Bank Job

by Robert L. Fish

  “Talk to people at this hour? It’s midnight!” Dondero said, shocked.

  “Start with the cops,” Reardon suggested. “I hear they work all night down in San Mateo. And the first thing you can ask them is to put a tail onto this Gilchrist right away, so he doesn’t decide to pick up and leave town without telling you about it. All right?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” Dondero said glumly, and finished his coffee. He looked at the unwrapped sweet roll unenthusiastically and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, coming to his feet. “A couple of more nights like this and I may go back to freighters.”

  Saturday—3:15 A.M.

  The sharp ring of the telephone brought Reardon from sleep; he raised his head from his blotter, once again aware that his desk made a terrible pillow, and stared at the instrument groggily. It rang again; he yawned deeply, coming back to reality, and picked it up.

  “Something coming in from Torrington, Connecticut, on the telex, Lieutenant.…”

  “Read it to me.”

  “Yes, sir. Here it is. ‘Albert Grube, son of town’s leading citizen. Manages father’s business Grube Furniture. President Junior Chamber of Commerce active church work fine war record. No police record. Married two children. Well-known fine reputation. At present vacationing in Arizona on hunting trip expected back one week. Cannot understand reasons for inquiry. Please advise soonest.’ And it’s signed ‘John Milton, Chief.’ They’re three hours earlier out there,” Communications added. “I guess that’s why we caught the chief in his office.”

  “Or they called the chief at home because this Grube seems to be a pillar of the community,” Reardon said, and shook his head, trying to clear it of the last cobwebs of sleep. “Read it to me again.”

  “Yes, sir,” Communications said, and did so. “What should I reply?”

  “Hold it,” Reardon said, and suddenly frowned at the telephone. So Grube was also vacationing in Arizona, where George Mullin had said he planned to vacation. And George had not done so. More coincidence? Very doubtful. “You send a message right back to Torrington, address it directly to Milton, asking where in Arizona Grube is supposed to be vacationing and with whom. Got it? See if they can trace the plane he took to Arizona. And I hope they aren’t surprised to find it went to San Francisco, instead.”

  Communications had no idea of what the lieutenant was talking about. “How about our reasons for the inquiry that he asks for?”

  “Tell him we cannot answer that at this time but that he’ll be informed as soon as we can. He’ll recognize it as garbage, but at least it’s polite. And send me a copy of that telex as well as his next reply. And push Prescott on that other message, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Communications said, and hung up.

  Reardon put the phone back and rubbed the last of the sleep from his face. So Grube was also a solid citizen, like Mullin. Maybe they had formed a rich man’s club in Vietnam dedicated to robbing banks. He yawned. Now if Glass and Gilchrist also happened to be vacationing in Arizona at the moment—I’m foggy, he thought; Glass already lives in Arizona. Well, suppose, then, that Gilchrist happened to be vacationing in Arizona. It wouldn’t be a bad alibi for four men who were actually in San Franciso the past Thursday afternoon—as well as being here on Friday morning when the Star extra hit the streets, he suddenly remembered. Or it would have been a good alibi if they hadn’t slipped up and allowed one of their members to get killed. Still, after dumping the Chevy and the body of Mullin into the bay, would the three have scooted right out to Arizona to maintain the fiction that they had never been anywhere else? It looked like a good bet. Of course, one of them had to make that rush trip to Bartlesville to burn Mullin’s papers and pictures. Where would that one go afterward? Arizona? Two to one he did, Reardon thought, and nodded. These were very careful people.

  But still—why would a rich boy from Florida and the son of the owner of Grube Furniture—also quite obviously neither a professional criminal nor poverty-stricken—get themselves involved in a bank robbery? It had to be something connected with either Glass or Gilchrist, and the others went along on the job because—because, what? Why? Damn!

  The phone broke in on his thoughts. It was Dondero. The second-grade detective prefaced his remarks with a prodigious yawn manufactured, Reardon was certain, for the occasion. When the yawn was finished, Dondero said: “This guy Gilchrist—”

  “—is vacationing in Arizona,” Reardon finished hopefully. “Right?”

