by Craig Rice
The bank was crowded even before their arrival. As they entered, Mr. Goudge was going into the enclosure by a small side door. In the enclosure they saw and recognized the gray-haired Miss McGowan and the handsome Phil Smith, who waved to them as they came in. There was a thin, middle-aged ferret-faced man at the teller’s window, and a plump, pretty girl operating an adding machine.
Outside, a high-booted farmer stood at one window, laboriously filling out a slip of paper; at the other, Ed Skindingsrude was just moving up to cash a check, as a housewifely-looking woman moved away and started toward the door.
Malone waited until the farmer and Ed Skindingsrude had finished, made out his check, and stepped up to the window, Jake and Jerry Luckstone just behind him. Whatever might have gone on inside the cage escaped his attention, occupied as he was with his checkbook and fountain pen.
He pushed the check through the slot and said, “Fives and tens please.”
Later all that he remembered clearly was Ellen McGowan’s warning scream. He had a dim and confused picture of Jake throwing Helene toward the door, and of Helene’s ashen face, frozen with horror. In the same instant he felt, rather than heard, a tremendous sound that seemed to come from all around him, the floor beneath his feet suddenly appeared to leap upward, there was a flash of light, and something struck him in the chest with terrific force.
There was another instant in which he realized he was flat against the other side of the building, pinned there by what had been the teller’s window grating. Through the smoke he could dimly see forms, most of them moving. There was blood on the tile floor just in front of him. And the ferret-faced man had completely disappeared.
That was all Malone ever remembered of the explosion that wrecked the Farmers’ Bank of Jackson, Wis.
Chapter Thirteen
The odor in the air seemed more settling powder than smoke. Malone opened his eyes gingerly and saw Helene’s white face, smudged with dust, bending over him. She was wiping his forehead with a wet cloth.
“You’re not dead,” Helene said firmly.
Malone shut his eyes again. “I am too dead,” he told her.
There was a sharp pain in the back of his head and an odd sensation in his stomach. He decided he was far too uncomfortable to be dead, and opened his eyes again.
“Jake?”
“He’s digging somebody out of the wreckage,” Helene said. “Ed Skindingsrude, I think. Lie still.”
“I am lying still,” Malone murmured. The last thing in the world he wanted was to move.
He tried to remember. The flash of blinding light. The noises. The people who had been in the Farmer’s Bank of Jackson, Wis. In the distance he could hear somebody say, “Lift that piece of timber over there, its across his stomach,” and another voice, partly muffled, said, “Careful there, I think my leg’s broke.” He wanted to see what was going on, yet he dreaded the sudden impact of daylight that would surely materialize the odd sensation in his stomach into something more tangible and unpleasant.
After a moment he compromised by opening his eyes a narrow crack, protecting himself against the light with his eyelashes. He saw, then, that he was lying on the sidewalk a little to the north of the half-wrecked building, and that an awed circle of spectators was watching Helene bathe his forehead. Beyond them he could see the gray stucco façade of the bank, and through the great gaping hole where a plate-glass window had been, there was a faint movement of men and dust and broken stone and timbers.
“He must have been killed instantly,” a woman in the crowd said in an excited, curious voice.
Malone opened his eyes and looked at her. “I was,” he said confidentially. The woman screamed and fled.
“Malone,” Helene pleaded, “are you all right?” No, don’t move. Just tell me if you’re all right.”
“I feel fine,” he whispered.
He heard Jake’s voice in the distance. “There’s nobody else in there.” A truck, hastily pressed into service as an ambulance, was driving away. The dust was beginning to settle.
Jake came out from the wrecked building, his red hair whitened by powdered cement, his face black and smudged. There was a small bruise over his left eye. He pushed his way through the crowd to where Malone was lying.
“Excitement’s all over now,” he reported. He squatted down on one knee beside the lawyer and lit a cigarette. “Of the people who were in there, only—”
A siren screamed. There was a sudden, clamorous ringing of bells, the crowd on the street scattered in all directions. Malone raised himself up on one elbow. The movement engulfed him in another wave of faintness and nausea, a quick stab of pain shot through his head.
