“So what? Ain’t the first time. He’s always smowchin’ ’round!” Mrs. Feeley was all contempt.
“I slammed the door. And I’m glad.”
“What door?”
“The door of the vault…where they keep the padded pay rolls and the stuffers for the ballot-boxes. They’re in there. I hope they smother to death. I’m glad. He went in for the money and took her in with him.” Blondelle’s head rolled limply.
“Are you kidding?” Timmy said.
“Go look!” Blondelle smiled blissfully. “Democratic Headquarters. In the vault. Nobody can open it…they’re all gone to the country. Don’t know their phone number and I’m glad.”
“How long ago?” Timmy said.
“What time is it?” Blondelle peered up at the faces about her.
“Seven-fifteen.”
Blondelle began to chuckle softly. “Since five-thirty!” She laughed harder and harder. “He was going to leave early because the big bosses were gone. He took her in with him to show her the money he was bringing you for the bar.” Blondelle slumped forward on the table.
“Not yet!” Mrs. Feeley shook her hard. “Took who with him? Who’s in there with him?”
“That bitch brunette. He hit…”
“Don’t go into that song an’ dance again! Since five-thirty? Won’t they miss the girl at home? You gotta snap out of it an’ take somebody down there to find the phone numbers o’ them people that knows the combination! You got a key to the place?”
“Sure. I’m the head stenographer.”
“An’ you don’t know where they live? Sounds fishy to me!”
“Isn’t it?” Blondelle’s mirth attracted the other customers who stood in a ring watching the exhibition.
“You mean you won’t,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“That’s what I mean,” Blondelle smiled serenely. “Gave him the best years of my life.”
“Gimme the key!” Mrs. Feeley demanded. “Timmy, you stay here. You ain’t strong enough yet. Whitey, come with me. Smiley, tend bar. Miss Tinkham, look in her bag while I hold her! She’s…”
“T.U.D.! Taken unexpectedly drunk! And most unco-operative!”
Miss Tinkham found a key ring and stuck it in her own pocket.
“’Spose we don’t find no names? Or can’t get hold o’ them guys?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “How we gonna open it then?”
“We’ll get the police an’ the riot-squad,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Don’t worry,” Blondelle hiccupped; “that bitch’s husband will blow it open with dynamite! Wait till McGoon’s wife…” Her head bobbed down on the table again.
“It seems to me,” Miss Tinkham said, “that the situation calls for the somewhat esoteric talents of Mrs. Rasmussen’s friend, Mr. Flink!”
“The Creep!” Mrs. Feeley shouted, “How in hell will we get hold of him? ’Spose he’s outa town?”
“I seen his card today when I was puttin’ the money away,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Get on the phone. Miss Tinkham! You guys pipe down! Go home!” Mrs. Rasmussen produced Mr. Flink’s card and Miss Tinkham called his hotel in New York.
“I’m gonna try black coffee an’ food on her,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “If The Creep does come, she won’t be no use in this shape.”
The men at the bar were still as mice.
“Gawd! This’ll be his suppertime, sure as shootin’! Out in the taverns lookin’ for refined ladies! ‘I open safes!’ he says. By God, he never had a finer chance to show off!”
“Ring Mr. Gaylord Flink’s room,” Miss Tinkham commanded the voice at the other end of the phone. There was a long silence.
“He what?” Miss Tinkham snapped. “You saw him yourself? Can you locate him for me? This is a professional matter! Two lives and as many reputations are at stake. You can’t? Take this number, then, and put a note in his room as well as in the mail box: Newark 4-8080. Mrs. Rasmussen. Urgent! Call immediately! What’s that? R as in Robert, a-s-s as in…my mistake, make that one s! Oh dear, just say Erna, his fiancée, needs him desperately!” She hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, dear lady, but it was the simplest way.”
“That oughta bring him runnin’!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll sure be sweatin’ it out till he calls! ’Spose he’s out providin’ the cup that cheers, as he calls it?”
“The police, I guess?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She was forcing Blondelle to take large sips of black coffee and spoonfuls of scrambled egg. Miss Tinkham was tending bar with one ear cocked toward the telephone.
“Give us all a beer!” Mrs. Feeley said, “My nerves is workin’ buttonholes!”
