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

A Matter of Character by Grover Brinkman

They had everything going for them. Her beauty, his brains and charm. Everything that could meet the eye — and maybe a deadly bit more...

The Halliburton place was a mile east of Templeton, a tumbledown, ten-acre briar patch that had once been a poultry farm. When John and Marge Saxon moved there, a few shoulders shrugged at their apparent folly. But on second thought, perhaps it wasn’t folly at all. John Saxon, a Vietnam veteran, was blind.

The two-story frame house with its peeling paint, was still liveable, furnished. If they were looking for cheap rent, and without doubt they were, their choice was commendable. Marge intimated at one of the super markets one day that John- intended starting a mail order business, and she figured a few chickens and a vegetable garden might bolster their economy, at least through the first critical months of their new venture.

Templeton was an inland ranch town of eight thousand, with the usual suburban sprawl, plus several new buildings dotting the town square.

The most imposing structure in town was the new Cattleman’s National Bank. John Saxon opened a small checking account at the bank soon after their arrival. He seemed to get along very well on the street, one hand on Marge’s arm, feeling his way with his white cane, walking faster than most blind people do.

Marge was a looker. Not voluptuous exactly, but surely no undernourished fashion model either. She had reddish-gold hair and wore it loose, letting it fall about her shoulders. In a peasant blouse and snug-fitting pants, she was a woman who made men take a deep breath and wonder why she was married to a blind man.

Not that John Saxon didn’t command his own share of attention. He was six-two, slim-waisted, straight as an arrow, athletic. He wore his black hair rather long. If it wasn’t for the large black glasses, he might have been termed rather handsome.

“Very glad to welcome you as a new customer, Mr. Saxon,” said John Whiting, first vice president of the bank.

“Thank you!” Saxon said. “You have a very commanding voice, sir”

Whiting seemed surprised. “No one has ever alluded to it in those terms.”

“When you’re blind, voices are important.”

Whiting’s eyebrows raised. “Yes! Yes, of course!”

“I’m sure I’ll recognize you the next time I make a deposit,” Saxon said, smiling loosely, “That is, if you say hello.”

They walked out, Saxon tap-tapping his way with the white cane.

“Very commendable!” Whiting said after the couple were on the street, and wagged his head in disbelief. “Young, blind, and still cheerful!”

Marge drove the ancient hack that at the moment was their only means of transportation.

“I believe you impressed the banker,” she said and chuckled.

John patted her leg. “We’ll impress him very much, one of these days, won’t we, hon?”

“Very, very much!” Marge said, a tight smile on her sultry mouth, and wheeled the hack up the narrow driveway to the chicken farm, her thoughts far removed from the ramshackle homestead they called home.

After dinner, with the shades drawn in the farm kitchen, John Saxon took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.

“You look like an owl!” Marge said. “Your whole face is tanned except your eyes.”

“Let’s forget about how I look,” he said, “and go over the plans again.”

“First you could dry the dishes for me.”

“Sure, hon!” He picked up the dish towel. “A blind man might drop some of the china.” He chuckled.

The idea had first occurred to him while they were on their honeymoon in Bermuda. There seemed to be a lot of easy money in the Bermuda beach crowd. That is, most of the crowd. Personally, he was down to his last hundred bucks.

“There must be some foolproof way to rob a bank,” he said, staring at the vivid blue of the sea.

Marge adjusted the fragile shoulder strap of her too-tight bikini. “You serious, lover?”

“I’d be very serious, if I could work out some feasible plan.”

She cuddled closer, a new light of anticipation building in her gray-green eyes.

“You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Of course! Any objections?”

She was long in answering. “No, not one. Only—”

“You’re thinking of the risk involved, getting caught, going to prison.”

“So are you.”

“Right! But there must be a way, something so foolproof that we could pull it off in one town, then move across country and do it again.”

He kept thinking about it. This thought process became somewhat of a compulsion, after a time. There must be some way to pull off a caper without kickback, make a clean getaway. After a time, noticing his abstraction, Marge fell to thinking about it as well. Grab up fifteen or twenty grand by flashing an empty gun! Just like that. No qualms of conscience, for banks were rich, and their insurance companies even richer.

He reviewed in his mind all of the famous bank robberies that had made the news headlines in the past years. Most of the bandits had got caught sooner or later. That merely showed they had not planned out the caper down to the last minute detail. Always they had been tripped up by some little flaw they had overlooked.

But if he and Marge pulled a caper, there would be no tripping up. For they wouldn’t try it unless they had a fool-proof plan.

And then, right out of the blue, the idea dawned!

It was the last day at Bermuda. Tomorrow would mean returning home, finding some mediocre job — or starve.

At the time, Marge was swimming alone, well off shore. He dived in and created some kind of a marathon to reach her side. He let down, found he could touch the sand. He reached out, pulled her wet form hard against his own, kissed her damp mouth with a new intensity in his caress.

“I’ve got it, hon!”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not kidding. I’ll tell you, soon as we hit the beach.”

They lay on the warm sand, breathing hard, and he explained his idea. He couldn’t go into details, for as yet he hadn’t worked out the fine points. It was the idea itself that counted.

She looked at him long and hard, mouth slightly parted, gray-green eyes on his own.

“Blind man? Honey, it just might work!”

“Of course it will work! It needs a lot more thought, to work out each tiny detail. But the idea itself is workable!”

She rolled into his arms and kissed him, cradling her lush body against his own.

“I’m married to a blind man? That’s real touching. A Vietnam vet, blind!”

It had taken every dollar they could scrape up to make the first payment on the farm lease, plus a small checking account at the bank.

