Murder in Mount Holly

by Paul Theroux

  The policeman wouldn’t hear of it. He said he’d give her a lift in the squad car. His pal didn’t mind. They were both tired of passing out parking tickets. “The jig’s up,” Mr. Gibbon said, when he saw the police squad car arrive with Mrs. Gneiss in the backseat.

  “Gosh, the police!” Miss Ball said. She skipped into the kitchen and slammed the door.

  Mr. Gibbon pulled out his pistol and flattened himself against the wall behind the front door.

  “. . . But just for a sec,” the policeman said as he entered. “Gotta get back to the station house.”

  Mr. Gibbon had carefully unloaded his pistol. Now, as the policeman shuffled in and closed the door, he raised the pistol and brought it down on the top part of the policeman’s cap where the bulge of his head showed through. Mr. Gibbon had expected a bone-flaking crunch. There was not a sound like that. Instead there was a soft splok and the policeman slumped to the floor.

  “Charlie!” Mrs. Gneiss said.

  “Rope!” Mr. Gibbon hissed.

  Mrs. Gneiss looked at the policeman lying spread-eagled on the floor grinning up at her. “You killed the cop, Charlie, and for no good reason at all, you know that?”

  “Get some rope, Mrs. Gneiss, and stop sassing me!”

  Mrs. Gneiss rummaged through her knitting basket looking for rope. She sighed and mumbled, “I thought it was a bank we were after . . .”

  Mr. Gibbon peeked out the little window at the top of the door and spied another policeman in the car. He yelled for Miss Ball.

  The kitchen door opened a crack. “Is it okay to come out?”

  “Sure, sure,” Mr. Gibbon said.

  Miss Ball clapped her hand to her mouth when she saw the policeman on the floor. Her eyes popped over the top of her hand. Mr. Gibbon leaped in back of her and started to tickle her. On the left side he tickled and held her fast; on the right—where most of the tickling was done—he used his pistol. He slipped the ice-cold gun barrel under her blouse and scrubbed her kidneys with it.

  “Stoooooop! Paaaalllleeeeeeeeze! Stoooooop it! You’re awful, Charlie Gibbon! Stooooo . . .”

  Her glee found its way through the door and down the walk, past the nasturtiums and into the front seat of the squad car where another policeman sat reading a magazine.

  The policeman blew and whistled, fumbled with the magazine, glanced toward the door, shifted in his seat, and then got out of the car, adjusted his tie in the side-window and hurried up the walk.

  During the night another policeman came and asked Mrs. Gneiss if she had seen the two policemen. He described them and gave her the license number of the squad car.

  Mrs. Gneiss said yes, indeed, she had seen those nice policemen—they had given her a lift home. But they couldn’t stay, they said. They drove off in the direction of Holly Junction to give parking tickets.

  When the inquiring policeman returned to his car his partner asked him what he had found out.

  “Nothing,” was the answer, “just a nice old lady that doesn’t know a thing.”

  Mr. Gibbon saw the car leave as he sat upstairs in the darkness and looked through a slit in the curtains. He waited a half-hour and tiptoed out of the house to check the squad car that he had driven around back and covered with lilac branches and heavy canvas.

  As he sneaked through the nasturtiums he heard, “Hey, you!” Mr. Gibbon froze. He did not move a muscle, did not even brush at a fly that was strafing his wedge-shaped head. He had forgotten his pistol.

  A uniformed man came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Mr. Gibbon thought of kneeing the uniformed man and making a run for it. But he knew he didn’t have a chance. He started to say something when the man spoke.

  “Lady by the name of Gneiss live here?”

  “Who wants to know?” asked Mr. Gibbon, finding his tongue.

  “Western Union. Got a telegram for her.”

  It might be a trick, thought Mr. Gibbon. “I’ll take it. She’s inside.”

  “Okay, okay. As long as she lives here. Just sign the book.”

  Mr. Gibbon made every effort to write illegibly in the book. He took the envelope and stayed in the nasturtiums while the Western Union man walked away, glancing back at intervals until he was out of sight.

  The car had not been touched. Mr. Gibbon put some more branches on it and then went in the house and gave the telegram to Mrs. Gneiss.