  “—is working as night-shift superintendent at the Tremont Steel Fabricating Company in Millbrae, and is at work right now,” Dondero said. “What’s this Arizona crap?”

  “Nothing,” Reardon said, disappointed. “How do you know he’s actually at work?”

  “Because the cops called the security office at the factory and they said he was. Anyway, the cops down here know Gilchrist—”

  “Aha!” Reardon pounced on it. “I knew it!”

  “Aha, what? You know what? Why don’t you let a guy finish?” Dondero asked, aggrieved. “They know him and they know where he works, because he’s the town’s champion bowler, and he bowls on the Tremont Steel team, which won the city title two years running. He rolled a 785 series when they won last year. I’m told it was in all the papers. How come you missed it?”

  Reardon scowled at the phone, refusing to answer the gibe. “And where was he last Thursday afternoon at three o’clock?”

  “Probably home asleep, if he works the graveyard shift,” Dondero said. “Not everybody works twenty-four hours a day, if you know what I mean. He goes in at eleven and gets off at seven in the morning.” Dondero thought a moment. “Which also means he wouldn’t be out at that Burlingame dock dumping that Chevy in the bay at four in the morning.”

  Reardon refused to give up. “If he was at work that day.”

  Dondero sighed. “I’m trying to tell you he was. I told you, we checked with the security force at the factory, and Gilchrist hasn’t missed a day—or a night, rather—in months. After all, he’s the superintendent. Security should know if he’s there or not.”

  “Could he duck out?”

  “He could not. He’d have to go through the main gate. Give it up, Jim.” Dondero paused and then went on. “I asked the cops not to say anything and to pass it on to the security force at the factory, and they said they would, but they think we’re off our rocker. Gilchrist is well known in town, and they say, why would he get involved in anything like that? He’s never been in trouble, he’s got a damn good job, engaged to be married—”

  “You’ll make me cry!” Reardon said savagely. “I don’t give a damn if he collects in church every Sunday! I say he was robbing that bank last Thursday, and that’s that!”

  “All right,” Dondero said. “If that’s the way you want it. But how about early yesterday morning when the car was dumped?”

  Reardon bit his lip and then nodded, satisfied. “I’ll tell you about that. That’s why there were only two men in the car. Gilchrist undoubtedly set it up, because he was familiar with the place, but he made sure he was at work when it actually happened. Of course he had no idea we’d find the car so soon, if at all, or that we’d come up with Mullin’s identification as soon as we did, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He’s a very smart guy and a very careful guy. He’s also a guy who wasn’t home sleeping last Thursday afternoon at three o’clock, and I challenge anyone to prove he was!”

  “How do you prove a guy was asleep?” Dondero demanded. “Or, I mean, how do you prove he wasn’t?”

  “That’s your job.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Check the neighbors,” Reardon said. “See if anyone saw him go out. Hell, he had to leave his house somehow. Somebody must have seen him.”

  “All right,” Dondero said, and sighed. “But you wanted it kept quiet. What if somebody tells him we’re checking on him?”

  “Then that’ll be too damn bad. I hope the cops at least agreed to keep an eye on him?”


  “They’ll watch him, but they aren’t happy about it,” Dondero said. “Anyway, how about if I check into a motel down here for a couple hours’ sleep, myself? I’m not going to check anyone at this hour, and I’m beat. I’ll see them first thing in the morning.”

  “All right. Call and let Communications know the motel and try to get back here by noon at the latest.”

  “Right,” Dondero said, sounding pleased for the first time. “Anything else?”

  “Pleasant dreams,” Reardon said and hung up. The one they had to be doing it for, therefore, had to be Glass; the other three had no reason for needing the money. Where the hell was the telex from Prescott?

  As if in answer a uniformed policeman appeared in the doorway, holding a slip of paper. He said, “We tried to call but your line was busy. It’s an answer from Prescott.”

