Nobody's Perfect

by Donald Westlake

  Dortmunder frisked him, but Kelp was no longer armed, until they finally found it in the armoire, where it had slipped out of his pocket. A tiny .25 calibre Beretta automatic, it looked like a toy but it was less foolish than the four–inch–barrel custom–made .22 calibre target pistol inside Dortmunder’s shirt. Being in a foreign land, away from their normal sources of supply, they’d been limited in armament to whatever Chauncey could come up with, and it had been this: a woman’s purse automatic and a target pistol.

  “Quietly now,” Dortmunder said, unlimbering his own weapon, and the two of them slipped toward the office.

  Outside, a complication had developed. Chauncey had been nervous at first — he thought of himself as sophisticated, but armed robbery was rather beyond his experience — but when everything went according to Dortmunder’s plan his confidence grew and he found himself quite pleased with the insouciance he was projecting.

  Until the bobby came wandering past at about five to two, and stopped to chat. “Out late, are you?” He was a young police officer with a moustache the size and shape and color of a street–sweeper’s broom, and he wasn’t in the least suspicious of Chauncey and Zane and the cherrypicker. Quite the opposite; a bit bored on these silent empty late–night commercial streets, he’d simply stopped off for human contact, a little shop talk with another pair of night–workers.

  Every Englishman, and every American who spends any time at all in England, believes himself capable of imitating a cockney accent, and Chauncey was no exception. Donning his party cockney voice, he said, “Evenin’, guvnor. Nice night, innit?”

  “Canadian, are you?” asked the bobby.

  “Err–yuss,” said Chauncey.

  Inside, Dortmunder and Kelp, peering out through the eye–holes in the itchy ski masks they were now wearing, entered the cashier’s office and told the two guards, “Stick em up.”

  “Whurr,” said one of the guards, and the other clattered his teacup into its saucer, turning to stare with blank astonishment and say, “Ere! Where’d you two come from?”

  “Stick em up,” Dortmunder repeated.

  “Stick what up? Me mitts? I’ll spill me tea.”

  “Put the tea down,” Dortmunder told him, “and then stick em up.”

  “Well, I like that,” grumbled the guard, plunking cup and saucer on top of a handy filing cabinet.

  “Stickler for ritual, that’s what he is,” said the other guard, remaining calmly in his chair with his feet up on the desk as in leisurely fashion he stuck em up.

  “Trade unionist,” agreed the first guard, sticking his own up at last. “Brotherhood a Smash an Grabbers.”

  Dortmunder pointed the incredibly long barrel of his target pistol at the seated guard — it kept reminding him, unfortunately, of Hansel’s stick–finger used to fool the witch about his skinniness — and said, “There’s two more guards upstairs. Phone em, call em down here.”

  The seated guard lowered his feet from the desk and his hands from the air. “Two more upstairs, is it? Where’d you come by that idea?”

  “One in an office on the second floor,” Dortmunder told him, “one on a chair in a corridor on the fourth.”

  The guards gave each other impressed looks. “Knows his business,” said the first.

  “Got the floors wrong, though,” commented the second.

  “Probably Canadian.” The first looked at Dortmunder. “You Canadian?”

  “Australian,” Dortmunder said. He was tired of being Canadian. “And in a hurry.”

  “Do like he says, Tom,” the second advised. “Get on the blower.”

  “And be careful what you say,” Dortmunder told him.

  Outside, Chauncey was being extremely careful what he said, in his conversation with the bobby. They’d discussed the weather — was the summertime drought to be an annual event or not, and if so was it a good idea? — and they’d discussed overtime salary, and the bobby’s problems with the London Electricity Board which had very nearly shut off his electricity by mistake, and Chauncey was beginning to wish this son of a bitch would drop down dead on the pavement. Beside Chauncey, Zane was fingering something under his jacket and undoubtedly thinking thoughts of a similar, though perhaps more activist, nature.