  Mrs. Gneiss opened it and read it. When she was through reading it she reached across the table, took a handful of cream-filled chocolates and put them in her mouth. Her mouth bulged and juice ran from the corners of her mouth.

  She chewed and did not stop chewing until the whole box of cream-filled chocolates was empty. And when it was, and she looked worried, she handed the telegram to Mr. Gibbon.

  regret to inform you of your sons death stop killed gallantly in action today stop gave his life for his country stop that others may live stop deepest sympathy stop personal. effects forwarded first class mail to new address mount holly.

  14

  Dressed in authentic policeman’s garb, Mr. Gibbon and Miss Ball stood before the full-length mirror in the hall. Miss Ball had insisted on “being a policeman.” It took nearly the entire night to alter the jacket and trousers, but by morning—and a beautiful morning it was, the sun shining, the nasturtiums about ready to burst and bleed they were so full of color and sun—she was finished, and just in time for the robbery.

  “We’re cops!” Miss Ball said. “How I wish my kindergarten could see me!” She brushed the sleeve and adjusted the cap and said, “Isn’t it a humdinger?”

  Mr. Gibbon straightened Miss Ball’s tie and said, “Get them shoes shined and make it snappy, sojer.”

  Mr. Gibbon had never felt more patriotic. He turned on the radio hoping for the Anthem. The news was on. “. . . Tomorrow will be a national holiday in memory of our boys who have given their lives to preserve our way of life at home and abroad, said the president yesterday. The president is now up and around. He brushed his teeth while sitting on the side of his bed this morning and received scores of well-wishing messages from a host of world leaders. He has also been showered with dozens of floral arrangements and directed that some of them be sent to the front lines to remind the soldiers that the country was with them all the way. This morning, with the help of doctors and nurses, he signed his first piece of legislation. Now for the local news. Mount Holly will celebrate tomorrow with a parade through the business districts. Wreaths will be placed and Troop 45 of the Mount Holly Boy Scouts will carry flags. All are welcome to . . .”

  “A holiday tomorrow and all on account of Herbie!” Mrs. Gneiss said. “I knew he had it in him! And isn’t that thoughtful of the president?”

  “We’re gonna march, by God!” said Mr. Gibbon.

  “You’re darn tootin’ we are,” Miss Ball said.

  And then they remembered that it was Friday, a working day. Mr. Gibbon called Kant-Brake and said he was in sick bay. Miss Ball called the school committee and said she was feeling sluggish and headachey. “A white lie never hurt a soul,” said Miss Ball.

  A last check of the two tied-up and gagged (and nearly naked) policemen in the cellar showed one to be still unconscious from the conk on the head the day before. The other was hopping up and down, struggling to get free. He was stooped over because of the high-backed chair Mr. Gibbon had tied him to.

  “You worried about your pal?” Mr. Gibbon said to the hopping man.

  The man continued to hop, trying to get loose. Mr. Gibbon took this hopping up and down for a “yes.” “Don’t you worry a bit, he’ll be fit as a fiddle in a day or two,” Mr. Gibbon said heartily.

  Then Mr. Gibbon pulled out his pistol. The hopping man’s eyes bugged out when they lighted on the pistol. Mr. Gibbon tossed his head in a I-know-what’s-best
manner and said, “You’ll thank me for this someday.” He bopped the man on the head.

  When Mr. Gibbon came upstairs he said it was zero hour.

  “Those two nice policemen are going to catch a death in their undies. It’s mighty chilly in that cellar,” said Miss Ball.

  Mr. Gibbon told Miss Ball to stop worrying her head about little things. There was a country at stake. He went around back, threw off the lilac branches and the canvas from the car, and then proceeded to test each item: the horn, the brakes, the oil, the gas, the siren, the water, and even the windshield wipers. Mrs. Gneiss had told him about TV movie robberies that had failed because the getaway car had run out of gas, or the lights had failed, or it wouldn’t start. In one of the movies a man had been gunned down as he pressed the starter and got only an aw-aw-aw from the engine. Mr. Gibbon reflected: what is more humiliating than dashing out of a bank after a successful robbery and getting into an ornery car? It must be damned discouraging.

