by Henry, Kane,
Blinney said nothing. He finished the drink and set the glass on the floor.
“After you have complied, Mr. Blinney, I shall exit by the south door. Immediately, I shall enter into the subway, insert a prepared token into the turnstile, walk the ramp to an exit at Thirty-seventh Street, take a taxi to the East Side, and walk the rest of the way back to this flea-trap here. The rest is simple. Is it beginning to come to you, Mr. Blinney?”
Blinney made no answer.
“Once here, I work quickly and effortlessly, for the remainder is so charmingly simple. I shave off the beard. I change into the clothes that are here: the blue suit, the normal shoes, all. Then everything—everything—attaché case and all, gets dumped into the big suitcase. There shall be no trace whatever of any living soul in this room. All fingerprints shall be wiped away. That was done also up at Silver Crest, and done to the note that was handed to you. You leave that to me. I’m an expert at that.
“And then I depart, clip out the name GRANT from the bell downstairs, and take a taxicab to the airport. And then, what have we, Mr. Blinney? What have we? What’s the matter? You look a little green around the gills? What have we, Mr. Blinney?”
Blinney was silent.
“I’ll tell you what we have, Mr. Blinney. We have a sensational bank robbery. We have police scurrying around, headlines in newspapers, detectives detecting, experts deducing, excitement, runaround, statements from officials, viewing of rogues’ gallery pictures, and a round-up of all known criminals using that modus operandi for a bank heist. That’s what we have on one hand.
“On the other hand, we have the complete disappearance of an individual known as Bill Grant. We have, while the police are searching for a six-feet-tall bearded man who might be pin-pointed as one Bill Grant, a small, simple, cleanshaven fellow wearing glasses named William Granville taking up his reservation on a plane bound for London, and taking with him Bill Grant into oblivion. The bearded man will never be found. The crime, as other major crimes of which we have heard, will never be solved. Period. There we have it, Mr. Blinney. Who’s crazy now?”
Oscar Blinney said not one word. He could feel the perspiration upon his face and his scalp itchily crinkled with sweat.
“We’re going to swing it, Mr. Blinney. The—perfect—crime!” He was silent for a moment, standing motionless in front of Blinney. “Do you know why you’re going to co-operate?”
“Why?” Blinney rose, towering. “Why, why—why, damn you?”
“Because your problem is insurmountable. Because you married a psychopathic witch who’ll drag you into filth and then drag you deeper. Because there is no out for you, Mr. Blinney, no escape—except one, and it’s so perfect, it’s beautiful.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your release from Evangeline Ashley, your one release, your one escape. I’m talking about the death of a nothing, a cockroach stepped on, an insect squashed—and freedom at last—clean, clear, sweet, final freedom at last—for a poor sucker that got in so far over his head that he’s drowning.”
“No!” The room was hot. Spots whirled before Blinney’s eyes.
“She’s leaving you, pal. And that would be more scandal, wouldn’t it? She’s running out on you, baby. She’s running away. With—guess who? With me.”
“What the hell?” said Blinney. “What the hell?”
“Not with William Granville, Mr. Blinney. She’s never heard of William Granville. She thinks she’s running away with Bill Grant. It’s all fixed. She thinks she’s leaving with me tomorrow morning. She thinks Bill Grant is going to London to make the big score. She thinks she’s going to London with Bill Grant. That’s why I have two plane tickets; you remember, I showed you two tickets. Do you remember, Mr. Blinney? Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow morning she comes, bag packed, to the Silver Crest Motel. She thinks she will be leaving with Bill Grant. She will not be leaving with Bill Grant. Bill Grant will leave on schedule, but she’ll remain in the room, and she won’t be going anywhere or saying anything because she’ll be dead, Mr. Blinney, very dead.”
Blinney felt his knees sag.
“You look pale, Mr. Blinney. You want another drink?”
“No.”
“The chambermaid comes to clean at three in the afternoon. That’s when they’ll find her. There’ll be no question who killed her. Her lover killed her. Oh, we’ve been seen around, plenty. In a way, you’ll be a martyr, Mr. Blinney. People will sympathize with you. You had nothing to do with it. You were at work. Her lover killed her, and let them try and find that lover.
