“Could it have been gone before the girl came in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Was anybody in your cage between the time she was in and when the bank closed?”
“No, Helen. I’m positive of that.”
“Jud Fergol is here, at window two. And Arthur Maldrick on the other side of you. They didn’t see anything?”
“Nothing. Jud heard that girl call me Tom, but then she talked too low for him to hear what she said.”
“Did she seem nervous?”
“Just kind of — odd. I thought she was maybe a little crazy.”
“I... I just can’t understand it, Tom.” “Neither can anyone else.”
“They can’t send you to prison, can they?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I think they let me go so they could follow me and see if I got in touch with that blonde, or she with me. I know that money didn’t go through the window. I know that.”
“And your door was not opened. There’s only one other place. Over the walls. They say women aren’t logical. That’s the only other place it could go!”
“That isn’t being logical. That’s being simple-minded. Somebody twelve feet tall reached over and picked it up.” He flushed. “Damn it, Helen, you know better than to try to tell me that.”
The doorbell rang. It was Harkness and Lutz. It was two in the afternoon. They took him to Durand’s office. Elvinard was there.
“I’ll give you this,” Durand said. “It checked out. She got married, and she lives on West Pershing. Her name is Mrs. Henry Votronic. She remembers the evening very well. She backs you up. Her friend is named Marie Gold-fine. We questioned Marie separately. She told the same story. The guards took a look at Marie. Too thin, they say, to be our friend. Or should I say your friend?”
“If I wasn’t lying about that—”
“It doesn’t mean you couldn’t have been lying about everything else. You just had a break. Who’s the blonde?”
“I didn’t give her the money. I didn’t take it myself.”
Durand gave him a look of disgust. He leaned back in the chair and cracked his knuckles. “You got any theories?”
Tom flushed. “My wife says if it didn’t go through the window or through the door, it had to go over the wall.”
“Nonsense!” Elvinard said in his sharp, metallic voice. “I’ve seen a lot of slickers in action. They haven’t developed any methods of hoisting money over an eight-foot wall between your cage and the bank floor. You’re wasting our time, Weldon.”
“Maybe,” said Durand slowly, “if everybody’s attention was attracted some other place— I read up on one deal where an accomplice sets a sort of accidental fire in one of the wastebaskets out on the floor, and then his buddy with one of those collapsible fishing gaffs lifts a package out of a teller’s window while the guy is watching the fire.”
“We’ve been over that,” Elvinard explained impatiently. “There was no incident of that sort. The only odd thing noticed in the bank yesterday afternoon was the blonde young lady. There was no... ah... diversionary attempt.” He coughed in a dry way. “Weldon, this isn’t a big theft. We’re more interested in the money than in a successful prosecution. Produce the four thousand, or tell us where we can get it, and I can almost guarantee you a suspended sentence.”
“And if I can’t?”
Elvinard leaned forward. “I’ll see that you get a prison sentence. And once you get out, we’ll still be looking for that money, and for the blonde.”
Something was nibbling at the back of Tom’s mind. Some memory. Something ludicrous. He didn’t answer.
“Well?” said Elvinard.
“Please shut up a minute,” Tom said patiently. No diversionary attempt. Over the wall. What constituted a diversionary attempt? Something that would focus all eyes on one specific object. There had been laughter as the girl reached the door. Something had happened to make both the tellers and the customers laugh. He remembered seeing the irate face of a vice-president who glared at the unseemly sound. And Helen had said the money had to go over the wall.
He said, to Elvinard, “Go away for a while. I want to talk to the lieutenant.”
“I certainly will not go—”
“Humor the guy, humor the guy,” Durand said. Elvinard stalked out and shut the door. “What’s on your mind?” Durand asked Tom.
“Lieutenant, that girl had high heels and a tight skirt, and she set those heels down hard. They made a lot of racket. She was hurrying. And when she was ten feet away from my window, somebody whistled. You know, one of those wolf whistles.”
“So?”
Tom stood up, too nervous to stay sitting down. “It made me think. When that whistle came, everybody looked at her. I guess she was the only woman on the bank floor anyway. And they laughed when she got to the door.”
“Make sense, will you?”
“Don’t you see it? That whistle did it. It made everybody look at her. Just like they’d look at a fire in a wastebasket. I don’t like to say this. I know who whistled. It came from my right. It was Jud Fergol, and I remember now thinking that it wasn’t like him at all. It was a funny thing for him to do.”
Durand laced his fingers at the back of his neck. “Weldon, any bank job puts the heat on the local cops, and it brings in a lot of help. The FBI has been on this, you know. You’ve got an appointment with them a little later on. Judson Fergol, Arthur Maldrick, Victor Reisher — fine-tooth combs on all of them. Okay, so Fergol whistled. Sometimes a blonde will make a sedate-type guy forget where he is. Judson Fergol is a very sober citizen. To bed at ten. No booze. No gambling. No ladies. Does it match?”
“Not exactly. Vic told me three months ago he was worried about Jud. He said Jud always chewed mints after lunch. One day he forgot them. Vic sent him home. He was afraid one of the vice-presidents might smell Jud’s breath.”
Durand closed his eyes for long seconds. He was immobile. For once, the restless white hands didn’t move. He opened his eyes. “You interest me strangely. Your wife said the dough had to go over the wall, eh?”
“Yes, but I don’t see—”
“Maybe she’s a smart girl.”
“What are you going to do?”
Durand smiled in an exceedingly unpleasant way. “Take Mr. Fergol’s life apart, just for the kicks. Like we did yours. Know we vacuumed your car? Checked the ash tray? Went over your clothes? The face powder we got matched your wife’s. The lipstick we got off a dirty shirt was your wife’s brand. Same with lipstick on the butts in the car ash tray. A guy thinks he’s smart, you know, destroying match covers, parking-lot stubs, love notes. He forgets you can identify one blonde hair, vacuum face powder, run a spectroscopic analysis of lipstick. Get the cops looking for the ‘other woman,’ and they’re worse than any wife could think of being. That was the only thing about you that bothered me. Couldn’t find evidence of any outside fun. Go on home. I’m going to cancel your appointment for now.”
Sunday afternoon in the bank: shades drawn on the doors, autumn sun slanting in the high windows. Durand said, “Okay, Mr. Weldon. Go on into your cage and shut the door behind you. You watching this, Mr. Fergol?”
“I’m watching it with interest,” Jud said, his thin face white, “but I’m afraid it doesn’t mean very much to me, Lieutenant.” Harkness and Lutz were there, and Vic Reisher, and several almost dapper young FBI men, and some others Tom wasn’t able to identify.
Durand went into the adjoining cage, Jud Fergol’s cage, teller number two. The men moved to where they could see him. Durand said, “Okay, Weldon, put that package of ones where the big bills were. Fine. Right there. Now make like you’re working. Fine. Now turn back and look at the bills. Look okay?”