CAUSE FOR ALARM
Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1970.
It is well known that while a criminal is engaged in the commission of a crime, and during the period immediately following, he is a veritable bundle of nerves. He is drawn up so tight that any trifling occurrence of an unexpected nature can send him into a blind panic, with his nerves twanging like guitar strings. And his reaction to such an event—to anything which, in his highly nervous state, seems to him to be a cause for alarm—often takes unpredictable forms. Sometimes his panic makes him more cunning, more dangerous; sometimes it has just the opposite effect.
Lieutenant Randall of the robbery detail was well aware of this basic psychological truth. He had even, in his early days as a patrolman, been its victim. A thief, emerging from a jewelry shop with considerable loot and a sweet certainty that there wasn’t a cop within three blocks, was rudely startled by a sudden yell from Randall who, off duty and merely passing by, happened to spot him.
As a result. Randall took a .32 caliber bullet through the calf of his right leg from a usually prudent and peaceful lawbreaker who had never before so much as raised his voice to an officer of the law. As the thief explained later in court, if he’d known a cop was in the vicinity he would have surrendered meekly on being challenged, but Randall had so startled him that he had instantly begun to shoot, a reflex action occasioned entirely by blind panic.
After that experience Randall believed he knew pretty well what to expect when a crook was given sudden cause for alarm. He had the scar on his leg to prove he had earned the knowledge the hard way. Yet he had acquired only half the lesson. The other half he learned from a young bank teller named Harry Oberlin.
Harry Oberlin worked at the Citizens National Bank. And it was through his teller’s window that a bank robber, one day in early summer, relieved the bank of $3200.
Randall got the call at headquarters about a half hour after noon. The bank’s cashier, in the usual half-coherent state of bank officials who call the police to report a bank robbery, wasn’t very helpful. “No, I don’t know what he looked like or how much he stole. It happened only minutes ago. At Harry Oberlin’s window—he’s the one who touched the alarm. I haven’t had a chance to—”
“Hold everything,” Randall said sharply. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” He figured he could get the information more quickly on the spot than he could over the phone. He went himself.
The bank was only a block from headquarters, so Randall was as good as his word. Five minutes later, the cashier, a Mr. Dangerfield, met him at the front entrance of the bank, recognizing him as a police officer, no doubt, by the unbanking-like speed with which Randall came through the revolving door.
Leading Randall into the railed enclosure where the bank’s officers sat quietly behind impressive desks, Dangerfield said, “We haven’t made any fuss, of course. Our patrons don’t even know there’s been a robbery.” He jerked a thumb at the dozen or so customers lined up before the two tellers’ windows opposite.
“Where was your guard during the stickup?” Randall asked.
“In the Men’s Room.” There was anger in Dangerfield’s tone. “I think perhaps the thief waited for that moment.”
They reached Dangerfield’s desk. A young man of mild appearance was waiting for them in a chair beside it. The cashier sat down behind the desk and invited Randall to have a chair. “This is Harry Oberlin,” he introduced the young man. “He’s the one who had the—ah—bandit at his window.”
“Then you’re the one I want to talk to,” Randall said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
The teller cleared his throat. “This fellow came up to my open window. He was alone, nobody behind him. He handed a canvas sack through to me along with this note.” Oberlin passed Randall a slip of brown wrapping paper.
It was the usual thing: THIS IS A STICKUP. EMPTY YOUR CASH DRAWER IN THIS BAG. It was printed in block letters, with a ballpoint pen.
“What did he look like?”
Oberlin shrugged. “Medium height, medium weight, white man, brown hair, maybe twenty-four or five. Gray slacks, gray windbreaker. He kept one hand inside his jacket as if he had a gun. Anyway, our cameras probably got him.”
The cashier broke in, “Oberlin managed to trigger our security cameras.”
“Good,” Randall said t o Oberlin. “Then what?”
“I did what he said. We have standing instructions to do that, since we’re insured and the bank doesn’t want any of us murdered.” Mr. Dangerfield waved his hands.
“Never mind that, Harry.” Randall said, “How much money was in your cash drawer?”