There was one moment of consciousness in which he saw the Jackson Volunteer Hook and Ladder Company come charging down Main Street, a brilliant blaze of red paint and shining brass. He heard yells from the firemen, all still in work clothes.
“By the time that fire department reached the fire,” he murmured, “the horse would be out the barn door.” As his head fell back on the sidewalk again, he wondered just what he’d meant to say.
Some magic transformed the sidewalk into a bed and a pillow, there was a sheet over him, and a blessed coolness in the air. He might have been in heaven, but he doubted it. He felt that he was alive, in a vague kind of way. It was as comfortable as he’d imagined Heaven to be, but there was some subtle difference. After a moment’s reflection he realized the difference was created by the shrill piping of a bird just outside a window, and he knew for sure he was alive. They would never let anything as noisy as that bird into heaven.
Then there was an unfamiliar voice, a masculine one, saying, “He had a nasty bump on the head and another one in the stomach, but he’ll be all right if he’ll just stay quiet. The chances are he’ll be up and around tomorrow, as good as new. But keep him in bed until morning.”
A door opened and closed quietly, and there was quiet again, except for the bird.
He wiggled his toes experimentally and found that they moved according to directions. It was a wonderful sensation just to be alive. No one could ask for anything more, except possibly a quart of gin. Suddenly it seemed very sad to him that people demanded so much of the world, when it was enough to be alive and able to wiggle one’s toes, after being snatched from the jaws of death.
From the corner of one eye he could see Jake sitting beside his bed, regarding him anxiously. It was a new and delectable experience. Once he’d imagined how he’d feel if Jake lay before him at the point of death; in fact, he’d imagined it so vividly that he’d wept bitterly on the polished bar of a Blue Island tavern. But he’d never imagined how Jake’s face might look if the circumstances were reversed.
It was always fascinating to watch people when they didn’t know they were being observed. He suddenly remembered the time he’d pretended to be asleep and managed to watch that gorgeous girl from the Seven-Leven Club going quietly through his pockets. Now, pretending to be still unconscious, he could watch the expression of deep concern on Jake’s face. It wasn’t the same thing, but it was just as much fun. He’d never imagined Jake, or anybody, would be so disturbed in the same circumstances.
At least, everybody was going to be very, very sorry.
But that doctor, whoever he was, had said there wasn’t any danger or serious damage. By tomorrow morning—”
He opened his eyes wide, looked up into Jake’s face, and said irritably, “I’ve had banks fold up in my face, but I never had one blow up on me before. What happened, and why, or does anyone know?”
“It was a bomb,” Jake said. The look of anxiety erased itself from his face. “Only a small one, though. The grating off the teller’s cage hit you in the belly and knocked you into the wall. That’s all.”
“Oh,” Malone said coldly. “Glad it wasn’t anything serious.” He paused. “Where’s Helene? Is she all right?”
“She’s in her room changing her clothes. She had her dress blown off, but she wasn’t hurt.”
Jake located a cigar in Malone’s coat pocket, lighted it, and stuck it in the little lawyer’s hand. “Listen, Malone. Try to remember. You said something.”
“I meant every word of it,” Malone said. “Leave me alone.”
“Damn it, pay attention to me. We brought you up here and undressed you—”
Malone sat up. “Who do you mean by “we’?”
“Lie down and keep still. That Miss McGowan and I. She wasn’t hurt except for a few scratches, and believe me, Malone, she’s handy in a crisis. Never lost her head for a minute.”
Malone closed his eyes again. “Even when she helped undress me?”
“Damn you,” Jake said, “now listen. Just as I tucked the sheet under your chin you came to for a minute. Remember?”
Malone tried hard to remember. There was something very misty and vague about a pillow under his head, and Jake’s ghastly white face, and a momentous discovery that had come to him right out of the blue. But that was all.