  In the bobby’s breast pocket was a miniature walkie–talkie, which occasionally spoke; disconcerting, at first, to be in conversation with a person whose pocket suddenly joins in. The bobby abruptly responded to one of its staccato announcements by looking alert and saying, “Right.” Touching his helmet brim in a casual salute, he said, “Duty calls. Ta–ta.”

  “Ta–ta,” Chauncey agreed, and watched in the cherrypicker’s rear–view mirror as the bobby hied himself away toward Vigo Street.

  “I was about to shoot him,” Zane said.

  “I was afraid you were.” Chauncey glanced over at Parkeby–South. “And what’s taking them so long?”

  Nothing. Things were going very well, in fact. Tom had gotten on the blower and had talked first with Frank and then with Henry, telling them both to pop down to the office a minute, and here they came. Dortmunder and Kelp flanked the door, and in less than no time all four guards were having their hands tied behind their backs by Kelp, while Dortmunder stood well back, pointing the long–barreled gun as though at a slide in a lecture.

  “All set,” Kelp said at last. “Should I tie their ankles, too?” This was a previously rehearsed bit of dialogue, and Dortmunder gave the prepared response: “No. We’ll bring em with us. I want my eye on em till we’re out of here.” Meaning, in truth, just the reverse. The guards would be witnesses that neither of the bandits had ever gone upstairs.

  Kelp led the way out of the office, followed by the four guards. Dortmunder brought up the rear, pausing first to pull a pocket flash from his jacket and aim it toward the nearest window: on–off, on–off, on–off.

  “At last,” said Chauncey. Climbing down from the cab, carrying the rolled–up imitation Veenbes in a black vinyl umbrella sheath, he went around to the back while Zane slid over behind the wheel. Chauncey climbed into the cherrypicker’s bucket, which contained its own controls, and with some hesitation sent himself upward. He was a bit awkward at first, nearly whacking into the lamp post and then coming within a hair of braining himself on the light, but with practice came assurance, and after only modest adjustments he very quickly brought himself up to that blessed window that had so fascinated Dortmunder. From his jacket pocket he took a rather large magnet, which immediately fastened itself inexorably to the side of the bucket. “Bastard,” muttered Chauncey, and pried the son of a bitch loose. Moving it with difficulty toward the window — it was like walking an Irish setter puppy on a short leash — Chauncey went to work.

  This part he was already good at. Dortmunder had fixed a bolt to one of Chauncey’s windows, and Chauncey had practiced over and over again the manipulation of that bolt through the window with this magnet. First the magnet slides up the window, up the window, turning the little bolt, freeing its little handle from the little slot. Then the magnet slides across the window, slowly, gently, and the obedient little bolt slides slowly and gently out of its nest in the window frame. Repeat with the second bolt, and the window is unlocked. (Over and over Dortmunder had returned to the question of this window, wanting to know if the bolts were brass or iron, and finally Chauncey had cried, “Iron, for the love of God!” “I hope you’re right,” Dortmunder had said, “because a magnet won’t work on brass.” Which was the first Chauncey had known about the magnet, and he too had been hoping he was right ever since. It was quite a relief to discover the bolts really were iron — he’d been guessing.)

  Now, Chauncey slid open the window and stepped from bucket to staircase, carrying the umbrella sheath and pausing to close the window behind himself. (“We don’t want any guards noticing any unexplained drafts,” Dortmunder had pointed out.) Up the half flight of stairs Chauncey hurried to the value room, where he took from his pocket the string–tied bundle of keys
given him by Kelp. (“I’m no expert on English locks,” Kelp had said, “but if you got the brand right and the appearance right, one of these keys should work on each lock.” And he’d shrugged, adding, “If not, the caper’s a bust.”)

  Two locks. Fumbling in the dark, jangling the keys out of haste and nervousness, Chauncey chose one at random and tried it in both slots. No. Second one; no … Third one —

  The eleventh key worked in the top lock. The seventeenth key — only four from the last — worked in the bottom lock. Chauncey pushed open the vault–room door, and entered, as from downstairs there came the sound of glass breaking.

