John Baer - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 5 — August 1922)

“Yep, Jack, I’m Saunders, your boss. Don’t mind telling you, now, because you’re not going to split on me. I’m going to loot the same — clean, this time, and quit. By the way, Jack, I’m putting on rubber gloves, but, rather curiously, they’ll leave your finger-prints on the safe knob. You see, I’ve done this twice before. Once I got away with a lot of bullion and a few indifferent stones. That was a year and more ago and everyone’s grown careless since then. I managed to plant it so the watchman was suspected. He’s in jail now. And then, once, I fixed up the matter so that a theft of some finished stuff was discovered while I was on vacation. They never suspected me. But this time I’m going to clean out the works, all the bullion, all the stones, and tomorrow’s payroll.”

The unknown’s voice changed, and grew intent. Mike, in the dusty little closet, could hear a muted, musical tinkle, as he spun the combination knob.

“Got your finger-prints some time ago, Jack, when you knew nothing about it. I brought ’em out, photographed them, and contrived to fix them on the ends of these rubber gloves. I’ve run ’em through my hair, so they’ll be slightly oily, and they’ll convict you completely of opening the safe. I’ll have to use a microphone, myself, to hear the tumblers fall.”

Mike was listening with a curious mixture of fear and indignation and curiosity. He, himself, had a microphone apparatus in his pocket, which he had intended to use. The other man had beat him to it. Mike began to revolve a misty scheme for following the other man and taking his loot away. There was a clanking as of tiny bits of metal being fitted together.

“I rather think, Jack,” — the voice became amused, — “that you’re thinking of the trap that’s fixed for any man who breaks into the safe. Aren’t you?” — A moment of silence — “So that even if someone gets inside the vault, when he touches one of several things he’ll set off a switch, have the doors swing shut and lock on him, and ring a loud bell in police headquarters? I suggested that, Jack, and I was the one who was strong for the bell. I told ’em a burglar would be smothered in here in two hours, but with the doors closing fast on him to catch him, the police could get here, let him out and save his life, and catch him with the goods. But you forget there’s a switch to run that burglar-trap on.”

Mike, listening, found himself suddenly cold all over. If he had opened the huge vault, — as he was confident he could do, — he would never have thought of anything like that! He would have gone in, only anxious to secure his loot and depart before the watchman’s return. With luck, he would have been able, he thought, to get the big doors closed so his burglary would have gone unnoticed until morning. But when he went in, he would have touched one of a number of concealed springs. The huge doors would have swung to, relentlessly, upon him. He would have been trapped in an air-tight tomb, to batter futilely at the armor-plate barriers until the police came.

He was to get another shock.

“This afternoon, though,” said the soft voice outside, interrupted now and then by the infinitely faint musical sound of the spinning knobs, “I did a little work on that wiring. The doors will work, but the alarm won’t. The police will not be notified that a burglar is caught in the vault.”

Sweat came out, cold and clammy, on Mike’s skin. He would have been caught in there! He would have strangled! Hunched upon the floor of the smelly little book-closet, he shivered in uncontrollable terror from sheer horror at what he had escaped. Again he longed to get away from the factory, at any cost.

“Most through,” said the abstracted voice, outside. “Wonder why I’m telling you, Jack? You see, I need the stuff in there. Need it in my business. I’m going to take it, but I don’t want to have detectives chasing around to try to find the thief. With your fingerprints on the knob, they’d look for you, of course, but you might have proved an alibi to make ’em look farther. And also, Jack, you’re too damned fascinating. I was getting along pretty well with Ethel, until she met you. I want to get you out of the way. With you dead, she’ll marry me, sooner or later. I’m going to tap you on the head again, Jack, and put you in here. The doors will close on you. In the morning they’ll find that you opened the vault, passed out quite a lot of stuff to a confederate, and then by accident touched off the alarm that closes the doors. A sandbag doesn’t leave any sign, and I used straps to tie you up so there’ll be no marks on your wrists. I’ve thought of pretty nearly everything, Jack. I’ve even taken out all the pencils and fountain pens from your pockets. I’ve no notion of your writing an accusation of me while you’re in there; also I don’t want to kill you before you go in there. I want you to show the signs of dying from — er — the natural cause of being locked in an air-tight vault... Ah...”

There was a series of tiny clicks, then a faint creaking. Mike, in his hiding-place, with the smell of dust and books and new-placed rubber insulation in his nostrils, knew that the great doors had swung open.

There was a pause, and the little snap of a watch-case.

“Watchman’s due in half an hour. Plenty of time.”

The voice stopped.

The man seemed to be listening. That was what Mike would have done. He lay utterly and completely motionless, barely breathing. He was queerly afraid of the man he had not seen. Perhaps because of that, Mike felt a sudden cramp in one of his legs, a sharp, tingling, shooting pain. He could not run on a leg like that. It might give way beneath him.

“All clear,” said the voice, with a certain ghastly cheerfulness. “But in case you’re thinking that I might set off the trap, Jack, I’d like to mention that after I had you neatly trussed up, I pulled out the switch. It’s in that little closet back there. I shall turn it on after I’ve got the stuff out — and then the doors will close on you. But first I’ll tap you on the head, and put you inside.”

Mike shivered. The smell of insulation... The switch was in the closet in which he was hiding! In a little while more the unknown would come in where he was! Sheer panic came over Mike. It was with a terrific effort that he calmed himself, trying to figure out an escape from the inevitable struggle. The other man would open the door. He, Mike, was inside. At best there would be a struggle. At worst...

Mike’s whole body was bathed in sweat at the thought of himself thrown inside the vault with armor-plated doors inexorably shutting out every atom of fresh air. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. The man outside took on the aspect of a monster. To Mike, he was something more or less than human. Mike might be a criminal, and could visualize, — shrinking, — the thought of killing a man in making a getaway, but not the deliberate strangling of a man in cold blood, for the covering of his tracks. That was the other man’s plan.

There would have to be a struggle, a fight of some sort. Mike’s leg throbbed horribly. He doubted that it would support his weight. And in an instant or two more he would inevitably be fighting. One way or another, he was bound to be in terrible danger. If he shot the other man, the pistol-shot would raise an alarm. If he did not shoot...

He heard a faint thump on the floor.

“One load,” said the voice outside. “Two or three more. Jack, and I’ll skip.” The voice, already soft, became muffled as its owner went into the vault. “Here’s the payroll. Nice packet, in itself. I’ve a good twenty minutes left. You realize what will happen, Jack? I loot the vault, tap you on the head, take off your bonds and put you in here. Then I push on the switch, the doors close on you, and I get away with the stuff. In the morning they’ll find you inside, and the stuff gone. Your fingerprints will be on the knobs. Inference will inevitably be that the trap got you as you were handing out the stuff to a confederate. Pretty scheme, isn’t it Jack?”