Collected Stories

by Donald E. Westlake

  He was just turning toward the rear windows when pandemonium started in the closet: yelling, screaming, crashing around. Now what?

  Big turned back to frown at the door, against which there was now a staccato rat–a–tat of frenzied knocking — wasn’t there a handle on the inside? Apparently not, since muffled voices — more than one? — hoarsely begged from in there, “Lemme out!”

  It was curiosity that made Big go back to reopen that door, and out tumbled three men and a dog. “Not you again,” Big said, grabbed the dog in the same throat hold as before, and tossed him back onto the pile of clothing now messed up on the closet floor instead of lined up neatly on hangers. Slamming the door yet again, he turned to the three men on the floor, flopping around down there like caught fish in a bucket, and said, “And what the hell is all this?”

  Rumsey blinked like an owl in the wrong barn. Around him, everybody was in confused, chaotic motion. On his right, “I can explain!” Algy yelled, while on his left, “Who are you people?” Stan demanded.

  Rumsey gazed upward. “Big?” He withdrew Algy’s elbow from his right eye, Stan’s knee from his solar plexus. “Big?” It was like a dream. A very strange dream.

  The big man who’d rescued them, whether he wanted to or not, looked around at the three doing their Raggedy Andys on the floor. “I know you birds,” he said.

  “Of course you do,” Stan said, having recovered his memory.

  Rumsey, climbing up Algy to get to his feet, said, “I saw this thing in the News about Morry Calhoun —”

  Stan, climbing up the bed to get to his feet, said, “— great shot of the car in the bank —”

  Algy, scrambling around on the floor until Big grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and set him upright, said, “— so I thought I’d come see, is there any spillage.”

  “There was some,” Big told him. “Not much.” He gestured at the gray canvas money bag on the bed.

  They all looked at it. Unfortunately, they understood, that bag belonged to Big now.

  Rumsey spoke for them all — except Big — when he said, “All this, for nothing.”

  “I got mine, anyway,” Big said comfortably. “I always get mine.”

  Algy said to the others, “And Big did come in handy with the dog, you got to admit.”

  “And I got wheels,” Stan told them, “anybody wants a lift anywhere.”

  Rumsey was not consoled. He said, “What I come out here for wasn’t wheels, or to get saved from some dog. What I come out here for was a score.”

  “Well, you know,” Algy said, “I happen to be aware” — he looked at his watch — “twenty minutes ago, a bank three blocks from here was knocked over by a couple not very skillful guys. They didn’t get much.”

  Rumsey said, “I don’t have to hear about other guys’ scores, not even little ones.”

  “The point I’m making here,” Algy said, “is twenty minutes ago. The plainclothes detectives didn’t get there yet. You know, the victim interviews.”

  Rumsey’s head and eyes and spirits lifted. “Everybody’s rattled,” he said. “They’ve shut the bank, but they’re still there.”

  Stan said, “The security tape’s been taken away for evidence.”

  Algy whipped a hand into and out of his trouser pocket, flashed at them a gold badge in a brown leather case, pocketed it again, said, “I always carry a little ID. You never know.”

  Big said, “Algy? What if a cop frisks you one time, takes a look at that?”

  Algy grinned at him. “It says, ‘Love Detective, Licensed To Kiss’.”

  Rumsey segued into a look that was very caring, very concerned, very earnest. In a voice like a funeral director, he said, “Mr. Manager, are you certain those felons didn’t gain access to your vault? We’d better check that out.”

  Big laughed. “Nice to run into you fellas,” he said.

  Ten minutes after the apartment was empty, the dog finally started howling, but there was nobody around to listen.

  Coda…

  When the vault door was at last reopened at three–thirty that afternoon to release the imprisoned bank employees, one of them, Rufold Hepple, had to be carried out by five fellow tellers, one at each limb and one at his head. (Fortunately, he was a skinny little fellow and didn’t weigh much.) “I’ll be all right,” he kept telling everybody who looked down at him. “Just as soon as I get home, I’ll be fine.”

