Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

Over the second beer he introduced himself as Andy Carr. I gave the name of George Snyder instead of my real one of Charles Gagnon. While it was hardly likely that a want for a couple of liquor-store heists would have spread this far, why take chances?

I asked, “You work in the mine, Andy?”

“Naw. That’s for morons. My old man does, though.”

“What’s your line?”

“Well, nothing right now,” he said, flushing a little. “I had a store job for a while, but they don’t pay nothing. Unless you’re in business, the only way to make a living around here is in the mine.”

Still living off his father at twenty-one, I thought. Here was a potential bum.

Glancing at the clock over the bar, he said, “A minute to five. In exactly sixty seconds old Sam will lug out his money bag. You can set your watch by him.”

“Who’s old Sam?” I asked.

“Fat Sam Cooney, the owner of this joint. Watch that door next to the kitchen door.”

I looked in the indicated direction. Just as I glanced that way the door opened and an enormous fat man of about fifty stepped out. During the moment that the door was open, I could see that beyond it was a small office.

The fat man was carrying a large canvas sack. He walked right past us and went out the door.

I gave Andy Carr an inquiring look.

“The week’s receipts,” Carr said. “The bank stays open until six on Friday, and Sam leaves here to make his deposit exactly at five every week. There were about twenty-five hundred bucks in that bag.”

The tone in which he said this made me look at him sharply. There had been a note of wistful envy in it. I wondered if perhaps his larcenous appearance accurately denoted his character after all.

I’m always on the lookout for possible scores, and twenty-five hundred clams was worth at least inquiring into.

I said idly, “Probably mostly in checks, huh? I imagine a lot of the miners cash their pay checks here.”

He shook his head. “The mine makes up its payroll in cash. Maybe there were a couple of small personal checks in that bag, but most of it was good old spendable cash.” Again I caught the note of wistful envy, as though he had often contemplated some means of relieving Fat Sam of one of his bags.

I sent up a trial balloon. “I should think some joker would knock the joint over some quiet night, with all that money lying around.”

He snorted. “What quiet night? This joint is always jammed like this from the minute it opens until it closes at midnight. The mine runs two tricks, and the off trick is always in here, because there’s no place else to go. I wouldn’t want to chance pulling a gun in the middle of fifty to sixty crazy miners. Those guys are too nuts to be afraid of a gun. They’d take it away and make you eat it.” Both his tone and his words suggested he had considered the possibility of a holdup. Perhaps it had been mere idle speculation as to how some professional might work it, with no thought of making an attempt himself, but you never know.

I said, “There would be nobody here in the middle of the night. I’m surprised some burglar hasn’t taken a crack at it.”

He almost laughed. “Did you notice the front door when you walked in? It’s three-inch oak and a bar goes across it from inside at night. The rear door has an inner door of steel bars and a burglar-proof lock. The windows are all barred. And if you got past all that, the money’s kept in a combination safe bolted to the office floor.”

He had analyzed all the possibilities of getting his hands on the money, I thought. Possibly it had been merely mental exercise for his own amusement, in the same way that some people dream up elaborate plans to rob Fort Knox without ever really intending to try, but more and more I was beginning to think he had real larceny in his soul.

I said, “Some joker could catch him at the rear door as he was locking up, force him back in and make him open the safe.”

“Yeah, except the back door opens onto the parking lot of the sheriff’s office and the lot’s lighted with floodlights. The desk of the night-duty deputy faces a window looking right at the tavern’s back door, and every night as he locks up, Fat Sam and the deputy wave to each other. I’ve checked.”

I gave him a quizzical smile and he flushed. “I mean I happened to be back there one night and I saw it,” he almost stammered. “I didn’t mean—” He let it die and averted his gaze when he saw my amused expression.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “You’ve figured all the angles you could think of, and so far have batted zero. Don’t be embarrassed. I wouldn’t mind taking a stab at it myself.”

His face jerked toward me. “You’re kidding.”

With my eyes fixed on his, I gave my head a slow shake. “Were you just casing the lay to amuse yourself, or were you in earnest?”

After a moment of astonished silence, he said, “Are you—I mean is your business—”

When his voice trickled off to nothing, I said quietly, “Never mind what I am, or what my business is. Are you interested in a partnership?”

He licked his lips and glanced furtively around. He would have made an excellent movie villain. Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have considered him as a possible partner in anything. In a strange town he probably would be picked up on suspicion by the first cop who saw him.

In this setup he had the advantage of having thoroughly cased the lay, though, which made him indispensable.

When he was satisfied that no one was eavesdropping, he asked in a suddenly husky voice, “Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

He had to look around again before saying, “Fifty-fifty?”

“Right down the middle. If you don’t quit gazing around as though you just picked a pocket, somebody’s going to wonder what’s eating you. Cut it out and just act natural, huh? Nobody’s close enough to hear us.”

“Sorry,” he said with a gulp. “This kind of takes the wind out of me. I mean I’ve dreamed about it, but I never expected—” His voice trailed off again.

I said, “Let’s get on with the discussion. I’m no safe cracker, so burglary is out. Hitting him in here is out too, if what you say is true. I’ve no more desire than you have to be torn apart by a bunch of crazy miners. That leaves hitting him between here and the bank. How far is the bank?”

“Right next door. And at five p.m. on a Friday there are as many miners wandering up and down the sidewalk as there are in here. We’d be up against the same thing.”

The problem was beginning to compare with knocking over Fort Knox. I was contemplating forgetting the whole thing and driving on when there was a rending crash of metal from outside.

Instantly customers began streaming out the door. Andy Carr jumped up too and joined the exodus. As the only windows in the place were small, barred squares too high to see out of, the only way to learn what all the excitement was about was to trail along.

I was the last customer out of the place, leaving only the bartender behind. And even he came as far as the doorway to peer out.

On the far side of the square a couple of cars had collided. All traffic had stopped and a couple of hundred people were converging on the scene from all directions.

By the time I reached the edge of the crowd, a solid mass of humanity covered that whole side of the square. The low wall which boxed in the courthouse lawn was crammed with spectators on that side, gaping above the heads of the crowd. Others stood on the lawn and courthouse steps.

I couldn’t see anything, but I did locate Andy Carr.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Just a couple of smashed fenders, I guess,” he said, disgusted that it wasn’t more serious. “See what I mean about this dead town?”