Mrs. Feeley sat down disconsolately.
“McGoon’ll be so mad he’ll back outa the deal! If he ain’t dead! How long can people live shut up in a safe?”
“Depends on the size of the vault,” Timmy said. “And lots of other things.” No one talked for a while. Suddenly the silence was shattered by the shrilling of the telephone.
“Jesus God!” Mrs. Feeley shrieked, “I jumped right outa my skin! Miss Tinkham, you take it!”
“Hello-o-o-o-o!” Miss Tinkham shrieked into the phone. “Yes! Yes! It is true! She is right here beside me!” She beckoned wildly for Mrs. Rasmussen, handed her the receiver, and pushed her close to the phone.
“H’lo!” Mrs. Rasmussen grinned in spite of herself. “The happiest day o’ your life? No, I haven’t changed my mind…better get over here in a hurry…no…”
“Don’t tell him anything discouraging at a time like this!” Miss Tinkham hissed. “Call him darling, or sweetheart! Anything to get him over here.”
“I said they couldn’t wait, not me! Bring your tools! Can you take a taxi? You will? Now you’ll hurry, won’t you? Corner o’ Street an’ Avenue. We’ll be out front lookin’ for you. Stow it! You can tell me all that after! ‘Bye!”
Mrs. Feeley and her two friends collapsed in the nearest chairs.
“Everything happens to us,” Miss Tinkham said.
“From where I sit,” Timmy laughed, “it looks like something happened to McGoon and his girl-friend.”
“How long will it take him to get over here, Timmy?” Mrs. Rasmussen asked.
“Depends on the traffic, and the cab driver.”
“If he thinks he’s gonna see Mrs. Rasmussen,” Mrs. Feeley said, “He’ll be runnin’ through red lights an’ bribin’ the cops on the way. What was he sayin’ to you?”
“Same ol’ stuff.”
From time to time one of the ladies got up and peeked out the door. The rest of the time they sat eyeing the clock, except when some importunate customer demanded beer. Blondelle was sitting quietly, eating the bread and cheese Mrs. Rasmussen put in front of her.
After what seemed a century but was only forty minutes, Miss Tinkham spied the cab turning the corner. The Creep hopped out, looking even smaller and grayer than she remembered. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen came out.
“You sent for me!” he took both of Mrs. Rasmussen’s hands.
“Don’t let the cab go!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We got work to do.”
She went in and dragged Blondelle out to the sidewalk.
“Whitey,” she yelled, “you look after the place.” Miss Tinkham had the key. Mrs. Rasmussen got into the taxi beside Mr. Flink.
“I’m coming, too!” Timmy said.
“There’s five in the back seat now!” the driver said.
“We can ride three in the front seat.” Timmy shoved Barbara in ahead of him. “Step on it!” He directed the driver to the Democratic Headquarters.
“Good thing you come,” Mrs. Feeley said. “She can’t or won’t!” Blondelle was asleep on Mrs. Rasmussen’s shoulder.
Timmy opened the door to headquarters after trying several keys. In her anger, Blondelle had left the lights on. The large black door of the vault loomed up ominously.
“There is someone inside?” Mr. Flink asked.
“Two,” Mrs. Feeley said.
Mr. Flink’s eyebrows wen
t up and the ghost of a smile fluttered around his lips.
“Routine situation,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“I’d like a word with him before you let him out…if he can talk,” Mrs. Feeley said. Apparently McGoon could talk. They could hear him faintly through the door:
“Help! Let me out! I want my wife…”
“Sh! Sh!” Mr. Flink soothed him. “Quiet, please! You disturb my concentration.”
He twirled and he fiddled. He placed his ear to the lock and listened lovingly to the tumblers, listened with the expression of a mother listening to the breathing of her sleeping child. “If you have something to say…” he beckoned to Mrs. Feeley.
“Now?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“McGoon! It’s me…Mrs. Feeley! Can you hear me?”
“Let me out!”
“Not just yet…about the deal…”
“It’s not my fault! I couldn’t get there earlier! If I ever get my hands on that…”
“Have you got the money? Forty-five hundred?”