  They had started down the street in high spirits when Mr. Gibbon suddenly spun the car around and drove back to the house. He parked around back and said that he’d changed his mind.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Gneiss. She extracted a handful of jelly beans from her purse and began munching.

  “We can’t both be policemen,” he said, looking at Miss Ball.

  Miss Ball started to pout.

  “I don’t want to spoil anyone’s fun,” Mr. Gibbon said, calmly. “What I said was, we can’t both be policemen. That’s all I said.”

  “But you’re the big cheese, Charlie. You can play policeman if you want. Me and Mrs. Gneiss are nothing. You’re the one who makes the rules!”

  Mr. Gibbon stretched his lips. He was deep in thought. Finally he said, “No, you’re right. You be the policeman. But remember to follow orders or I’ll give you the business.”

  “Hot dog!” said Miss Ball. She rolled her eyes and spoofed a face.

  “Let’s get the show on the road,” Mrs. Gneiss said, between mouthfuls of jelly beans.

  Mr. Gibbon got out of the car and went into the house. He returned dressed in his sneakers (“for quick take-off”), flapping fatigues and wearing a felt hat with the brim turned down all around. He also had a shopping bag with him. He showed the ladies that Old Trusty was inside. He handed both Miss Ball and Mrs. Gneiss police pistols.

  He had another idea, he said. He had gotten it as they were driving down the street. He would explain it by and by. They were abandoning the “Quarterback Sneak” plan. They should have scrapped it long ago.

  In the meantime he had a few things to do. He made several more trips into the house and came back with some cans of whitewash and a big brush. He looked at the doors. mount holly police was written on the front doors, together with a facsimile of a policeman’s badge and the telephone number of the police headquarters. With careful strokes Mr. Gibbon painted the front doors white. Then he removed the large chrome searchlight from the right front fender and the long antenna from the back. These he handed to Miss Ball.

  “Give you four seconds to put them back,” he said. “Okay, go!”

  Miss Ball scrambled to the rear of the car and stuck the antenna in the hole. When she started for the front of the car she glanced back and saw the antenna start to topple—she ran back just in time to save it. But by then she had used up five seconds and still held the chrome searchlight in her hand.

  “Criminy sakes,” said Miss Ball. “I can’t do it for the life of me!” She prepared to pout.

  “Now I’m going to show you how to do it proper,” said Mr. Gibbon. He whizzed to the back of the car and jammed in the antenna, then huffed to the front fender and, with a little grunt, fixed the searchlight into its socket.

  “Think you can do that? Or have I got a real clinker in my platoon?”

  After six tries Miss Ball did the same. She managed it in slightly over six seconds. “How’s that for an old bag? Clinker indeed!”

  Mr. Gibbon stood at some distance from the car and looked at it, closing first one eye and then the other. Finally he took the antenna and searchlight off and put them in the back seat. On the floor of the back he put two buckets of water. A last look at the car, blue and white like a taxi; “Pretty snazzy,” he said.

  They all squeezed into the front seat, and Mr. Gibbon explained his new plan in detail. He said they should all be shot for not thinking of this plan before. It was surefire. It couldn’t miss.

  “Oh, botheration!” said Miss Ball. “How can I drive the get­away car if I can’t drive?”

  Mr. Gibbon told her to pipe down and listen. When he was through talking they synchronized their watches.

  It was a little after ten o’clock when Mr. Gibbon drove down Holly Boulevard and turned on to Main Street. Apparently many other people had heard about the holiday and had decided to do their weekend shopping. The traffic was heavy; Mr. Gibbon leaned on his horn and swore.

  They had all digested the plan and were impatient to get down to brass tacks. But now the car was stuck at a red light. Mr. Gibbon shut off the engine when he saw no signs of movement in the congestion.

  “Tarnation,” Mr. Gibbon said. “We’ll be here all day in this traffic. Now you can see perfectly well what a godawful headache it must be to run a country. No wonder the president has to have his gall removed. Why, if he didn’t he’d be up tightern’a duck’s ass from morning to night. Here we are doing our damnedest to help out the country and we’re hamstrung from top to bottom with this traffic.” He smacked his lips and looked around. “This traffic’s thicker’n gumbo.”