“About thirty-two hundred, I think. Bills and silver. I haven’t had time to check the precise amount.”
“Didn’t anybody else notice what was going on?”
Oberlin shook his head. “I guess not. The bandit looked around the bank several times while I was filling his bag, but nobody seemed to pay any attention to him. He was plenty nervous, though.”
“And after you filled his sack?”
“He took it and walked out the side door to the street and turned south. Then I hit the alarm bar to alert Mr. Dangerfield.”
“And that was it, eh?” Randall had heard the story so many times before. “Disappeared in the lunch-hour crowds, I suppose?”
“Well,” Oberlin said, “I followed him to the door as soon its l could get around the counter and I saw him duck into a dark-blue Plymouth sedan, 1968 model, that was parked down Ward Street, and drive off like a shot.”
“For God’s sake!” said Randall. “Why didn’t you say so before? A dark-blue 1968 Plymouth sedan?” He reached for the telephone on the cashier’s desk, then paused. His respect for Harry Oberlin was mounting. “You didn’t by any chance see the car’s license number?”
“Not all of it. Just the last two digits—39.”
Randall got an outside line, dialed headquarters, and asked for Hennessy. “Randall,” he said crisply when Hennessy came on the line. “Take a look at your Auto Theft list and see if there’s a dark-blue 1968 Plymouth sedan on it with a license number ending in 39.”
After a brief wait Hennessy said, “Here it is, Lieutenant. Reported stolen last night from the North Side Shopping Center. Full license number is—”
“Don’t tell me,” Randall interrupted, “Put it on the air. All points, urgent. I’m at Citizens National Bank. Ten minutes ago a guy robbed this place and he’s using that Plymouth as a getaway car.” He gave Hennessy a quick recap of the bandit’s appearance, quoting Oberlin. Then he hung up.
He turned to Mr. Dangerfield. “I’m afraid he has a good start. He’ll probably abandon the stolen car as soon as he’s well away from this neighborhood. But we’ll do what we can. I’d like to see what your camera got as soon as the film’s developed, and I’ll have this note checked for fingerprints. Meanwhile, can l get a definite figure on the amount of money actually stolen, Mr. Oberlin? Can you find that out for me now?”
“Sure,” Oberlin said, and stood up.
Randall left Dangerfield sitting disconsolate at his desk and followed Oberlin to his cage. The teller pulled open his cash drawer and showed it to Randall. It was empty as a school house on Saturday morning.
“Lieutenant,” said Oberlin hesitantly, “I didn’t want to say anything to Mr. Dangerfield, but I was kind of prepared for this robbery.”
Randall stared. “Prepared?”
“I mean, there are so many holdups of banks and savings and loan companies these days that I figured it might happen to me sometime, too, you know?”
Randall nodded.
“So what I did, I tried to figure out how I could kind of surprise any bandit who held me up. You know, without running too much risk of getting hurt myself.”
The phone on Oberlin’s counter rang. The teller picked it up and answered it. “It’s for you, Lieutenant.”
Randall took the phone. “Randall,” he said.
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“Hennessy, Lieutenant. We’ve picked up that Plymouth sedan of yours.”
Randall couldn’t believe his ears. “Already?”
“Yep.” Hennessy tried to keep from sounding complacent. “Not too far from the bank. Abandoned.”
“That figures. No sign of the man?”
“No sign of him.” Hennessy laughed a little. “But the car wasn’t empty, Lieutenant. There was a bagful of money on the front seat.”
“Well, well.” Randall stole a look at Oberlin. “How much?”
“No details yet. Lieutenant. Car 36 just this minute called in that they’d found the Plymouth and a sackful of money. I thought you’d want to know about it right away.”
“I do. Fast work, Hennessy. And thanks.” Randall hung up slowly. “Did you hear that?” he asked Harry Oberlin.
“No,” said Oberlin. “You haven’t caught the bandit already, have you?”
“Not quite. But we’ve found the money. At least some of it. He left it behind in the car.”
It was Oberlin’s turn to laugh. He laughed out loud and his pleasure was infectious. The teller in the adjoining cage looked over and grinned in sympathy. “You mean the robber not only abandoned his getaway car but the money, too?”