  There were white–clad ambulance attendants in among the blue police officers and black–and–yellow firefighters, and they kept asking him, as he lay supine on the faux marble floor, head cushioned by several empty money sacks, if he didn’t want to go to the hospital, be looked at, checked over; but his fears of (a) hospitals, (b) doctors, and (c) people dressed completely in white, kept him saying over and over, “No, I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. Get my strength back in a minute. I’ll be fine as soon as I get home.”

  The nearly four hours in the pitch–black vault had been the worst experience of Rufold Hepple’s life, calling into play simultaneously so many of his deep–seated fears, it was as though he’d been strapped into one of those machines for mixing paint. There was his fear of darkness, for instance, and his fear of crowds, his fear of unusual smells (several of his coworkers, when confined for a long time in a small, dark space, had turned out to have very unusual smells indeed), his fear of small, confined spaces, (It was his fear of long words derived from the Greek that kept him from even thinking the proper medical terms for all these fears.)

  Lying there on the floor, with only his fear of being noticed by other people still actively searing him, Rufold Hcpple continued to give himself, as he had in the vault, the courage to survive this ordeal, by thinking only of his own little home, so near, so soon to protect him again. It was the great paradox of his life that only the comfort and security of his very own little apartment gave him the strength necessary to leave it every day, for his job here at the bank, or to shop, or to make his twice weekly visits to Dr. Bananen, just around the corner.

  In just a few minutes now, he would be ready. He would stand, smile, show them all nothing, leave the bank, march the three blocks home and up the stairs and through the many locks, to be greeted by his only friend, his dear dog Sigmund. In just a few minutes. Just a few minutes, and he would be safe and sound.

  THE SWEETEST MAN IN THE WORLD

  _______________________________

  CRIME: Fraud

  PLACE: New York

  YEAR: 1967

  BRIEFING:

  Three men dominate the history of fraud in the twentieth century: Ivar Kreuger, the Swedish financier known as ‘The Match King’, who tried to gain a worldwide monopoly of match production using longterm dollar loans, and whose assets, after his suicide, were discovered to be largely fictitious; Horatio Bottomley, the English financier, journalist and politician whose Victory Bond scheme proved to be just one of many frauds that brought down his career; and the American tycoon Bernie Cornfield, whose IOS group based in Switzerland was also shown to be an international swindle. Organised crime groups such as the Mafia and Murder Incorporated have also been masters of the big fraud-with business conglomerates and banking institutions as their prime targets-while clever individuals have similarly worked swindles on ordinary men and women, with phoney business schemes, worthless investments and fake insurance policies as the tools of their trade.

  THE STORY:

  I adjusted my hair in the hall mirror before opening the door. My hair was grey, and piled neatly on top of my head. I smoothed my skirt, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  The man in the hallway was thirtyish, well dressed, quietly handsome, and carrying a briefcase. He was also somewhat taken aback to see me. He glanced again at the apartment number on the door, looked back at me, and said, ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Miss Diane Wilson.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Do come in.’

  He gazed past me uncertainly, hesitating on the doorstep, saying, ‘Is sh
e in?’

  ‘I’m Diane Wilson,’ I said.

  He blinked. ‘You’re Diane Wilson?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘The Diane Wilson who worked for Mr Edward Cunningham?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ I made a sad face. ‘Such a tragic thing,’ I said. ‘He was the sweetest man in the world, Mr Cunningham was.’

  He cleared his throat, and I could see him struggling to regain his composure. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, uh-well, Miss Wilson, my name is Fraser, Kenneth Eraser. I represent Transcontinental Insurance Association.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I have all the insurance I need, thank you.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon, I’m not here to sell insurance. I’m an investigator for the company.’