  It was Kelp, smashing the front of a display case with the butt of his little Beretta. Reaching through the opening, he scooped up fistfuls of gold rings and transferred them to his pockets. In the background, Dortmunder went on pointing his curtain rod (“It’s curtains for you! I brought my rod!”), while glancing from time to time at his watch.

  Upstairs, Chauncey was also looking at his watch. Dortmunder had told him he’d have ten minutes from the moment of the flashlight signal, and he’d already used seven just getting into the room. Another time he might have dawdled to admire some of the other beauties in here, but now, shining his flashlight around, he had time for nothing but the Veenbes, which was … over there.

  Downstairs, Kelp’s pockets were full but Dortmunder’s watch showed they still had three minutes to stall. “We’ll check the next room,” he said, and herded the guards ahead of him as Kelp led the way.

  Upstairs: Painting off frame, imitation out of umbrella sheath, imitation tacked onto frame, original rolled (carefully, carefully) and inserted into sheath, Chauncey and sheath out of the room with locks snicking into place automatically behind him.

  Downstairs: “That’s enough,” Dortmunder said. “Through that way,” he told the guards, leading them to the basement stairs. The four guards went down the staircase, and Dortmunder and Kelp closed and locked the door, then turned and ran for the main exit.

  Upstairs: Chauncey and sheath out the window and into the bucket, window closed, magnet out of pocket, magnet stuck to side of bucket, magnet yanked off bucket, magnet used to slide the left bolt back into place, the right bolt back into place.

  Downstairs: Dortmunder and Kelp running pell–mell out of the building, Kelp jingling like a Christmas sleigh, and both leaping into the cab of the cherrypicker, one on each side, pushing Zane into the middle, with Kelp behind the wheel. Dortmunder, looking up before entering the cab, saw the bucket descending from the sky, and told Kelp, “He’s done. Go.”

  Kelp went. Throwing the cherrypicker into gear — he was becoming terrific at this looking–glass way of driving by now — he zipped down to Piccadilly and left toward Piccadilly Circus.

  In the bucket, Chauncey couldn’t believe it when the world suddenly started reeling sideways while he was still descending. “Hey!” he said, releasing the controls — the bucket stopped moving down but continued moving over — and he clutched the rim in both hands as the upper stories of Sackville Street rushed past, “Good God!” said Chauncey, and he didn’t at all like the way the cherrypicker swayed when they made the left onto Piccadilly.

  “Got to get down,” Chauncey told himself. They must be dangerously overbalanced this way. But he couldn’t force himself to release either of his handholds so he could operate the controls. Even his toes were making clutching movements, inside his shoes; especially when he looked out and saw Piccadilly Circus dead ahead. “Oh, no,” he said.

  Oh, yes. Swayyyyy to the right went the bucket toward the Eros statue as the truck angled left, then swayyyyy to the left as the truck roared around the Circus and shot down the hill of Haymarket. The sharp right turn into Pall Mall at the bottom of the downslope nearly sent them tumbling wheels over bucket down Cockspur Street, but the cherrypicker righted itself and hastened on.

  “We were on two wheels!” Kelp cried, in outraged astonishment. “What kind of vehicle is this?”

  Dortmunder, looking back through the cab’s rear window, said, “He’s still up there. Why doesn’t he bring it down?”

  “He’ll tip us over!” Kelp was really angry. “What does he think this is, some kind of joyride?”

  Chauncey didn’t. Chauncey thought he was in Hell.

  St. James’s Street; another right turn, this one uphill, and to Chauncey’s wondering eyes the traffic lights up on Piccadilly were red. Kelp didn’t apply the brakes till the last possible second, which meant the bucket tried to keep going, so the two wheels the truck was on this time were both in front. Briefly the cherrypicker looked like some kind of yellow dinosaur imitating a bucking bronco.