“You grabbed at my arm,” Jake told him, “and you said, ‘This is very important. It was the other story.’ Then you were sick for a minute, and then you said again, ‘Remember, it was the other story.’” He leaned over the bed. “What were you talking about? Do you remember?”
Malone was quiet for a moment, his eyes closed. The phrase did mean something, and it was important. Only he couldn’t recall what it meant.
“I don’t know,” he said at last.
Jake sighed. “Well, maybe it will come back to you.”
There was a little pause before Malone said, “I suppose it’s none of my business, but what about the explosion?”
“I told you it was a bomb,” Jake said, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “A cute one. We found enough remains to tell it was made in a tobacco tin.”
The door opened and Helene came in. She had changed back into the white sharkskin slacks, and her honey-colored hair was loose and damp.
“I washed enough concrete out of my hair to lay a small sidewalk,” she complained. Her face was still unnaturally pale. “Malone, what did you mean by ‘the other story’? Jake came in and told me about it.”
The little lawyer groaned. “I wish I knew.” He drew his brows together; the effort sent a pain through his scalp. “There must have been two stories, and one of them was wrong and the other was right. But I don’t know which was which, or what either of them was about.”
“Maybe another explosion would make him remember,” Jake said speculatively.
Helene shuddered. “I’d rather not know. Not even for a small firecracker.” She lit a cigarette on the third try.
“Speaking of explosions,” Malone said, “go on, Jake. You’d gotten as far as the tobacco tin.”
“It went off somewhere right by the teller’s cage.” Jake scowled. “Might have landed there any number of ways. It might have been dropped there by anybody who was inside the enclosure, or shoved through the cage by someone outside, or thrown in through a window from the alley outside. No one seems to have any idea. All of a sudden it was there, and it went off.”
“I remember,” Malone said. The ceiling above him veered sharply to the right, and an invisible hand squeezed his stomach. He dug his fingers into the mattress, shut his eyes, and counted to ten. “The casualty list is what I’m interested in.”
“The amazing thing about the explosion,” Jake said, “is that the casualty list is so small. One fatality and a small list of injured. I guess everyone ducked. Ed Skindingsrude was buried under the debris, but when we dug him out all that was broken was a watch crystal. Some farmer had his leg broken. Miss McGowan lost her front bridgework, and when I left the scene they were still digging for them in the wreckage. Helene’s dress was blown into the next block but she had on a hunk of imported lingerie that made a better showing before the Jackson spectators than the dress ever did, and here you are, slightly battered but practically as good as new.”
Malone said very quietly after a moment, “Now tell me what happened to the rest of the people there.”
“Jerry Luckstone wasn’t touched.” Jake crushed out his cigarette and lit another one quick. “Neither was Mr. Goudge. Phil Smith’s collarbone was broken, and he was badly bruised.” He drew a long breath. “The bank’s stenographer had her left arm torn off and most of her jaw. And the teller—his name was Linkermann—was killed.”
“You certainly tell everything the hard way,” Malone murmured. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how the ferrety little man had looked in those last few seconds.
“His name was Magnus Linkermann,” Jake said. Suddenly he was talking in a strange, disjointed rush of words. Malone opened his eyes again and saw that Helene’s face had turned an odd shade of gray. “He wasn’t just killed. When we started digging, he wasn’t there at all, anywhere. He was disintegrated like something in ‘Buck Rogers,’ literally blown to bits.”
Helene said, “Don’t!” faintly.
Jake paid no attention to her. “If they try to inter him they’ll have to inter all the wreckage of the bank building,” he said in a cold, deliberate voice. “There was a little of him hit the wall just behind—”
“Damn you, Jake,” Helene said between clenched teeth. She bolted out of the room, kicking the door shut behind her.
Jake was silent, his face white and set. He put his hands in his pocket, walked across the room, stared for a moment at the print of The Lone Wolf, sat down again, and said, “She’d have had nightmares about it all the rest of her life. There’s nothing like being good and sick to your stomach to clean out the back places in your mind. She’ll be all right now.”
