Агата Кристи - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. No. 75, April 1959, British Edition

Mr. Hogan opened the charge account drawer and took out the store pistol, a silver-colored Iver Johnson .38. He moved quickly to the storeroom, slipped off his apron, put 0n his coat, and stuck the revolver in his side pocket. The Mickey Mouse mask he shoved up under his coat where it didn’t show. He opened the alley door and looked up and down and stepped quickly out, leaving the door slightly ajar. It is sixty feet to where the alley enters Main Street, and there he paused and looked up and down and then he turned his head toward the center of the street as he passed the bank window. At the bank’s swinging door he took out the mask from under his coat and put it on. Mr. Warner was just entering his office and his back was to the door. The top of Will Cup’s head was visible through the teller’s grill.

Mr. Hogan moved quickly and quietly around the end of the counter and into the teller’s cage. He had the revolver in his right hand now. When Will Cup turned his head and saw the revolver, he froze. Mr. Hogan slipped his toe under the trigger of the floor alarm and he motioned Will Cup to the floor with the revolver and Will went down quick. Then Mr. Hogan opened the cash drawer and with two quick movements he piled the large bills from the tray together. He made a whipping motion to Will on the floor, to indicate that he should turn over and face the wall, and Will did. Then Mr. Hogan stepped back around the counter. At the door of the bank he took off the mask, and as he passed the window he turned his head toward the middle of the street. He moved into the alley, walked quickly to the storeroom, and entered. The cat had got in. It watched him from a pile of canned goods cartons. Mr. Hogan went to the toilet closet and tore up the mask and flushed it. He took off his coat and put on his apron. He looked out into the store and then moved to the cash register. The revolver went back into the charge account drawer. He punched No Sale and, lifting the top drawer, distributed the stolen money underneath the top tray and then pulled the tray forward and closed the register. Only then did he look at his watch and it was 9:07½.

He was trying to get the cat out of the storeroom when the commotion boiled out of the bank. He took his broom and went out on the sidewalk. He heard all about it and offered his opinion when it was asked for. He said he didn’t think the fellow could get away — where could he get to? Still, with the holiday coming up—

It was an exciting day. Mr. Fettucci was as proud as though it were his bank. The sirens sounded around town for hours. Hundreds of holiday travelers had to stop at the roadblocks set up all around the edge of town and several sneaky-looking men had their cars searched.

Mrs. Hogan heard about it over the phone and she dressed earlier than she would have ordinarily and came to the store on her way to Altar Guild. She hoped Mr. Hogan would have seen or heard something new, but he hadn’t. “I don’t see how the fellow can get away,” he said.

Mrs. Hogan was so excited, she forgot her own news. She only remembered when she got to Mrs. Drake’s house, but she asked permission and phoned the store the first moment she could. “I forgot to tell you. John’s won honorable mention.”

“What?”

“In the I Love America Contest.”

“What did he win?”

“Honorable mention.”

“Fine. Fine— Anything come with it?”

“Why, he’ll get his picture and his name all over the country. Radio too. Maybe even television. They’ve already asked for a photograph of him.”

“Fine,” said Mr. Hogan. “I hope it don’t spoil him.” He put up the receiver and said to Mr. Fettucci, “I guess we’ve got a celebrity in the family.”

Fettucci stayed open until nine on Saturdays. Mr. Hogan ate a few snacks from cold cuts, but not much, because Mrs. Hogan always kept his supper warming.

It was 9:05, or :06, or :07, when he got back to the brown-shingle house at 215 East Maple. He went in through the front door and out to the kitchen where the family was waiting for him.

“Got to wash up,” he said, and went up to the bathroom. He turned the key in the bathroom door and then he flushed the toilet and turned on the water in the basin and tub while he counted the money. $8320. From the top shelf of the storage closet in the bathroom he took down the big leather case that held his Knight Templar’s uniform. The plumed hat lay there on its form. The white ostrich feather was a little yellow and needed changing. Mr. Hogan lifted out the hat and pried the form up from the bottom of the case. He put the money in the form and then he thought again and removed two bills and shoved them in his side pocket. Then he put the form back over the money and laid the hat on top and closed the case and shoved it back on the top shelf. Finally he washed his hands and turned off the water in the tub and the basin.

In the kitchen Mrs. Hogan and the children faced him, beaming. “Guess what some young man’s going on?”

“What?” asked Mr. Hogan.

“Radio,” said John. “Monday night. Eight o’clock.”

“I guess we got a celebrity in the family,” said Mr. Hogan.

Mrs. Hogan said, “I just hope some young lady hasn’t got her nose out of joint.”

Mr. Hogan pulled up to the table and stretched his legs. “Mama, I guess I got a fine family,” he said. He reached in his pocket and took out two five-dollar bills. He handed one to John. “That’s for winning,” he said. He poked the other bill at Joan. “And that’s for being a good sport. One celebrity and one good sport. What a fine family!” He rubbed his hands together and lifted the lid of the covered dish. “Kidneys,” he said. “Fine.”

And that’s how Mr. Hogan did it.

What do you do when a guy with a crazy laugh, a guy with the giggles, calls you up and confesses to a murder? Crank? Crackpot? And why you? Why not the police?

When you work the grave-yard shift for a rag like the Three Palms Gazette, you get used to a bunch of wisenheimers calling you up late at night just for laughs: high school kids with corny jokes; guys with a few drinks under their belts, wanting to settle a bet on who won the World Series in 1948; hysterical dames reporting a “prowler” to the local newspaper instead of the cops. It’s all in the game. But like I said, you get used to it.

This was a Saturday night — past midnight — and I was all alone in the Gazette Building except for Old Bert who acts as watchman, runs the elevator, and holds down the office if I feel like ambling over to Tabby’s for a beer. Nothing was stirring, not even a breeze; so Bert and I were sipping cokes and having a slow game of chess.

Old Bert can really surprise you. He looks like a stumblebum, but he’s plenty shrewd. He drifted into the Gazette office a year or so ago and hung up his hat. He had a big yen to be a reporter but when he saw that was out, he took the watchman post just to be around a newspaper. I hadn’t paid much attention to him until one night he challenged me to a game of chess. I’m pretty good at the game — no Capablanca, you understand — but I learned I had to be on my toes every move or Bert would take me.

Bert had just called “Check,” with checkmate four moves away, when the telephone jangled, I reached over irritatedly and lifted it to my ear. It was a man’s voice, all shrill and excited.

“Is this Bill Chambers?” The voice was a little fuzzy.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

The guy gave a crazy sort of laugh. “You better listen carefully. This is good.”

“What’s good?”

“Oh, ’tis good.”

This guy is a real weirdie, I thought, or else he’s tanked. I almost slammed down the receiver but suddenly the guy was giggling and the giggles sent shivers along my spine.