  But then it dropped back, and in the sudden cessation of movement Chauncey’s hands clutched at the controls and dowwwwwnn came the bucket, reaching its bottom position just as the light turned green and Kelp whipped around the left turn into Piccadilly, steaming toward Hyde Park Corner. Midway, another set of traffic lights gleamed red, and no sooner had the cherrypicker shuddered to a halt than Chauncey clambered over the side, gripping tight the umbrella sheath, and ran up to climb into the cab on top of Dortmunder, who said, “What? What?”

  “No more,” Chauncey said, sitting on Dortmunder. “No more.”

  “We’re being serious up here,” Kelp told him angrily, “and you’re back there playing games.” And while Chauncey gaped at him, speechless, Kelp shifted into first and drove on.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  When Dortmunder awoke, Zane was already up and out of the room, but Kelp slept on, curled like a collie beneath the dresser. “Wake up,” Dortmunder suggested, prodding him gently with a bare toe. “This’s the day we go home.”

  Kelp had learned to awaken cautiously, and not sit bolt upright. Rolling slowly out from under the dresser, he straightened himself with a series of snaps and creaks and moans, while Dortmunder went off to the bathroom to make himself pretty for the flight. One P.M., leaving Heathrow, due to arrive at four P.M. (eight hours later and five time zones earlier) at Kennedy in New York. Dortmunder actually smiled at his reflection while shaving, and as a result nicked himself pretty badly.

  Wearing a patch of toilet paper on the cut, he dressed himself and went downstairs, where he found a cheerful Chauncey, completely recovered from his ride in the bucket, drinking coffee and reading the Times in the dining–room window seat. “Good morning,” Dortmunder told him.

  Chauncey beamed over his paper. “Good morning? By God, Dortmunder, this is the sweetest morning of my life! You’ve made my day, you’ve turned me into a successful second–story man, and I’m delighted to have been associated with you.”

  “Sure,” Dortmunder said, and reached for the coffeepot.

  Edith wandered in, rubbing her hands together in front of her apron and grinning as she asked some sort of question.

  “I think we’ll have kippers this morning Edith,” Chauncey told her. “Enough for four, there’s a good girl.”

  Edith went off, whickering, as Kelp came in, looking stiff and happy. “Never again under that dresser,” he said. “It’s like a pardon from the Governor.” Seating himself, pouring some coffee, he said to Dortmunder, “Whadawe do with the goods we picked up last night?”

  “Well, we don’t bring it all through US Customs,” Dortmunder said, “that’s one thing for sure.”

  “According to the Times,” Chauncey said, “you took eighty thousand pounds in merchandise from Parkeby–South last night.”

  Kelp said, “We’re written up in the paper?”

  “Right here.” Chauncey passed it across.

  Dortmunder said, “Eighty thousand pounds? What’s that in dollars?”

  “Roughly a hundred fifty thousand. How much of that would you get from a fence?”

  “Maybe ten per cent.”

  Chauncey was surprised. “That’s all? Fifteen thousand?”

  “You don’t get top dollar when you’re peddling stuff on some police list.”

>   “I’ll give you a check myself, right now, for ten thousand dollars,” Chauncey suggested. “Is that enough?”

  “Not a check,” Dortmunder told him.

  “Yes, I see.” Chauncey frowned, thinking it over. “This cash–only existence of yours can be difficult.”

  Kelp said, “It says here we were obviously English and well educated and trying to disguise our background with fake Australian accents.”

  Edith came simpering and bobbing in with four plates of hot buttery filleted kippers with lemon wedges, and they all set to, while Kelp went on reading the Times’s exhaustively detailed account of the robbery. He said, “Who’s Raffles?”

  “Beats me,” Dortmunder said.

  Chauncey said, “Dortmunder, how about this? I’ll phone my accountant this afternoon and tell him to convert ten thousand dollars into cash, for you to pick up next Monday. You’ll have a password so he’ll know you’re the man who should get the money.”