  ‘Oh, they all say that,’ I said, ‘and then when they get inside they do want to sell something. I remember one young man from an encyclopaedia company-he swore up and down he was just taking a survey, and he no sooner-‘

  ‘Miss Wilson,’ Fraser said determinedly, ‘I am definitely not a salesman. I am not here to discuss your insurance with you; I am here to discuss Mr Cunningham’s insurance.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ I said. ‘I simply handled the paperwork in Mr Cunningham’s real estate office. His private business affairs he took care of himself.’

  ‘Miss Wilson, I-‘ He stopped, and looked up and down the hallway. ‘Do we have to speak out here?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t know that there’s anything for us to talk about,’ I said. I admit I was enjoying this.

  ‘Miss Wilson, there is something for us to talk about.’ He put down the briefcase and took out his wallet. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here’s my identification.’

  I looked at the laminated card. It was very official and very complex and included Fraser’s photograph, looking open-mouthed and stupid.

  Fraser said, ‘I will not try to sell you insurance, nor will I ask you any details about Mr Cunningham’s handling of his private business affairs. That’s a promise. Now, may I come in?’

  It seemed time to stop playing games with him; after all, I didn’t want him getting mad at me. He might go poking around too far, just out of spite. So I stepped back and said, ‘Very well then, young man, you may come in. But I’ll hold you to that promise.’

  We went into the living-room, and I motioned at the sofa, saying, ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But he didn’t seem to like the sofa when he sat on it, possibly because of the clear plastic cover it had over it.

  ‘My nieces come by from time to time,’ I said. ‘That’s why I have those plastic covers on all the furniture. You know how children can be.’

  ‘Of course.’ He said. He looked around, and I think the entire living-room depressed him, not just the plastic cover on the sofa.

  Well, it was understandable. The living-room was a natural consequence of Miss Diane Wilson’s personality, with its plastic slipcovers, the doilies on all the tiny tables, the little plants in ceramic frogs, the windows with Venetian blinds and curtains and drapes, the general air of overcrowded neatness. Something like the house Mrs Muskrat has in all those children’s stories.

  I pretended not to notice his discomfort. I sat down on the chair that matched the sofa, adjusted my apron and skirt over my knees, and said, ‘Very well, Mr Fraser. I’m ready to listen.’

  He opened his briefcase on his lap, looked at me over it, and said, ‘This may come as something of a shock to you, Miss Wilson. I don’t know if you were aware of the extent of Mr Cunningham’s policy holdings with us.’

  ‘I already told you, Mr Fraser, that I-‘

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said hastily. ‘I wasn’t asking, I was getting ready to tell you myself. Mr Cunningham had three policies with us of various types, all of which automatically became due when he died.’

  ‘Bless his memory,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Naturally. At any rate, the total on these three policies comes to one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.’

  ‘Gracious!’

  ‘With double indemnity for accidental death, of course,’ he went on, ‘the total payable is two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That is, one quarter of a million dollars.’

  ‘Dear me!’ I said. ‘I would never have guessed.’

  Fraser looked carefully at me. ‘And you are the sole beneficiary,’ he said.

  I smiled blankly at him, as though waiting for him to go on, then permitted my expression to show that the import of his words was gradually coming home to me. Slowly I sank back into the chair. My hand went to my throat, to the bit of lace around the collar of my dress.

  ‘Me?’ I whispered. ‘Oh, Mr Fraser, you must be joking!’

  ‘Not a bit,’ he said. ‘Mr Cunningham changed his beneficiary just one month ago, switching from his wife to you.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I whispered.

  ‘Nevertheless, it is true. And since Mr Cunningham did die an accidental death, burning up in his real estate office, and since such a large amount of money was involved, the routine is to send an investigator around, just to be sure everything’s all right.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I was allowing myself to recover. I said, ‘That’s why you were so surprised when you saw me.’

  He smiled sheepishly. ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘yes.’

  ‘You had expected to find some sexy young thing, didn’t you? Someone Mr Cunningham had been having an-a relationship with.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said, and made a boyish smile. ‘I do apologise,’ he said.