  Reardon took it and spread it on his desk. Even before he read it he was sure of what it would say. Glass would also not need money. He was right. It read: “Maxwell Glass major owner Glass Chevrolet largest dealer Prescott. Married one child no police record excellent reputation. At present on hunting trip with friends. Surprised at inquiry. Please give reason. Also tell what Glass is suspected of. Lawrence Robinson, Sheriff.”

  Reardon looked up to find the policeman waiting patiently. He said, “No answer,” and watched the man leave, then he leaned back in his chair and tried to find some measure of consolation in the message.

  Well, there was the fact the man was a Chevrolet dealer, and the car used had been a Chevy, but would a criminal use a car so easily traced to himself? A touch of doubt in his theory came to Reardon, but he forced it away. There was that film, and the men had obviously worked together before in some military capacity. And there were the voice-graphs, whether they were admissible in court or not. And there was the tie-in of that Arizona vacation at this particular time. No, there wasn’t any doubt they were guilty. True, there still was no answer as to why four men in their position would do a job like this, but he’d worry about it once he had them behind bars, and behind them so tightly they’d never get out.

  And speaking of that black Chevy they’d dredged up, what had ever come of the check on it? He reached for the telephone and dialed internally. The phone was finally answered: a dry voice weary of years of night duty came on. “Garage.”

  “This is Lieutenant Reardon. That Chevrolet we dragged from the bay down in Burlingame yesterday morning. Whatever happened to the report on it? I never saw one.”

  “Just a second. I’ll look.” There was a brief wait and then the night mechanic was back on the line. “I don’t see anything here, so I guess the trace isn’t completed yet. I know the serial number went to General Motors, because I stayed over yesterday to get it. I also know the car wasn’t on any stolen list in town or in the state, which is why the number went to Detroit. But it’ll take time before they trace the dealer, and then the man who bought it and maybe some guy he resold it to—”

  “Hold it!” Reardon had a brainstorm. These men were careful men and smart. And certainly not broke. A stolen car? Never. Nor a car that could be so easily traced through serial numbers. “Were those numbers ground off? Defaced?”

  “No, sir. Just like out of the factory.”

  Reardon became even more certain. “When you were digging out that number, was there any evidence that the car had been in a wreck? Before being dumped in the bay, I mean.”

  A new tone of respect entered the night mechanic’s voice.

  “I don’t know how you guessed it, Lieutenant. I know you were there when they dredged her up, but even I didn’t see it until I started to go over her. It’s last year’s model, but it only had a few thousand miles on it. What happened is somebody damn near totaled that car, really smeared it, but whoever fixed her up really knew his job. If you didn’t know cars you couldn’t tell. Yeah, she was wrecked, all right, but she was fixed up even better than new. What made you guess, Lieutenant?”

  “Luck,” Reardon said. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Nothing, Lieutenant,” the night mechanic said, the echo of admiration still in his voice, and hung up.

  Reardon put down the telephone with a thoughtful frown. It made sense. A badly wrecked car could be picked up either at the site of the wreck, or bought in any junk yard, and if a person had the skills—as well as access to a Chevrolet parts department—he could have a car with no identity. These were clever men and very careful. There was, of course, a chance that Glass hadn’t done the work himself or that others involved might be found. Reardon shook his head. They were too clever for that. When the report finally came in from Detroit it would trace the car through a dealer to a man who had wrecked it beyond repair, and the trail would end there. And the wreck, Reardon was sure, would not have taken place anywhere near Prescott, Arizona.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Everything that turned up convinced him he was right, but he wasn’t any nearer getting proof than he had been. At least not proof that would satisfy Captain Tower or the District Attorney. Among other things, the captain would point out that regardless of any connection of Mullin, Glass, and Grube to Arizona and hunting, Reardon had no tie-in with Gilchrist. And by Reardon’s own scheme of things, if one of the men was innocent, then the other two were, as well.

