Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

A chill crawled up his spine. At the foot of the bed, completely covered, the curled-up lump of her body shuddered convulsively. In a fury, he whipped off the blankets.

“Catharine!” he shouted. “What the devil’s wrong?”

He seized her wrists and pulled her to a sitting position.

“Don’t you feel well? What’s wrong?” He repeated the question arrogantly, closing his mind to what he knew was wrong. Her eyes looked out of black circles. After a moment, she shook her head and began to rearrange her hairnet.

“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?”

“You’ve got to stop this, Catharine.” He strode to the closet, snapped on the light, and returned. “If it means you have to go to a psychiatrist, you’ve got to stop. Do you hear me?”

She smiled placatingly.

“I didn’t even have time to turn on the lights,” she chattered. “As soon as I walked in here — it was twilight — I had a feeling it would happen. But I got into bed all right and read for a while, and the feeling went away. I turned out the bed lamp and looked up...”

“Don’t talk. Tomorrow I’ll find a good psychiatrist.”

She made a sad little face.

“Darling, I’ll never go to a psychiatrist. I decided that a long time ago.”

He slapped her cheek. She drew back, her eyes wide between her fingers.

“Darling, please don’t do that.”

“We must stop it,” he said gently.

“We can’t,” she said with equal gentleness. “You see, if a psychiatrist shouldn’t be able to do anything — if it shouldn’t work out, I mean — I’m sure that everything would get worse.” She stared at the closet. “They might come out.”

He sat for a long time on the edge of the bed. He did not know how long he sat there. The morning grew brighter and brighter in the bedroom. The light in the closet shone through the sunlight like a jaundiced eye. Once in a while, John looked at Catharine. She was wearing a pink satin nightgown with lace over the bodice; fatigued as she was, she looked fresh and darkly caressible, and her eyes met his with loving confidence.

She smiled the smile that implored him to be amused with her at her foolish whims. But she was different. He saw a wickedness about her lips, a strange glee in her eyes. He did not speak or move toward her. This morning he felt that he would never want to touch her again.

McNalley picked up the phone. “Hello?”

The voice was a man’s. “Mr. Amos McNalley?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Hamilton. James Hamilton. I am a vice-president at the First National branch bank in the South-view Shopping Center.”

McNalley was tall and thin and in his middle seventies. He nodded. “That’s my bank.”

“Yes. Mr. McNalley, I’ve heard that you are a respected citizen in this community. A man who can be trusted.”

“I guess so. Why?”

“I... we would like your help, Mr. McNalley. Your cooperation.”

“What’s your trouble?”

“We have an employee — a teller — at our bank who... how shall I put it... of whom we are... suspicious. ”

“What’s he been up to?”

“We think he’s been doctoring his records. When a depositor withdraws one thousand dollars from his account, for instance, this teller marks the withdrawal as being eleven hundred, pocketing the extra one hundred himself.”

“Sounds pretty simple-minded. Why isn’t he behind bars?”

“He is very very clever, Mr. McNalley. Somehow he manages to cover up these shortages before we can check on his books at the end of the day. It’s all very technical, Mr. McNalley, and would take a long time to explain. However, we — the officers of the branch and I — have decided that the best... the most direct... way of catching this criminal would be while he was in the act of committing the crime.”

“I suppose so,” McNalley said. “But where do I come in?”

“You have... let me see... I have your records somewhere here on my desk... something like $10,000 in your savings account?”

“$5,256 and some odd cents,” McNalley said. “And the rest in savings certificates. Can’t touch any of that but once in six months. Been thinking of putting everything into savings certificates.”

“A very sound idea, Mr. McNalley. However, for the moment... Ah, yes. I have the records now. $5,256. And those extra pennies. But they do add up, don’t they?”

“Which teller is it? There are three or four, as I remember.”

“I don’t think I ought to mention his name. You know how courts are these days about the silliest little thing. However, if you go to the window where you’ll find a young man in his late twenties, with black hair, and a mustache...”

“Oh, sure,” McNalley said. “You know, I never did trust him. I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I just don’t like him.”

“Perhaps your instinct is more accurate than you suspect. Now, sir, it is just after 9:00 A.M. We — the officers of the bank and I — would like you to go to this teller’s window at exactly ten o’clock and withdraw $5,000 from your account.”

“Five thousand dollars?”

“We are not asking you to go through all this trouble for nothing, Mr. McNalley. We will see that you receive two hundred dollars for your cooperation in apprehending this criminal.”

“Two hundred dollars?” McNalley rubbed his jaw. There was a pause. “If I withdraw $5,000, then what?”

“You put the bills into an envelope and leave the bank. You walk to that little park in the shopping center.”

“Darrow Square?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Anyway, you go and sit down on one of the benches and wait for me. I should be there in five or ten minutes.”

“Should I sit on any particular bench?”

“Any one will do. I’ll recognize you. When I join you, you give me the envelope.”

“Give you the envelope?”

“Yes, you see that is evidence and we will need it.”

“But...”

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about, Mr. McNalley. Our bank is bonded to cover the entire amount. It’s just a technicality to satisfy the law, but we need the money when the police make the arrest. I will return the money to you immediately after. The whole operation shouldn’t take more than half an hour. And remember, we’ll give you two hundred dollars for your cooperation. Not bad interest for the loan of $5,000 for half an hour, now is it, Mr. McNalley?”

“You want me to stay in Darrow Square until you come back with the money?”

“Exactly, Mr. McNalley. You stay there until I get back.”

In the phone booth, the man who had identified himself as Hamilton waited exactly three minutes and then dialed McNalley’s number again.

McNalley answered. “Hello?”

Hamilton had a talent for disguising his voice. “Is Bill there?”

“Bill? There’s no Bill here.”

“Isn’t this 674-4778?”

“No. This is 674-4779.”

“Sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number.”

He waited another three minutes and then dialed McNalley’s number once more. When he heard McNalley’s phone ring, he hung up.

Good. The line hadn’t been busy either time he dialed.

If the suckers didn’t phone the police within the first five or six minutes, the chances were that they had been hooked.

Hamilton went back to the bar and ordered a whiskey and sweet soda.

Sitting on this particular stool, he could watch the front of McNalley’s three-story apartment building. He always liked the extra insurance of being able to do that. More than once he’d seen the squad car draw up when the pigeon got suspicious later and phoned the police.