“Lover-boy has completely disappeared. Lover-boy has been swallowed up. Lover-boy will never be heard from again. And so, without doing a thing—not one damned thing, really—you’re out of your miseries, and I’ve hit my big score, and we’ve knocked off a perfect crime. But perfect, Daddy—and everybody lives happily ever after. Beautiful, Mr. Blinney? Beautiful?”
Blinney touched a tongue to parched lips. He said nothing.
“And just in case it’s turning around in your mind that I might pull a fast one on you, Mr. Blinney, I give you the right to check it out any way you please, but discreet. By ten o’clock, she’s dead. She doesn’t figure to be found before three. Any time between ten and three you can do you check, but if you do, you must work it discreet.
“I advise against it because a stumble-bum like you might gum up the works. I wouldn’t pull a fast one—why should I? You’re my ace in the hole for a tremendous score—why shouldn’t I hold up my end? Furthermore, she’s going to be cooled out by Bill Grant, and by three o’clock Bill Grant no longer exists. And still furthermore, if Bill Grant doesn’t do his job at the Silver Crest, you can always let out a tip about William Granville in London. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it, Mr. Blinney. Who’s crazy now? Suppose you tell me that.”
The room was hot. There was no ventilation. The air was stagnant. Blinney sopped air through an open mouth. His breathing was rapid and shallow. His head was hot, there was a pain just above his eyes, and his hands and feet were wet and cold. He drifted toward the door as in a void, detached, sucking for air, noisily, through the open mouth.
”Just a minute!” Grant’s voice was sharp.
Blinney stopped.
“Just in case you get any ideas, Mr. Blinney, like about going to the cops, you’d wind up in a mess of trouble, why, the troubles you’ve got now would seem like Paradise. You know what I’d tell them?”
Blinney made no answer, gasping, pulling for air through the open mouth.
“Talk, damn you!”
“I… I don’t know,” Blinney whispered.
“I’d tell them that all of this was your idea. I’d tell them about your wife whom you hated and despised and who hated and despised you, and she’d back me up on that. And I’d tell them that you dreamed up this idea—that for croaking your wife while you have the alibi of being at work on the job, you gave me the in on a terrific heist. I’d even show them those payroll sheets and tell them that you gave them to me as the convincer. Man, you’d be in a hell of a jam, wouldn’t you? So just don’t you forget that.”
Blinney opened the door.
“Have a good night’s sleep, Mr. Blinney. The more you think about it, the better you’ll like it. Actually, if you consider, you’re going to wind up with more benefit than I.”
Blinney closed the door. The steep wooden stairs creaked beneath his weight
ON THE EIGHTEENTH day of August, Oscar Blinney arrived at his post at the First National Mercantile Bank at six minutes to nine. It was a hot day but the interior of the bank was cool.
At twelve noon the bank began to seethe with lunch-hour customers, and the lines began to form in front of the cages. At 12:25, Blinney had completed his payrolls. At 12:41, the customer in front of his window was a tall, dark, slender, bearded man, neatly dressed in an expensive grey suit. He had a brown-paper parcel beneath his left ar
m and he carried a leather attaché case in his right hand.
The bearded man set down the attaché case, drew a slip of paper from a pocket, and passed it through the slot beneath Blinney’s window. The routine of the bank hummed normally as Blinney looked down upon the paper. It bore a message typed in capital letters.
I HAVE A BOMB UNDER MY LEFT ARM. IF I DROP IT, YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATH OF MANY PEOPLE, INCLUDING BOTH OF US.
I KNOW YOUR DRAWER HAS PAYROLLS FOR THE MARTIN, HUGHES, FAIRFAX, NORTH AMERICAN, AND MARSHALL COMPANIES.
PUT $250,000 IN PACKAGES OF HUNDREDS AND FIFTIES INTO MY ATTACHÉ CASE. I AM WATCHING YOU AND COUNTING WITH YOU, SO DO NOT TRY TO GET SMART.
DO NOT GIVE ANY ALARM OR THE BANK BLOWS UP. I WILL GO OUT THROUGH THE SOUTH DOOR. ONCE I AM OUT, YOU CAN DO WHAT THE HELL YOU LIKE.
