, so I didn't want to take a chance on acting too nosy. I figured it wasn't healthy.
I was scared because he wasn't scared.
I was scared because he wasn't no Russian.
I was scared because there ain't any round balls that float in water, or come up from under water when you just look at 'em. And because he come from nowhere with his cash and he was going nowhere with the pictures. Nothing made any sense any more, except one thing. I wanted out! I wanted out bad.
Maybe you think I'm nuts, but that's because you never was inside a shiny ball floating in water, only not bobbing around or even moving when the waves hit it, and all daylight with nothing to light it with. You never saw this Mr. Smith who wasn't named Smith and maybe not even Mr.
But if you had, you would of understood why I was so glad to get back on that yacht and go down in the cabin and pick up the dough.
"All right," I said. "Let's go back."
"Leave whenever you like," he said. "I'm going now."
"Going yourself? Then how the hell do I get back?" I yelled.
"Take the yacht," he told me. "It's yours." Just like that he said it.
"But I can't run no yacht, I don't know how."
"It's very simple. Here, I'll explain—I picked it up myself in less than a minute. Come up to the cabin."
"Uh uh." I got the Special out. "You're taking me back to the dock right now."
"Sorry, there isn't time. I want to be on my way before—"
"You heard me," I said. "Get this boat moving."
"Please. You're making this difficult. I must leave now."
"First you take me back. Then you go off to Mars or wherever it is."
"Mars? Who said anything about—"
He sort of smiled and shook his head. And then he looked at me.
He looked—right—at—me. He looked—into—me. His eyes were like two of those big round silver balls, rolling down into slots behind my eyeballs and crashing right into my skull. They came toward me real slow and real heavy, and I couldn't duck. I felt them coming, and I knew if they ever hit I'd be a goner.
I was out on my feet. Everything was numb. He just smiled and stared and sent his eyes out to get me. They rolled and I could feel them hit. Then I was—gone.
The last thing I remember was pulling the trigger.
Statement of Elizabeth Rafferty, MD
At 9:30 Sunday morning, he rang the bell. I remember the time exactly, because I'd just finished breakfast and I was switching on the radio to get the war news. Apparently they'd found another Soviet boat, this one in Charleston harbor, with an atomic device aboard. The Coast Guard and the Air Force were both on emergency, and it—
The bell rang, and I opened the door.
There he stood. He must have been six-foot-four at the very least. I had to look up at him to see his smile, but it was worth it.
"Is the doctor in?" he asked.
"I'm Dr. Rafferty."
"Good. I was hoping I'd be lucky enough to find you here. I just came along the street, taking a chance on locating a physician. You see, it's rather an emergency—"
"I gathered that." I stepped back. "Won't you come inside? I dislike having my patients bleed all over the front stoop."
He glanced down at his left arm. He was bleeding, all right. And from the hole in his coat, and the powdermarks, I knew why.
"In here," I said. We went into the office. "Now, if you'll let me help you with your coat and shirt, Mr.—"
"Smith," he said.
"Of course. Up on the table. That's it. Now, easy—let me do it—there. Well! A nice neat perforation, upper triceps. In again, out again. It looks as if you were lucky, Mr. Smith. Hold still now. I'm going to probe .... This may hurt a bit .... Good! ... We'll just sterilize, now—"
All the while I kept watching him. He had a gambler's face, but not the mannerisms. I couldn't make up my mind about him. He went through the whole procedure without a sound or a change of expression.
Finally, I got him bandaged up. "Your arm will probably be stiff for several days. I wouldn't advise you to move around too much. How did it happen?"
"Accident."
"Come now, Mr. Smith." I got out the pen and looked for a form. "Let's not be children. You know as well as I do that a physician must make a full report on any gunshot wound."
"I didn't know." He swung off the table. "Who gets the report?"
"The police."
"No!"
"Please, Mr. Smith! I'm required by law to—"
"Take this."
He fished something out of his pocket with his right hand and threw it on the desk. I stared at it. I'd never seen a five-thousand dollar bill before, and it was worth staring at.
"I'm going now," he said. "As a matter of fact, I've never really been here."
I shrugged. "As you will," I told him. "Just one thing more, though."
I stooped, reached into the left-hand upper drawer of the desk, and showed him what I kept there.
"This is a .22, Mr. Smith," I said. "It's a lady's gun. I've never used it before, except on the target range. I would hate to use it now, but I warn you that if I do you're going to have trouble with your right arm. As a physician, my knowledge of anatomy combines with my ability as a marksman. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do. But you don't. Look, you've got to let me go. It's important. I'm not a criminal!"
"Nobody said you were. But you will be, if you attempt to evade the law by neglecting to answer my questions for this report. It must be in the hands of the authorities within the next twenty-four hours."
He
chuckled. "They'll never read it."
I sighed. "Let's not argue. And don't reach into your pocket, either."
He smiled at me. "I have no weapon. I was just going to increase your fee."
Another bill fluttered to the table. Ten thousand dollars. Five thousand plus ten thousand makes fifteen. It added up.
"Sorry," I said. "This all looks very tempting to a struggling young doctor—but I happen to have old-fashioned ideas about such things. Besides, I doubt if I could get the change from anyone, because of all this excitement in the newspapers over—"
I stopped, suddenly, as I remembered. Five-thousand and ten-thousand dollar bills. They added up, all right. I smiled at him across the desk. "Where are the paintings, Mr. Smith?" I asked.
It was his turn to sigh. "Please, don't question me. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to go, before it's too late. You were kind to me. I'm grateful. Take the money and forget it. This report is foolishness, believe me."
"Believe you? With the whole country in an uproar, looking for stolen art masterpieces, and Communists hiding under every bed? Maybe it's just feminine curiosity, but I'd like to know." I took careful aim. "This isn't conversation, Mr. Smith. Either you talk or I shoot."
"All right. But it won't do any good." He leaned forward. "You've got to believe that. It won't do any good. I could show you the paintings, yes. I could give them to you. And it wouldn't help a bit. Within twenty-four hours they'd be as useless as that report you wanted to fill out."
"Oh, yes, the report. We might as well get started with it," I said. "In spite of your rather pessimistic outlook. The way you talk, you'd think the bombs were going to fall here tomorrow."
"They will," he told me. "Here, and everywhere."
"Very interesting." I shifted the gun to my left hand and took up the fountain pen. "But now, to business. Your name, please. Your real name."
"Kim Logan."
"Date of birth?"
"November 25th, 2903."
I raised the gun. "The right arm," I said. "Medial head of the triceps. It will hurt, too."
"November 25th, 2903," he repeated. "I came here last Sunday at 10 P.M., your time. By the same chronology I leave tonight at nine. It's a 169-hour cycle."