Paulus followed him inside. Wycza had put his revolver away now and taken out a flashlight. The narrow beam showed wood-paneled counters with marble tops, and cream composition flooring, and a free form copper bas relief sprawled out on one wall. The vault door was in plain sight on the rear wall, huge and round and complex, looking like an escape hatch on a spaceship or the entrance to a torpedo tube in a submarine.
After the front door, there were no more obstacles to the vault, no doors to unlock or gates to jimmy. They lifted a flap at the end of the counter, walked through the loan department, took a left around a railing, and there was the vault door in front of them. Desks and railings and countertops hid them almost completely from the street.
While Wycza held the flashlight, Paulus studied the vault door. He nodded in recognition of the type, walked back and forth to consider it from various angles, and rubbed the knuckles of his hands together as he thought it out. Drill four holes, load, blast. He pursed his lips, and nodded. Now he was absorbed, completely absorbed.
Wycza said, “Any problems?”
“I don’t think so. Shine the light here a minute.”
He knelt and opened the suitcase, got the drill, selected a bit, changed his mind and selected another. He looked around and said, “Find me an outlet.”
“Over here.”
“Am I going to need the extension?”
“No.” Wycza laughed. “Handy, huh? The architect had you in mind.”
“Good of him.” Paulus carried the drill over to the vault, went down on one knee. “Hold the light steady, now.”
The drill began to whine.
6
He’d missed the curfew.
His name was Eddie Wheeler, he was nineteen years old, he worked at Brooks’ Pharmacy, and he was now in the Campbell house, having been engaged in premarital intercourse with Betty Campbell, whose parents were visiting relatives all this week in Bismarck.
He’d fallen asleep, entwined in Betty’s arms.
“It’s one o’clock,” he whispered. There wasn’t any need to whisper he and Betty were the only ones in the house but he whispered anyway. For the same lack of reason, they hadn’t turned on any lights, but depended on the illumination coming faintly through the window from a streetlight outside.
“What are you going to do?” Betty was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, holding a sheet up to her throat.
Eddie felt around on the floor for his other shoe. “What can I do? I’ve got to get home.”
“Stay here tonight.”
“And what do I tell my folks? Where do I say I spent all night?”
“But what if the police catch you?”
“What can they do to me?” He found the other shoe, put it on, tied the laces. “They’ll just give me a warning, that’s all.”
“It’s my fault, Eddie, I shouldn’t have gone to sleep.”
“We bothwent to sleep.” He got to his feet. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you downstairs.”
“No, stay there, go back to sleep.”
“I’ve got to lock the door anyway.”
He was concentrating so hard on getting away, slipping across town to his own house without being caught by the police, that he barely paid attention to her when she got out of bed, slim and pale and naked as a nymph, and quickly shrugged into a bathrobe. Almost six months they’d been sleeping together now, and she still got into a robe any time she got out of bed, still covered herself with a sheet before and after, still made him turn his back while she undressed and got into bed. It was silly, but there it was. And it was a small price to pay.
Six months, and this was the first time anything had distracted him from staring at any rare glimpse of her she offered. The goddam curfew.
They went down the carpeted stair together, she barefoot, and over to the front door. His heart was pounding, he felt like a desperado. He opened the door a little and peeked out, and saw no cars moving, no people at all.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Kiss me good night, Eddie.”
“Oh. I forgot.”
She was soft and warm from bed, and he forgot his nervousness for a few seconds, caught up in the sense of her. But the breeze from the slightly open door was cool on the back of his neck, reminding him, and he was the first to break the kiss. He told her again he’d call her tomorrow. Her robe had parted, and her breasts were pale and full and soft, but he turned away and sidled out on to the porch. They whispered good night to each other, and she closed the door. He heard the snick of the lock.
Nothing moving. Orange Street was dark and silent. A block and a half away, Raymond Avenue was a bit brighter, but just as silent. It was after one o’clock in the morning.
Which would they patrol most, Raymond Avenue or the side streets? Raymond Avenue was so brightly lit, a curfew-breaker might tend to keep away from it; wouldn’t the police think of that? They’d patrol the side streets most, wouldn’t they? And just cross Raymond Avenue from time to time, going from one side of town to the other?
All right. So he’d go straight to Raymond Avenue, and down Raymond to Blake Street, and then over Blake Street the two blocks to his house. On Orange and Blake, he could duck into a driveway if he saw headlights. On Raymond, he could hide in a store doorway.
Reluctantly, he left the protection of the porch, went down to the sidewalk, and turned right. He walked along quickly, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pants pockets. He kept looking back over his shoulder, but he didn’t see any headlights.
Raymond Avenue. He turned left. He went half a block, and out of the corner of his eye he saw something wrong.
Broken glass.
The bank door was broken.
He stopped in his tracks, forgetting everything else, and stared at the broken glass of the bank door. Parked here was a big brown tractor trailer, but nobody in or near it. But in the bank
He went over to the glass front and peered in. There was a light back there, he could just barely make it out. And a man standing there.
Bank robbers!
He took three quick steps, beyond the bank’s glass front. Had they seen him? He didn’t think so. No, they would have come after him. Bank robbers, and that must be their truck.
What in hell was he going to do? He stared around wildly, and two blocks farther down, at the corner of Whittier Street, he could see the telephone booth. There was a phone booth right on the corner there, he’d used it himself a few times. He could go there and phone police headquarters.
Where was the police car? A minute ago he’d been grateful for its absence, but now he felt indignant that it wasn’t here. That was the police for you, never around when you wanted them. If there weren’t any bank robbers, the police car would be right here this second, the cops giving him a bad time for being out after curfew.
Did he dare phone in? He was still breaking the law himself.
Don’t be silly. Giving the warning about a bank robbery would make up for being out late. They wouldn’t even mention it.
He started off again, this time going at a trot, hurrying down the two blocks to Whittier Street, looking down the cross-streets in hopes of seeing the headlights of the police car, but seeing nothing. At the phone booth, he paused to catch his breath and to find a dime, and then he stepped into the booth and closed the door. It was a glass-and-metal booth, mostly windows, and when he closed the door the light came on. Startled, he snapped the door open again, and the light went off. That was all he needed, the light on, so the robbers could see him making the call.
He did it the simplest way. Dropped the dime in, dialed operator, and when the girl came on said, “Police headquarters, please. This is an emergency.”