Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

“Never mind Denmark. Forget Denmark. In this case it applies here and now.”

“You’re so right. So shut up and follow me. We’ll go look at the window.”

We rounded the south-east corner of the bank and came to the window we’d planned on entering. This window faced a narrow gangway between the trust company and a haberdashery — and there was a small neat hole in the glass exactly where we’d figured on cutting to get at the old lock.

And of course the window wasn’t latched!

Big Lefty lifted it slowly and then looked at me.

“Maybe they’re still in there,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“Who! Whoever got here before we did, you fool! Look! You go in the window — it’s too small for me to get in without any noise — and then you sneak to the back door and let me in. We’ll go to the vault room together and maybe we can catch the dirty crooks in the act.”

“Okay. I just hope we’re not too late.”

“Me too, pal. Now get in there.”

I climbed inside with a minimum of racket, then unlimbered the snub-nose and listened intently to the darkness. Nothing but silence. Surely if anyone was still here robbing the safe they’d certainly be making some noise. I cocked an ear even harder. Still nothing.

Big Lefty’s voice hissed from the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m listening,” I whispered.

“Well, listen to me for a change! Go open that back door!”

“On my way.”

My eyes accustomed to the dark now, I crept across the rubber-tiled floor, stepped over a low wooden railing and made my way to the rear, passing through a small stockroom, and in another moment I was opening the back door.

Big Lefty stepped inside with his forty five out, shut the door quietly, and then in his hoarse whisper he said: “How’s she look, Lucky?”

“Lousy.”

“That’s what I figured. Well, be quiet and follow me. We’ll go to the vault room and if that safe is empty I’m gonna kill that goddam Caser!”

“Likewise,” I said. “He must have sold the plan to someone besides us.”

“Yeah. Now come on, and don’t make any noise just in case they’re still here.”

Back through the stockroom we went. Over the low railing and around behind the two tellers’ cages. As we approached the door to the vault room we could see it was partly ajar, and there was a feeble light glowing from within.

Just outside the room Big Lefty stopped me, motioned for silence. Then contradicting his own gesture he violently kicked the door all the way open and almost off its hinges.

But the vault chamber was now devoid of any thieves save ourselves. The safe across the room stood solidly on casters, the heavy door agape and the interior staring vacantly at us, with a look like a yawn.

“Son of a bitch!” Big Lefty swore slowly.

“Me too,” I agreed. I went over, stooped and probed about inside the ancient safe. Nothing in there but some useless papers and a yellowed placard which I took out and examined.

Big Lefty said: “Is it empty?”

“As empty as your toad-faced head.”

“That stupid Caser really screwed up on this one!”

“Well,” I commented dryly, “he was right about one thing, anyhow.”

“Huh? What’s that, Lucky?”

I showed him the placard I was holding. It was an old poster concerning the desired apprehention — dead or alive — of a certain Mr. Jesse James.

We gave the rest of the place a good shaking down, but came up with nothing for our efforts save a little experience. Finally, standing in the midst of a conglomeration of discarded checks, record books and general all-around litter, Big Lefty, his arms akimbo and his hat cocked far back on his head, said: “Well, I guess we’ve had it. Whoever cleaned this joint out did a thorough job. They got everything but the furniture and the fixtures.”

“Yeah. And we get left with the empty bag. Shat upon again!”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Come on. It’s about time for Manuel to be getting back. We better get to the rear of the place and watch for him.”

We returned to the back door and Big Lefty propped it open a crack where he could keep an eye on the alley. In another couple of minutes we could hear Little Manuel coming, so we stepped outside with the suitcases and let the door lock easily behind us.

The felonious little dwarf was all smiles as he drove up and got out of the car.

“How’d it go, boys?” he asked happily, making me even sicker than I was. “Are those two bags heavy? Do you want this weak little runt to help load them in the car? Ohh, boy! We’re rich, ain’t we! Money moneymoney! Hey what’s the matter, boys? You two master criminals look like you each swallowed a cup of warm hair!”

Oh, the poor ignorant little bastard!

“Come on, boys!” the tiny cutthroat continued, “cheer up! Oh, manomanoman! Money moneymoney! Aiyiyi! Mamacita! I just can’t wait to get a look at all that lovely money! I’m in a gleeful mood tonight, I’ll tell the world! And all I had to do was drive around while my good buddies took all the risk and even spared me from straining myself with the heavy bags! Come on, boys, lets hurry up and get someplace where we can count it all up! Money money money! I love the filthy stuff!”

“Ah, shut up, Manuel,” Big Lefty snarled. “There ain’t no damn money! Somebody beat us to it!”

Little Manuel shut up abrubtly and looked at me. Then giggling uncertainly he said: “Lefty’s putting me on, isn’t he, Lucky?”

“No, Manuel,” I replied sadly. “Lefty is not putting you on.”

“Ai, Chiwawa!” he said, slapping his head. He leaned on the car, giggled again and then said inanely: “Ah, well, That’s the way she goes; first your money, then your clothes. When you snooze you lose. Hahaha!” He slapped his knee.

“Shut up, you little moron!” snapped Lefty. He threw the empty luggage into the back seat of the wagon and then got in, slamming the door hard. “Come on,” he ordered, “let’s get the hell away from here!”

Little Manuel chuckled some more and got in. I slipped behind the wheel and aimed the heap for home, my mind just short of blowing.

As we got south of town and were zipping along homeward with grim faces, Little Manuel said: “My, my. You boys certainly do take things hard. Yes, sir, you most certainly do. Now me, I go along slow and easy. Tomorrow is another day, I always say.”

“That,” Big Lefty politely informed him, “is because you are a goddam fool.”

Little Manuel straightened up in his seat. “Me? A fool? All right, then. But answer me this, bright boy; Do you know who beat you to the money?”

“Are you crazy? Of course not!”

“Uh huh. That’s what I thought. Well, this goddam fool does!”

Stunned by that unexpected statement, I almost turned the car over. Braking and pulling over to the side of the highway, I swiveled to stare at the runt. “What did you say, Manuel?”

“You heard me. I said this goddam fool knows who beat you to the money. That’s exactly what I said.”

Big Lefty and I exchanged astonished glances, then I panned back to the Latin midget. “I know what you said, Manuel. But what are you talking about? How could you know who beat us to it? Ah, never mind. You’ve probably been on that Tiajuana grass again.”

“Nope. I ain’t been on no weed. I said what I said, towhead, and I’m ready to back it up. The guy you’re looking for is that cop in the restaurant.”

“The hell, you say!”

“The hell I don’t say! You’re hearing this goddam fool right. Listen. When I got back to that diner I couldn’t see either the fuzz or the waitress, although the cop’s car was still outside. So I figured they must be nookying it up in the back room.