Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 2, July 1973

It hadn’t been exactly easy, getting used to the black glasses from dawn to dark. He had practised, too, the walk of a sightless man. The white cane and Marge’s arm completed the picture.

“How much do you suppose we can tag them for?” Marge asked, as she washed the dishes.

“Eighteen to twenty grand, if we make the hit on a Friday morning”

That figured. Friday was a big day at the bank, cashing ranch and payroll checks. The tellers would have more cash in their tills on Friday morning than on any other work day.

“The getaway is the problem,” he admitted. “From the bank back to the farm, without being seen.”

They drove into town in the hack each morning, on some pretense of business. Marge invariably parked the car where he could get a good vision of the bank. Ofttimes he remained in the car while she did some needed shopping.

There was a rear entrance to the bank, he found out presently. It was used chiefly by courthouse officials and business men in the block, who saved a few steps using the rear entrance.

Now if he could make the caper, slip out the back way—

One more problem to be solved! Marge, driving the hack, had to be nearby, preferably in an alley, to pick him up. She had to pick him up without being seen.

That little bit of magic might be the most important item in the entire plan.

He needed at least two minutes, after the caper had been pulled, to make a character transition. Two minutes of uninterrupted time. The entire caper depended on this one thing.

“Let’s go over it again,” Marge suggested.

“Okay. Remember first that I’ve only been seen on the streets as a blind man, black glasses and cane. Dark trousers, an old sweater. Clean shaven.”

“Right! So for the caper you make a transition. Natty business suit, small mustache, no glasses, narrow-brim hat.”

“And no white cane or halting gait.”

She nodded. “One more problem. Where do I pick you up without being seen?”

“That’s the sticker!” he admitted, his brow furrowed.

The checking account at the bank was near depletion, so they drove to Austin, thirty-two miles distant, where Marge got a loan on a small diamond brooch that had been a gift of her late mother.

The next morning they deposited fifty dollars to their ailing checking account, used the back door upon their exit.

“Why?” Marge whispered, piloting him toward the exit.

“Just a hunch!” Saxon said.

They headed down the empty alley. Then suddenly Saxon whistled through his teeth.

“There it is!” he said. “The solution to our problem!”

Marge was suddenly tense. “I don’t follow you—”

“That old unpainted shed!” he said. “Perfect!”

Back in the hack, heading for home, his hand again descended to her leg.

“Did you see what I saw? That old shed evidently was a garage at one time. Maybe for a Model T Ford. No doubt it’ll come down one of these days. It’s double door has a padlock on it.”

“So?”

“There was a loose board, a very wide board, on the side of the shack.”

“You mean we hide inside?”

“Exactly!” he said. “We’ll come into town well before dawn, before anyone is on the streets, park the hack in some residential area where it won’t be noticed. Then we’ll head for the shack.”

At long last they worked out the plan to the last tiny detail. It would mean a long sojourn in the shack, from dawn of day to nightfall. But it also was a fool-proof plan.

“Unless someone blunders into the shack.”

“It’s been boarded up for a long time. The odds are a million to one.”

“Okay, lover. This is it. Friday morning!”

“Thursday night for us, baby.”

Saxon started at once to make preparations. He unloaded the stub-nosed gun, a .38 he had picked up in the service. He didn’t intend to murder anyone, merely to bluff a few people for some folding money.

He stripped naked, put on the old trousers and sweater he used in his ‘blind’ appearance. No underclothing. For over this outfit he had to slip on the business suit, a white shirt and tie. He took a quick look in the mirror.

“A little baggy.”

“Not at all noticeable,” Marge said.

He carefully combed his hair, donned the hat. Lastly he put on the fake mustache, picked up the attache case.

“Give me the careful look,” he said to Marge. “The old weather eye, hon.”

He walked up and down the room, took different stances, waiting for her decision. The single incandescent hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen didn’t give off too much light, but at last Marge nodded her head in approval.

“You look swell,” she said. “Drop the gun in your coat pocket and see if I can tell it.”

Later, she wagged her head in the negative.

“We’re all set, hon!” She sat down, exhaled. “I’m so damned tight I’m ready to flip.”

He started to undress.

“We’ll hit the sack until 3:30,” he said. “That will get us there in plenty of time.”

“I can’t sleep—”

“Who said anything about sleeping?” he asked.

On the bed, he thought of something. “Did you make up the sandwiches? Okay. We’ll get hungry as hell if you forget them.”

Suddenly she clutched him. “Hon, when you make the caper, you’ll be compelled to say something, some command. Whitting might recognize your voice!”

“Relax!” he said. “You know I have a falsetto voice, if I need it.”

“Of course! I’m really up tight.”

Seconds later, her fingers clasped him again in nervous frenzy. “What will you do, from the hour of dawn until the bank opens?”

“Good question,” he said, utterly calm. “I’ve got to leave the shack before it’s light enough for someone to spot me. So I’ll take a long walk from one end of town to the other, get some breakfast. The bank opens at 8:30, remember. At 8:35 I’ll be waving the gun.”

“How long for the caper?”

“Five minutes,” he said. “No longer than six. I’ll go in breezily, flourish the gun, tell them in my falsetto voice that this is a stickup. I’ll push the attache case to the first teller, she’ll pass it to the second, to the third. Five minutes, no longer than six.”

“What if you meet some opposition?”

“Hon, remember they’ll be under a gun, very frightened, anxious to please.”

She made no rebuttal. He presumed she was asleep. Then she rolled into his arms as some disturbing thought struck home with terror.

“Won’t there be cameras in the bank? It’s a new bank, and all new banks have cameras that take pictures automatically.”

“Of course there’ll be cameras,” he said, unruffled. “The film will show a dapper young man, neatly dressed, with a mustache, and a soft-brimmed hat.”

She sighed in relief. “Forgive me. I can’t think, I’m so nervous.”

It was a moonless night, warm for October. John Saxon dressed carefully.

“Don’t forget the sandwiches and pop,” he said, making a final check.

They parked the car on a residential street, three blocks north of the town square. There were other cars parked nearby, so the hack wasn’t conspicuous.

Very silently they walked toward the alley in back of the bank. He was quite positive that the night patrolmen went off duty at 3:30, and the day force didn’t come on until six. Even so, he looked sharply for some sign of a human being as they headed for the old garage.

But they saw no one. Ten minutes later he had squeezed inside, through the opening he had previously spotted. Marge followed.

The shed was empty, except for a pile of debris, an old chair. It had a musty smell suggesting long disuse.

At 5:45 he checked the alley, saw it was empty, bid her good-by.