WARNING! I AM HOLDING ENOUGH EXPLOSIVE TO WRECK THE ENTIRE BUILDING! I DO NOT CARE ABOUT MY LIFE. IF YOU CARE ABOUT YOURS AND THE OTHER PEOPLE HERE, DO NOT TRY ANY TRICKS. HURRY!
Blinney moved the slip of paper aside and looked out upon the bearded man. The bearded man seemed to wink, seemed to nod, but there was no expression on his face. Blinney unlocked and raised his window. The bearded man pushed through the attaché case.
Blinney opened it and quickly, expertly laid in the packages of money. Bank routine hummed normally. There was no pressure. There was no interference. The transaction was completed in a few minutes, and then Blinney lowered the top of the case, clicked shut its locks, and pushed it out to the bearded man who took hold of it.
“Thank you,” said the bearded man, quietly, smiling.
“Sir,” said Blinney.
“Yes, what is it?” said the bearded man.
“Just this,” said Oscar Blinney.
He took his pistol from the drawer and shot the bearded man through the bridge of the nose and shot him again through the right eye and as the bearded man splashed blood and fell out of sight, Oscar Blinney fainted.
Uproar!
Customers scattered. Tellers dropped in their cages. Flunkies dived beneath desks on the balcony. Vice presidents demanded the priority of protocol beneath selfsame desks. Men bellowed. Guards ran. Girls screamed. Guards ran. Men screamed. Girls bellowed. Guards ran. And ran and ran. Alarms went off. Buttons were pushed. Motion picture cameras started taking motion pictures. Phones were used. Doors were locked. Power was shut off. Elevators stopped in midair. Police sirens howled on the streets. Traffic became entangled. Patrol cars converged.
And patrol cars were abandoned, doors hanging open, as policemen ran, as the guards had run. Everybody ran, to and fro, and areas were roped off. And orders were barked. And barked and barked. And guards panted. And policemen panted. And tunics were opened. And notebooks appeared. And questions were asked. And questions were answered.
And everybody was told to keep back, as everybody is always told to keep back, and everybody kept back. And all the while one man lay dead and another lay comatose, until Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr appeared, and a semblance of order pierced the confusion.
Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr was fifty years of age, tall, slim, grizzled, polite, competent, and experienced. He stood by patiently while a police surgeon declared the bearded man dead and declared Oscar Blinney alive. Restoratives were administered to Blinney, and he was set back upon his feet. He watched, alertly though wanly, as Detective-lieutenant Leonard Burr did skillful research upon the corpse.
The detective-lieutenant produced, from the clothing of the bearded man, a loaded Luger, a key, $32.60 in cash money, and a wallet which identified its owner as one Bill Grant with an address in Havana. The wallet contained a lush color-photo of a voluptuous blonde in a Bikini bathing suit, and a receipt in the sum of $84.00 in payment of one month’s rent for furnished room number 1 A at 233 East 33rd Street.
Detective-lieutenant Burr was about to relinquish the cadaver to the panting policemen when he noticed the shoes. “Hey, dig them boots,” he said. “Custom-built and with heels what they used to call Cuban heels. Them heels must be built up two-three inches. Hold everything.”
He pulled the shoes from the body and then surrendered the body to the panting policemen. He smiled upon Blinney and then bent to the brown-paper-wrapped parcel and carefully undid it. He exposed an aromatic wooden box, lifted its lid, and found it fully packed with fresh cigars.
He went to a phone and was put through to the Havana police. He identified himself, stated his business, requested information about Bill Grant at the address he found in the wallet, and told where he could be reached upon return call. Then he collected all of the evidence including the attaché case full of money, the typewritten note, Blinney’s pistol, and Blinney, and repaired to the station house where he was joined by Assistant District Attorney John Rogers, young, intelligent, ambitious, and Harvard-trained.
“I have only a sketchy outline of the events,” he said to Lieutenant Burr.
“There’s your man,” said Burr, pointing to Blinney.
“You’re the teller?” said Rogers.
“Yes, sir,” said Blinney. “Oscar Blinney.”
“As long as you’re here, John,” said Burr, “you may as well ask the questions for the official statement.”
