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.
XIII
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 arm and he carried a leather attache case in his right hand.
The bearded man set down the attache 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 ATTACHE 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 attache 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 1A at 233 East 33rd Street.