“Right here. That’s what I came in for when that…”
“Never mind! If it hadn’t been for her, you’d a rotted over the week-end. She came to us an’ we got Mrs. Rasmussen’s friend the lock-expert. He come in a taxi. That’ll be extra!”
“I don’t care what it costs! Let me out! I want to call my wife! I love my wife!”
“Have you enough to pay the man for openin’ the safe?”
Mr. Flink pulled Mrs. Feeley’s sleeve and shook his head.
“Shut up!” Mrs. Feeley whispered.
“Yes, I’ve got it! Hurry up before I suffocate!”
“It’ll be five hundred dollars,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“That’s nothing! Let me out! Quick!”
“Anybody in there with you?”
McGoon’s voice was barely audible:
“Yes.”
Mrs. Feeley waited several seconds.
“McGoon,” she said softly, “your wife’s outside in the car.”
There was a long silence.
“Timmy,” Mrs. Feeley said, “write out a receipt for the place for forty-five hundred dollars.”
“Forty-five hundred?” Timmy gasped.
“Do what I tell you!” Mrs. Feeley snapped. The group drew closer to the door. Mrs. Feeley was sure McGoon’s voice would be very weak.
“McGoon,” she said, “for another five hundred I could have Ol’-Timer drive her round the block an’ keep her outa the way while your little playmate gets the hell outa here! What do you say?”
“You win,” the muffled answer came at last.
“Don’t try nothin’ fancy, now…’cause we’re all here! You’re safe as long as you don’t try a double-x! We spared you the cops on account o’ the scandal. You sure you got the money? Or back in you go, if you don’t produce!”
“Open the door.”
The ladies made a wedge in back of Mr. Flink.
Timmy and Barbara stood behind them. The cab driver was holding Blondelle upright. Mr. Flink opened the door slowly. It swung back to reveal a pale disheveled McGoon. From behind him, a slender girl of about nineteen scuttled out and made for the front door like a jet-propelled plane.
“Ya-a-a-a-a-a-ah!” Blondelle taunted.
“Get her out of my sight.” McGoon looked murderously at Blondelle.
“Not so fast!” Mrs. Feeley cautioned, “Where’s the money?”
McGoon opened a brown envelope that was bulging with bills.
“Take forty-five of them.” He was pale and ready to faint. Mrs. Rasmussen counted them out.
“Give ’em to Timmy. Got the receipt?” Mrs. Feeley said. Timmy handed it over. She gestured to Mr. Flink. “Witness it.”
“Rafferty’s signature is all I want,” McGoon said.
“I’ll turn the lease over whenever you say,” Timmy said.
“Now the five for openin’ the safe,” Mrs. Feeley said.
McGoon took five bills from the envelope.
“An’ the five for your wife’s taxi-ride!”
McGoon handed over five more.
“An’ the goddam envelope’s still more’n half-full,” Mrs. Feeley yelled. “You cheap crook!”
McGoon folded the receipt and put it in his wallet along with the somewhat depleted envelope.
“I’m going to find my wife…” He started out the door.
“You’ll find her at home,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I thought…”
“That money’s for Blondelle! Mr. Flink don’t want no money. He done the favor for us. Blondelle may be the one slammed the door on you, but you deserved it! An’ worse, if it’d a been me! If you ever come messin’ around her anymore, you’ll be sorry…”
“For my part, I wish she’d drop dead where she stands,” McGoon said. “Every time I have anything to do with a woman, it costs me dough!”
“You don’t think anybody would put up with you for your handsome build, do you? Go home to your poor, foolish wife!”
“Don’t you dare mention my wife! I love my wife!” McGoon blustered.
“Aw, dry up!” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “An’ when she needs a new hat send her round to Blondelle’s hat-bar!”
He slammed the door as he went into the street.
Mrs. Feeley grinned.
“He’s in pretty good shape for the length o’ time he was in!”
Mr. Flink closed the door of the vault carefully.
“Blondelle,” Mrs. Feeley said, “are you sober?”
“Stone cold.”
“Okay. Here’s more money than you’ve ever saw at one time. Now get the hell outa here an’ start you a business o’ your own. An’ stay away from married men!”
“Why’d you do it?” Blondelle said.