  Of course, if he could prove that either Glass or Grube were not in Arizona on Thursday, it would be a step in the right direction. If he could further prove that one of them was in Florida on Friday late afternoon, it would be even better. Maybe with some facts like that he could get the captain to put the arm on them for some pointed explanations, if nothing else. He shook his head, sighed, and leaned over, raising the phone, clicking the button. He was answered almost at once.

  “Sir?”

  “Did Dondero call in with the name of that motel he was staying at?”

  “Yes, sir, right this minute. He’s just checked into the Cloverleaf in San Mateo. He left the number. Do you want me to call him?”

  “Please,” Reardon said. “Tell him he can just check out again. I’ll meet him at the International Airport in forty-five minutes, at the hangar of Jefferson Charter Service. Then wake somebody up at Jefferson and tell them to fuel up a charter for Arizona—”

  Communications’ surprise came across the wire. “A charter, Lieutenant?”

  “My orders were not to let expense stand in the way,” Reardon said dryly, “and I’m a great one to follow orders without a lot of questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Communications said respectfully, getting the message. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. As soon as you’re through with Jefferson, send a telex to that sheriff in Prescott—you have his name on your copy—and ask him to meet us at the Prescott airport. We ought to be there by seven.” He thought a moment. “By the way, when you’re talking to Jefferson, tell them we want a small private jet, not a prop plane.”

  “Yes, sir,” Communications said hopelessly.

  “Good,” Reardon said, and hung up. He came to his feet, smiling. In the public purse for a penny, in for a thousand dollars. He wondered what the captain would say to a chartered jet if his trip turned out to be a wild-goose chase. He dropped the line of thinking. After all, what was the price of a charter compared to a quarter of a million dollars? Maybe he could get the insurance company to pay. He stared down at the multitudinous reports scattered across his desk, as if deciding whether to take any with him to read on the plane, and then decided against it. What he certainly didn’t want to do at this point, he said to himself with a grin, was to run into facts that might prejudice his prejudice.…

  CHAPTER 13

  Saturday—6:45 A.M.

  The sun had risen to meet them an hour earlier, edging up from the blue-blackness of the mountains to the east of the wide Nevada desert, throwing huge shadows across the yellow sands; now at twenty thousand feet it peered directly into the cockpit glass, an orange flame, and the mountains were now clear in the distance, sn
ow-tipped and impressive. Las Vegas had been passed, a toy city spread across the plateau with no reason for existence; Lake Mead had dropped away behind, its dark blue surface strangely ruffled under the cloudless sky. Now the sheer cliffs of tortured limestone, interspersed with desert, lay ahead of them as far as eye could see. Under their wings Route 93 split the deserted territory, fleeing into the distance.

  Dondero opened his eyes, yawned deeply, and stared at Reardon resentfully.

  “How in hell are you supposed to sleep in one of these things? I thought jets were supposed to be soundproof?”

  Reardon grinned at him. He was feeling good, exhilarated by the flight, by the fact that he was doing something more active than sitting at his desk reading reports.

  “I thought you told me you were used to ships? I took a cruise once, and that cabin I had kept creaking and groaning all night. I had to sleep with ear muffs. Not to mention I was afraid it was coming apart any moment. Anyway,” he added, “we’re almost there.”

  Dondero shook his head in disgust and tried to burrow back under his blanket. The door from the cockpit swung open; the copilot shoved in his head. He had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “Starting down. We’ll be there in ten minutes, more or less. All belted in?”

  Dondero opened his eyes and glared. The copilot grinned at him and closed the door. “Airplanes!” Dondero said grimly, but he checked his seat belt and brought his seat to the vertical, looking out of the window. The sound of the turbines changed pitch abruptly; the plane eased down at an alarming rate compared to the larger passenger jets. Dondero swallowed and gripped the chair arm with taut fingers. “A guy could get killed—”

  The rock-clad hills came closer; the plane banked suddenly. Dondero searched the land below for some sort of airport and finding none was convinced they were about to crash-land, but before he could convey this suspicion to Reardon, the edge of the runway flashed beneath them stained with oil, and they set down with a slight bump. Dondero took a deep breath and looked across the aisle.