“Seems like it.” Randall fixed the young teller with a stern eye.
“Now, just before the phone rune, Oberlin, you were saying something about being prepared to surprise any bandit who might hold you up. What did you mean?
“I guess it did surprise him!” Oberlin said. “But it must have scared the daylights out of him if he went off and left the money behind.” The best part of it is the teller was practically chortling. “All I did was exactly what he told me to do—to put everything in my cash drawer into his bag. Including the little surprise I always kept in the drawer in case of bandits.”
Randall said, “All right. Oberlin. I’m asking again. What was it?”
“A smoke bomb, Lieutenant,” Oberlin said with the air of a David who has just bested a Goliath. “A smoke grenade, timed to go off three minutes after I pulled the pin. I put it in the bandit’s bag with the money.”
HELL IN A BASKET
Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, December 1972.
Lieutenant Randall thought there was something fishy about the whole thing right from the beginning when Captain Forbes, his superior, told him on Wednesday morning to go out to Capucino’s Carnival and get the facts about the death of one Ram Singh. A call had just come in; an ambulance and the medical examiner were already on their way.
“An Indian?” Randall asked.
“A Hindu I suppose, with a name like that,” said Captain Forbes acidly. “He was the snake charmer in the side show.”
“How’d he die?” Randall asked.
“The man who called said his snake bit him.”
Randall, already on his way out, paused. “Snake-bit? Then where do we come in? Why the Homicide Bureau?”
“How do I know?” Forbes growled at him. “Don’t stand there asking me questions. Get out and ask the Carnival boss, Capucino.”
Capucino, owner and manager of Capucino’s Carnival, was a short, beefy, bushy-browed specimen with the fast-paced talking habits of a circus barker. Randall found him on the lot.
“It was the worst shock ever I had,” Capucino said as he led Randall toward a small house trailer that was parked behind the deserted side show tent. Randall could see the police ambulance standing beside the trailer. “I go into Whitey’s trailer half an hour ago, to see why he don’t show up for breakfast, and I practically stumble over him. He’s lying there on the floor right next to the basket where he keeps King, and he’s dead as a last year’s hollyhock!”
“I thought the guy was a Hindu,” Randall said. “Name of Ram Singh.”
“Whitey Whitaker was his real name. He just put on a body stain and a turban and a heard for his snake-charming act, see? He was an American, Whitey was. But we billed him as The Great Ram Singh, Ruler of Reptiles.”
“Oh,” said Randall. They were approaching the trailer. “And I gather that King, who lives in a basket in Whitey’s trailer, is his snake?”
“Sure, sure.” Capucino nodded. “King’s his snake.” They reached the trailer. “Only one he had.”
They went into the trailer. Christy Huneker, the M. E., was just getting up from a squatting position beside Whitey’s body.
“Ah, Randall,” Huneker said pleasantly. “Nothing here for you, I’m afraid. This guy died of snake bite.”
“What kind of snake?” Randall asked curiously.
“Cobra,” Capucino said. He pointed. “He’s in there.”
Their eyes went to a shallow, pot-bellied, covered basket of woven straw that stood in one corner of the room.
Randall asked, “Isn’t there some kind of serum you can take when you’re bitten by a snake, Doc?”
The doctor nodded. “Antivenin. But you’ve got to have it handy when needed. How about that, Mr. Capucino? Wouldn’t a man who handled a poisonous snake keep a supply of antivenin handy, just in case?”
“Yes,” Capucino said. “I’m sure Whitey had it around some place. Andy always did, I know. And Whitey took over from Andy.”
Capucino went to a small wall cabinet above the bed and rooted through it.
“Here’s the serum,” he said, holding up a sealed phial, “and the hypodermic to inject it with.”
“Probably too drunk to use it when the snake bit him,” the doctor said. “He’d been drinking. You can still smell it on him.” He tipped a hand to Randall. “I’ve got to get back to town. You coming?”
Randall said, “Not for a minute. I’ll call you later to verify, Doc.” The ambulance men came in and carried Whitaker’s body from the room on a stretcher. Dr. Huneker left, too.