“’Cause I hate to see a woman used for a convenience by a son-of-a-bitchin’ man! Goo’bye!”
The ride to the ex-Infantry Bar was a silent one. The taxi driver got out and came inside with the party.
“Jeez! I need a drink! Been here almost all night. What about my fare, Mac?”
“It’s on me,” Timmy said. “Anybody change one of these?”
“I can,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“It’s all yours, anyway, Timmy,” Mrs. Feeley said. “There’s nearly three hundred an’ fifty o’ yours we took in. Nothin’ to pay but the gas bill…an’ we’ll leave that for McGoon!”
“Look,” Timmy said, “there are times when enough is too much! I had less than two thousand dollars when I set up shop. Look what you’ve done with it! If you think I’m taking that money, you’re crazy. Your tips alone must have come to that amount.”
“But we lived off you, Timmy! An’ good, too! It ain’t ours.”
“That remains to be seen,” Timmy said.
“I’m hungry,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. Timmy paid the taxi driver but Mr. Flink made no move to go.
“We’ll have a bite,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Got anythin’ put away, Mrs. Rasmussen?”
“Soup an’ pot-roast,” she said. “I was keepin’ it back for Sunday. Left it simmerin’ when we went out.”
Whitey came over and handed Mrs. Feeley the cashbox.
“Twenty-eight forty.”
“You’re a pal, Whitey! Won’t your wife worry?”
“I called her.”
“Then give us all a beer an’ stay for a bite o’ supper. I clean forgot my hangover with all this badger-fight goin’ on!”
“Where’d you dig up the lock-man?”
“He took a crush on Mrs. Rasmussen in New York. I knocked him flat in a bar an’ he’s been follerin’ us ever since. He’s out in the kitchen now drivin’ her crazy!”
“As for bein’ crazy,” Whitey said, “I don’t think any of you three would have far to go! You’re the craziest bunch o’ women I ever met, but God, how I wish there was more like you!”
“Yeup!” Mrs. Feeley finished her beer, “It’s the poor, sane droops that clabber up the batter!”
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Miss Tinkham came in to set the table.
“He is pressing his suit,” she giggled.
“If he makes a pass, she’ll press his suit while he’s still in it!” Mr. Flink came in just as Mrs. Feeley finished speaking.
“She sent for me!” he said blissfully. “She sent for me.”
“It’s an ill wind!” Mrs. Feeley laughed.
He looked at Barbara and Timmy.
“You are enjoying the springtime of love. These Mesdames came into the autumn of my life and now my one ambition is to make Mrs. Rasmussen my widow, not my bride!”
“That’s a hell of a proposition!” Mrs. Feeley said. The lady in question came in carrying a tray with the pot-roast and pan-browned potatoes. She had a large bowl of asparagus salad and a bowlful of steamed red cabbage cooked with white wine from Timmy’s bar supply.
“Don’t touch none o’ that cabbage, Timmy! Too heavy for you after that operation.”
“They’re discharging me tomorrow…I never felt better.”
Mr. Flink loaded his plate, gazing prayerfully at Mrs. Rasmussen.
“Watch what you’re doin’, man! Gettin’ gravy all down the front of your shirt!”
“Stop moonin’ at her!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Make her nervous.”
“She sent for me. Who did she send for when she was in trouble? Gaylord Flink! That’s who!”
“Well, you’re a handy guy to have around a house,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“That’s what I’m trying to impress on Erna.” He leaned forward and his neat foulard tie dragged through the gravy.
“That’s the third time you’ve dragged your tie through the gravy,” Mrs. Rasmussen scolded, and moved the dish.
“I want you to be my widow, Erna. If you won’t have me, it will be a terrible waste! You see, I am entitled, or rather—my widow is entitled—to three separate pensions on my demise. It would be a pity to waste all that good money. It could be a marriage in name only, if you so desire…”
“I hardly think, Mr. Flink,” Miss Tinkham said, “this is quite the time or the place…”
“Have a beer!” Mrs. Feeley said. “Cool you off.”
Timmy and Barbara were struggling to conceal their laughter.
“I am desperate.” The Creep put down his knife and fork. “Make me the happiest of men, Erna: say you will be my widow!”
One On The House Page 18