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.

“I’ll be back not later than 8:45,” he whispered. “And I’ll have the money!”

“Be careful, hon!”

“No sweat,” he said, and meant it.

He walked south, once he gained the street. Then he saw the bus station, and decided he needed to walk no further. He would simply remain in the bus station until the allotted time. No one would question a man waiting for a bus.

At 8:42 Marge heard hurried footsteps approaching. The next instant he had squeezed through the opening, pushed the board back in place, and she was in his arms.

He waved the case at her.

“It’s full of that nice green stuff!” he whispered. “No sweat. No sweat at all!”

He heard a siren at that moment. She clutched him tighter.

“Relax!” he said.

“I’m still scared stiff.”

“Nothing to be frightened about. All we do is sit tight.”

That’s what they did. Through cracks in the old building, they could see the sudden activity at the bank, the police cars, the state highway troopers. Suddenly John Whiting came out on the back stoop with an officer, looked up and down the alley, shook his head.

“They can’t figure it out!” he whispered. “Where was the escape car parked? How did it get out of town so quickly?”

“I’ll bet there are road blocks on all of the highways leading out of town.”

“Road blocks, and some very perplexed cops.”

She clutched him. “Was there any resistance?”

“Honey, they were scared stiff. Simply scared stiff. When I was ready to leave I made them all hit the floor on their tummies—”

“It worked!”

“It worked beautifully. I got inside the shed before anyone even came outside the bank building.”

Now it was simply a matter of waiting. He got out of the business suit, pulled off the fake mustache, put on the black glasses.

They counted the money, to help pass the hours. “Eighteen thousand, two hundred and forty-six dollars!” he whispered.

Time dragged slowly. Still playing it safe, as evening shadows darkened the interior of the shed, he took the money from the attache case, gave half of it to Marge, and secreted the balance in his pockets.

Marge chuckled. “I’ve heard of bras being used for various purposes, but this is a new one—”

He scraped out a deep hole in the soft loam, buried the empty attache case, the clothing he had used on the caper, even the sandwich wrapper and pop cans.

“We’ll sneak out, soon as it gets good and dark,” he said. “Once we’re on the street, we’ve got it made.”

“What if someone looks inside the shack?”

“I’ve thought of that, too. I’ll brush out every track.”

It was 9:12 when they got back to the farm. They had managed to steal out of the alley unseen. The car was still parked where they had left it. There was no tail, no sweat.

Once inside the old house, with the door locked and the shades drawn, he scooped her up in his arms, and they danced merrily about the room.

“We did it, hon! I told you it would work!”

“I’m still frightened. Any moment someone will knock on our door.”

“Hon, relax. I’m hungry as a wolf, so let’s get some food cooking.”

No one knocked on the door, as he said.

After a week, even Marge began to unwind. They had gone back to town the next day. He had tap-tapped his way down the street, into the post office, several stores, listening to the scuttlebutt.

The small daily paper had given the bank robbery a banner line across the front page. The story stressed the fact that a lone bandit had held up the bank and escaped so quickly that it smacked of well-organized crime, a waiting accomplice who had somehow gotten out of town ahead of the law, et cetera.

“Two more weeks,” he said. “Then we’ll move out for parts unknown.”

“Why don’t we go right now?”

He shook his head. “It might incite suspicion. Two more weeks won’t be a problem, lover.”

The following Monday, washing dishes at the sink, Marge made an observation.

“Someone’s coming up the driveway.”

He had on the glasses, the cane was hooked over a chair.

“Okay, we’ve had company before.”

“This is the sheriff’s car, hon.”

“Okay, no sweat. Keep cool and let me handle it.”

His mind suddenly was doing a reversal, a playback on the caper. No slipup, not even a minor one. Maybe the guy wanted to buy a few eggs. No sweat.

The man who knocked on the door had a silver star on his khaki shirt. He was about thirty, smooth shaven, with very wide shoulders.

Saxon tap-tapped to the door, opened it, stood on the threshhold.

“Mr. John Saxon?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Nils Brutto, deputy sheriff. May I come in?”

“Of course!” Saxon said, stepped back. The white cane gestured. “My wife Marge is somewhere near the sink.”

Marge’s smile was tight, her hello far from enthusiastic.

“We’ve just completed an early lunch,” Saxon explained. “But we still have some coffee.”

“No, thanks!” the deputy said.

Saxon noticed now that he carried a large manila envelope. He faced away from the man with the cane, swung toward Marge.

“Mrs. Saxon, will you take off your husband’s glasses?”

Something cold and icy slammed into Marge’s chest.

“Take off John’s glasses? Isn’t that an odd request?”

“Take them off, please.”

Her feet hesitant, Marge walked to John’s side, took off the dark glasses.

The deputy advanced a step, his eyes cold and hard, boring into John Saxon’s face.

“I was right,” he said, as if consoling himself. “I argued with them for hours. They presumed I was plain nuts. But I knew I was on the right track. And then the photos came from the lab.”

Brutto took out several large glossies from the manila envelope, handed them over.

“Mr. Saxon,” he said, smiling tightly, “it was a very clever caper. You tied up all of the knots real tight. We still don’t know how you made your getaway, one of the cleverest, no doubt. But that isn’t important now, for the camera solved the case for us.”

“Take a close look at the photos,” he said.

And suddenly John Saxon was remembering something that Marge had said, long before the robbery. “You look like an owl. Your entire face is tanned except your eyes.”

That precision camera, photographing the caper, showed a very personable young man brandishing a gun, a young man who had a very tanned face, except for his eyes!