  ‘Accepted,’ I said, and smiled back at him.

  It was beautiful. He had come here with a strong preconception, and a belief based on that preconception that something was wrong. Knock the preconception away and he would be left with an embarrassed feeling of having made a fool of himself. From now on he would want nothing more than to be rid of this case, since it would serve only to remind him of his wrong guess and the foolish way he’d acted when I’d first opened the door.

  As I had supposed he would, he began at once to speed things up, taking a pad and pen from his briefcase and saying, ‘Mr Cunningham never told you he’d made you his beneficiary?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. I only worked for the man three months.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘It did seem odd to us.’

  ‘Oh, his poor wife,’ I said. ‘She may have neglected him but-‘

  ‘Neglected?’

  ‘Well.’ I allowed myself this time to show a pretty confusion. ‘I shouldn’t say anything against the woman,’ I went on. ‘I’ve never so much as laid eyes on her. But I do know that not once in the three months I worked there did she ever come in to see Mr Cunningham, or even call him on the phone. Also, from some things he said-‘

  ‘What things, Miss Wilson?’

  ‘I’d rather not say, Mr Fraser. I don’t know the woman, and Mr Cunningham is dead. I don’t believe we should sit here and talk about them behind their backs.’

  ‘Still, Miss Wilson, he did leave his insurance money to you.’

  ‘He was always the sweetest man,’ I said. ‘Just the sweetest man in the world. But why would-‘ I spread my hands to show bewilderment.

  Fraser said, ‘Do you suppose he had a fight with his wife? Such a bad one that he decided to change his beneficiary, looked around for somebody else, saw you, and that was that.’

  ‘He was always very good to me,’ I said. ‘In the short time I knew him I always found Mr Cunningham a perfect gentleman and the most considerate of men.’

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ he said. He looked at the notes he’d been taking, and muttered to himself. ‘Well, that might explain it. It’s nutty, but-‘ He shrugged.

  Yes, of course he shrugged. Kick away the preconception, leave him drifting and bewildered for just a second, and then quickly suggest another hypothesis to him. He clutched at it like a drowning man. Mr Cunningham had had a big fight with
Mrs Cunningham. Mr Cunningham had changed his beneficiary out of hate or revenge, and had chosen Miss Diane Wilson, the dear middle-aged lady he’d recently hired as his secretary. As Mr Fraser had so succinctly phrased it, it was nutty, but-

  I said, ‘Well, I really don’t know what to say. To tell the truth, Mr Fraser, I’m overcome.’

  That’s understandable,’ he said. ‘A quarter of a million dollars doesn’t come along every day.’

  ‘It isn’t the amount,’ I said. ‘It’s how it came to me. I have never been rich, Mr Fraser, and because I never married I have always had to support myself. But I am a good secretary, a willing worker, and I have always handled my finances, if I say so myself, with wisdom and economy. A quarter of a million dollars is, as you say, a great deal of money, but I do not need a great deal of money. I would much rather have that sweet man Mr Cunningham alive again than have all the money in the world.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded, and I could see he believed every word I had said.

  I went further. ‘And particularly,’ I said, ‘to be given money that should certainly have gone to his wife. I just wouldn’t have believed Mr Cunningham capable of such a hateful or vindictive action.’

  ‘He probably would have changed it back later on,’ Fraser said. ‘After he had cooled down. He only made the change three weeks before-before he passed on.’

  ‘Bless his soul,’ I said.

  ‘There’s one final matter, Miss Wilson,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Anything at all, Mr Fraser,’ I said.

  ‘About Mr Roche,’ he said. ‘Mr Cunningham’s former partner. He seems to have moved from his old address, and we can’t find him. Would you have his current address?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘Mr Roche left the concern before I was hired. In fact, Mr Cunningham hired me because, after Mr Roche left, it was necessary to have a secretary in order to be sure there was always someone in the office.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well-‘ He put the pad and pen back into the briefcase and started to his feet, just as the doorbell rang.