  There was a dark family in the next car. They smiled at Mr. Gibbon. Mr. Gibbon grinned back pleasantly and showed all fifteen of his teeth. He turned to Mrs. Gneiss, who was sitting in the middle. “Don’t look now, but there are some You-Know-Whos next door. Hear their radio?” He sighed. “Those spooks sure need their bongo music.”

  The traffic started again. As soon as the cars began moving Mr. Gibbon shouted, “Did you see the nerve of those bastards? Grinning at me like damn fools. Felt like spitting in their eyes!”

  Rage had taken possession of Mr. Gibbon by the time they approached the Mount Holly Trust Company. He was panting, and wetting his lips. He discovered that he could barely speak. He had made it a cardinal rule that everyone should be cool as cucumbers, but Miss Ball (smiling out the window, hoping to catch the eye of one of her hooky-playing kindergarteners who, skipping by, would see their own teacher in her adorable little cop suit) and Mrs. Gneiss (munching dolefully on a Nougat Delite) were the only cool ones in the car.

  Mr. Gibbon looked over and said in a tone of voice that neither Miss Ball nor Mrs. Gneiss recognized as Charlie’s, “Get that fool hat off! You wanna wreck everything?”

  Miss Ball took her hat off and smiled. Mr. Gibbon at that moment developed a facial tic that stayed with him for the rest of his life.

  He drove by the bank and then up a side street to the back. Here he pointed the car in the direction of the front of the bank, a little hill, and said, “This is it, boys. You know what to do.” He wrenched his hat down over his ears, and got out of the car and told Mrs. Gneiss to hurry up. Then he felt in his shopping bag for his pistol and started down the little hill which led to the front door of the Mount Holly Trust Company.

  Mrs. Gneiss put her Nougat Delite into her purse with her pistol, snapped the purse shut and waddled after Mr. Gibbon.

  They entered the bank and went immediately to a side table. Mr. Gibbon put his head down and muttered, “You know what to do.”

  Mrs. Gneiss ambled to the entrance and stood next to the guard. He wore a brand new uniform and looked rather young. Harold Potts’s replacement, thought Mrs. Gneiss. He smiled at Mrs. Gneiss. She smiled back and clutched her purse.

  Out back, Miss Ball checked her watch. She stared at it for a full minute, and then too
k the antenna, the searchlight and the two buckets of water from the back seat. These she put some distance from the car in a little pile together with her policeman’s hat. She walked about twenty-five feet away from the pile, which was now be-tween her and the car. She checked her watch again and smiled. Keep cool, she thought.

  Mr. Gibbon walked toward the teller’s cage.

  “White folks move aside,” he said.

  There were some protests. “Aw, let the old coot have his own way,” someone grumbled.

  Mr. Gibbon looked hard at the teller and said, “Okay, hand over the money.”

  The man behind the counter cocked his head and then smiled, “Have you filled out a withdrawal slip, sir?”

  Mr. Gibbon put his face up against the bars of the teller’s cage so that his nose and chin stuck through. “Hand over the money, all of it, you hear? This is a stickup.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A stickup,” said Mr. Gibbon. “You’re being stuckup. By me. Understand?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to have a word with the manager,” the teller said.

  Miss Ball checked her watch again. It was almost time. She edged over to the pile of equipment, the hat, the light, the bucket. A man appeared next to her. “Got a fare?” he asked. Miss Ball smiled, but did not answer. The man got into the back of the car and opened his newspaper.

  Mrs. Gneiss sneaked a look at Harold Potts’s replacement and felt in her purse. As soon as she did so Harold Potts’s replacement looked inside, almost involuntarily. Mrs. Gneiss quickly took out her Nougat Delite and, grinning, offered him some. “Much obliged,” he said, “but no thanks.”

  “This is the last time I’m gonna tell you. This is a stickup, now hand over the cash!”

  The people who had been in line in back of Mr. Gibbon started backing away. They looked at him with the kind of nervous puzzlement that arrives as a smirk. The smirks vanished when Mr. Gibbon pulled Old Trusty from his shopping bag and flashed it around. Some people started for the door, but Mrs. Gneiss stepped away from the guard and took aim with her Nougat Delite. “Don’t move,” she said.