Malone shut his eyes and said, “Fine. How do you feel?”
“I feel fine,” Jake said in an oddly strained voice.
Five minutes later Malone opened his eyes and said, “That makes the second murder in thirty-two years.”
Jake blinked at him. “That’s right. It was murder. I hadn’t gotten around to thinking of that yet.”
“Somebody made a bomb and got it into the Farmers’ Bank,” Malone said. “And it killed this Magnus Linkermann. That’s murder in anybody’s language. The amazing thing about it is that it wasn’t mass murder.”
Jake said, “Malone, please lie still and rest. Nobody is going to accuse you or Helene or me of the murder, I hope. Just don’t think about it, and let’s get out of here as fast as we can.” He breathed deeply. “I’d love to get back to the corner of State and Madison for a little peace and quiet.”
“Make it two,” Malone murmured. “I don’t know who Magnus Linkermann was and, frankly, I don’t care that he’s dead. I would like to know who gave me this bump on the back of my head.” He paused. “Damn it, could anybody get a tobacco-tin bomb into that building without its being seen?”
“Whoever planted it there,” Jake said, “certainly doesn’t fool. It may be an effective means of murder, but it’s likewise the hard way.”
Malone wasn’t listening. “The murder of ex-Senator Peveley,” he said under his breath, “the blowing up of the bank of which he was president, and the murder of its employee.” He paused, wondered if he was going to be sick again, and decided against it. “The hell of it is, Jake, that for a moment I knew who’d murdered the Senator and consequently who must have blown up the bank. Only it was one of those flashes you get when your mind is free, and now it’s lost. There’s some one little thing that’s the key but it’s gone from me now and I can’t remember. If I could get it back, I’d know who killed the Senator and planted the bomb.” He paused, stared at the ceiling, and said, “The other story. No, that doesn’t mean a thing to me now. But it must have meant something when I said it. That’s a key, but what the hell does it unlock?”
“That’s a very nice little riddle,” Jake said heartily.
“What about the inquest?”
“Postponed till tomorrow.”
The little lawyer was silent for a moment. “Did someone want to murder Magnus Linkermann and do
it by blowing up the bank? Or did someone want to blow up the bank and this guy happened to be in the way?” He sat up in bed. “What does it have to do with the murder of Senator Peveley?”
“Lie down and shut up,” Jake said.
Malone lay down. His head hurt. “The other story,” he murmured. “What other story? Who’s been telling us stories, anyway?”
There was a sudden, violent knocking at the door. Before Jake could reach the knob, it had been flung open, and Florence Peveley strode into the room, an anxious-eyed Henry close behind her.
“Don’t bother him,” Jake said. “He’s a very sick man.”
She didn’t hear him. Henry Peveley closed the door quietly and apologetically.
“I thought you were a friend of mine,” she said to the little lawyer. “A hell of a friend you turned out to be, letting somebody blow up my bank.”
Malone blinked. “I didn’t know it was your bank,” he said.
“Well it is. It belonged to Pa, and he must have left it to me.” She planted her fists on her hips and stood glaring around the room.
It was obvious that she hadn’t taken time to dress before coming over to the General Andrew Jackson House. She was clad, simply, in a pair of khaki-colored shorts, a striped jersey, and an old pair of tennis shoes. There was a grass stain on her right knee.
“What are you going to do about it,” she demanded.
Malone closed his eyes. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Please, Miss Peveley,” Jake began.
She wheeled on him. “Blast you, you know me well enough to call me Florence. Is he going to find out who blew up my bank, or isn’t he?”
“It’s all the fault of the administration,” Henry Peveley said gloomily. “Blowing up banks. They’ll be blowing up the Capitol next.”
“Don’t be absurd,” the red-haired girl snapped. “This was something personal.”
Malone looked up at her wearily. “You think perhaps someone took a dislike to you?”