“Let’s see the snake,” Randall said.
Capucino approached the basket in the corner, cautiously reached out a hand and took the weighted cover off. He jumped back. Nothing happened immediately, although Randall could hear a dry stirring, as though of disturbed leaves, in the basket. Then a nightmare triangular head emerged sleepily from the basket, and two yellow, lidless eyes regarded them solemnly, while a black forked tongue flicked questingly in and out of the armored mouth.
Randall, whose own eyes were the joke of the department because they were of a strange, sulphur-yellow color and seemed seldom to blink, was stared down immediately by the snake. It was no contest at all.
“Put the lid on, Capucino,” he said in a nervous voice, “before the damn snake bites us.”
“Call me Cap,” the carnival man said. “Everybody does.” He took a long pole from another corner of the room, slid it through the loop on the basket lid, gingerly reached out and dropped the lid down over the basket opening. The snake’s head disappeared. Capucino came back and sat down on the unmade bed.
“Look, Lieutenant,” he said in a neutral voice, “I called you because I think there’s more to this than a snake biting a guy who’s had too much booze. Whitey always drank a good deal when he went to bed. Every night. He claimed it helped him sleep. He had an old bayonet wound in his gut from Korea that ached him pretty bad, and the whiskey eased it up, he said.”
“What’s on your mind then?” Randall asked.
“The snake,” Capucino said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “King’s on my mind. King couldn’t have bit Whitey and killed him.”
Randall slowly lowered himself into a straight chair. “Give me that again,” he said.
“King couldn’t have bit Whitey,” Capucino repeated doggedly. “It sounds nutty as hell, but it’s true. I think that’s another snake over there in the basket, Lieutenant. Another snake entirely.”
“What!” Randall stared.
“King couldn’t have bit Whitey. He was de-fanged.”
“He was what?”
“De-fanged. Had his fangs pulled by a vet. Like you go to a dentist and have your wisdom teeth pull
ed out. Sort of the same thing.”
Randall felt suddenly out of his depth. “You mean Whitey’s snake didn’t have any fangs left to bite with?”
“He still had teeth, understand. So he could eat the rats and mice and things that Whitey fed him, but his poison fangs was gone. So he was harmless, see?”
Randall looked at the snake basket in the corner. “Can you tell if it’s a different snake from its appearance?”
“Not me. I’m no snake expert. And I ain’t about to examine him close-up. Hell, I never had a snake act in my show at all until two years ago, and now I wish I never had one.”
“Isn’t there anybody around here can tell for sure whether that’s King over there in the basket?”
Capucino hesitated. “I can’t think of anybody much,” he said, “now that Whitey’s gone. Gloriana, maybe. Or Andy Grissom. But he’s not around any more, either.”
“Who’s this Gloriana?”
“One of my tumblers. Acrobat. A great kid, Lieutenant. Pretty as hell, and built like a brick outhouse. I never could get to first base with her, though.” He sighed, profoundly saddened by his memories. “First it was Andy, and then Whitey that she went for. But just let me, the boss, make a pass, and it was ‘aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Mr. Capucino!’ You know how that goes?”
Randall grinned. “Not me,” he said. “I got a wife and two kids.”
Capucino said with dignity, “So have I. But that don’t mean I can’t like an acrobat, too.”
“You say Gloriana spent a lot of time with Whitey?”
“Yeah. They played house a good bit in his trailer here.”
“And this other fellow, Andy Grissom. Was he Whitey’s predecessor?”
“Yeah, he used to be our snake charmer before Whitey. Andy was the original Ram Singh, the first snake act we ever had in the show. And King was his snake. Andy’s, I mean. Andy trained him, and worked up the act and I hired them for my side show a coupla years back. It wasn’t much of an act, really, but the marks went for it big.
“Andy dressed up like a Hindu and squatted down in front of King’s basket on the platform, and tottled a little tune on a whistle he had. When he played on the pipe, King sticks his head up out of the basket and blows out his hood like he’s mad, and kind of waves himself around like dancing. And every once in a while, he tries to strike at Andy, but he never gets out of the basket. It’s a smash with the yokels, Lieutenant, a real draw.”
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