Under the gentle prod of the Assistant District Attorney, Blinney told his story and signed the transcript in his neat hand.
“We’re going over to two thirty-three East Thirty-third Street where this Bill Grant seems to have had a furnished room,” said Burr. “Would you like to come with us, Mr. Blinney?”
“If I won’t be in the way,” said Blinney.
“You won’t be in the way.” They went in a small silent group: Burr, Rogers, Blinney, the two detectives, and a uniformed policeman. The key found on Grant opened the downstairs door and the door of 1 A. The uniformed policeman was stationed outside the door, and the two detectives, under the brisk direction of Lieutenant Burr, did an effective search of the room.
They accumulated the following articles: a large suitcase, a passport, a pair of glasses, payroll sheets from the First National Mercantile Bank, two airplane tickets for a flight to London, a neatly pressed blue suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, a pair of blue socks, a pair of black shoes, a scissors, a razor, and an air-pressure can of foam-up shaving cream.
Before any examination was made, one of the detectives, a fingerprint expert, dusted for prints. “Nothing,” he announced. “Not on the bottles, not on the glasses, nowhere. This guy was sure shaping up to take a powder.”
“Natch,” said Lieutenant Burr. He opened the suitcase. It contained one set of underwear, a pair of slacks, a sport shirt, a sport jacket, and an unsealed envelope marked at its corner MOUNT VERNON SAVINGS BANK. He opened the envelope. It contained eighty one-hundred-dollar bills. He replaced the bills into the envelope, returned everything into the suitcase, and closed it.
He took up the passport, studied it, picked up the glasses, tried them on, then turned over passport and glasses to Assistant District Attorney John Rogers. Rogers examined, smiled, nodded. Then Burr handed him the two plane tickets. “Get it?” he said.
“Of course,” said Rogers. “He comes back here, shaves, puts on the glasses, dumps everything into the suitcase, cleans up the rest of any fingerprints, puts on these clothes, and he’s off to London as William Granville.”
Burr was holding the shoes, inspecting them. “And when he gets there,” he said, “not only is he clean-shaven, and a guy with glasses, but he’s two inches shorter.” He looked about. “No phone here,” he said to one of the detectives. “Take those plane tickets, go out to a phone, and check them.”
He handed some sheets to Blinney. “Do you recognize these?”
Blinney studied them briefly and returned them. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“What are they, please?”
“Payroll sheets.”
“Whose?” Lieutenant Burr asked.
“Mine.”
“What are they doing here, Mr. Blinney?�
��
Blinney shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea, sir.”
“Did you ever take them out of the bank?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’ve frequently taken my sheets out of the bank.”
“What for?”
“Purposes of study, sir. To know what to expect the next week. To expedite matters. To be able to work more quickly. It’s not an unusual practice, sir. Actually, these sheets have no value once they’ve outlived their purpose.”
Burr handed him the sheets again. “Did you ever take these sheets out of the bank, Mr. Blinney?”
Blinney studied them more carefully. “They’re old sheets, sir, as you can see from the date, about a month old. Yes, I’d say I did take these sheets out. Of course I’m not quite certain which sheets I’d take for study, but I’d say yes, I believe I took these sheets.”
“And where would you take such sheets for study, Mr. Blinney?”
“Home, of course.” Blinney returned the sheets.
“And where’s home?”
“Mount Vernon. I gave my full address when I gave my statement. Don’t you remember, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” said the lieutenant, grumpily.
There was a knock and the detective with the plane tickets entered. “Verified,” he said. “William Granville had reservations for a flight at three o’clock.” He looked at his watch. “He’d have taken off in twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” said Lieutenant Burr. “Let’s us take off right now. Bring all this stuff.”
And at the precinct house he was handed a typewritten sheet by a shirt-sleeved detective. “From the Havana police,” said the shirt-sleeved detective.
Burr read, turned the sheet over to Rogers, said to Blinney: “The guy was a soldier of fortune type, a first-rate gambler, worked some of the big casinos in Havana. Also operated out of Miami. Was known as Bill Grant, no other name. A dangerous guy, quick with a gun or knife, and a bear with the dames.”
Rogers laid away the typewritten sheet, sat glumly.
