Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 7, July, 1980

Dream Heist by Carroll Mayers

Willard was delighted to learn Myra was a bank teller...

The steady drumming of rain against his bedroom window awakened Willard Coyle that morning. A smile quirked his lips as he recognized the sound and roused fully. A stormy day was an intangible he’d hoped for because conceivably it could mean fewer patrons in the bank at the zero hour, which in turn could boost Myra Flanders’ morale.

Shaving, Coyle regarded his reflected features with approval. Lean, dark, no blemishes. Yes, he had the looks, all right. Plus the shrewd acuity of a born opportunist and an offbeat suavity that most women found charming. Captivating Myra had been simple. Essentially introverted and not particularly pretty, the girl obviously had been starved for male attention.

A casual noon-hour exchange, initiated in a gift shop where Myra had been purchasing a cutlery set and he had been idly estimating shoplifting possibilities, had been cultivated by Coyle on the spot when the girl had mentioned her position as a teller at Manufacturers’ Trust. A bit of lunch together had been genteelly broached and hesitantly accepted. From then on, a series of dates had followed smoothly. If not fully in love, Myra Flanders was nonetheless in a state of blissful, pliant euphoria.

Not that Coyle had envisioned any particular caper at first. But a love-starved girl with ready access to large sums of money suggested some ploy to be duly pondered.

Dressed, Coyle checked the time. Eight-twenty. Recalling Myra’s nervousness the evening before, he decided a call of reassurance would be wise.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, honey.”

“Oh, Willard—”

Myra’s voice had a wavering timbre. He pressed quickly. “Is something wrong?”

“I... I don’t think I can do it.”

Coyle’s jawline set. She wasn’t backing out now. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’ll do fine.”

Her voice still shook. “I don’t know, Willard. I just don’t know.”

Coyle let his words take on an aggrieved edge. “You wouldn’t have any doubts if you really loved me.”

“But I do! You know I do!”

He smiled at the phone. “Then prove it, darling,” he said. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Myra’s intake of breath was almost a sob. After a long moment she answered him.

“All right.”

He said, “That’s my girl. I’ll make it ten o’clock sharp.” He hung up and checked his pocket to make certain he had the holdup note. He’d printed it in crude block letters on a slip of yellow scratch paper:

Practically every week there was an item on the news about a lone bandit boldly presenting a similar missive to a bank teller, only to be foiled and captured when the teller refused to be intimidated and sounded an alarm.

But — as Coyle’s diligent pondering of his relationship with Myra Flanders had finally evolved — if that teller had been in on the heist; if, in fact, he or she had filled his accomplice’s bag as though merely completing a routine business transaction like a payroll; and if he or she had delayed alerting any of the bank personnel or pressing the alarm until after his or her accomplice had safely departed, at which time he or she had professed abject fright as the reason for his or her inaction and had shown the holdup note as “proof”—

For the next hour, Coyle relaxed, smoking leisurely. He was satisfied Myra would follow the script through without deviation. He had first mentioned the plan one evening after the theater, when they’d visited an intimate little side-street cafe. He’d kept his tone casual, but his fingers closed warmly over Myra’s and his gaze stressed deep regard. Visibly affected, Myra still had expressed shocked disbelief.

“You can’t be serious!”

“But I am. It would let us start a whole new life together. Think of it: Paris, Rome — all those places you’ve told me you’ve dreamed about.”

“But not that way!”

“Honey, the bank wouldn’t lose a penny. They’re insured. And we’d have a small fortune—”

“But something could happen. You could get hurt.”

Coyle’s fingers interlaced tighter on hers. “No,” he assured her. “That’s the beauty of it. Nobody would get hurt. You’d just wait a few seconds until I’d left, then pretend to faint. By the time they’d revived you I’d be blocks away. You’d show them the note, say you fainted from the reaction and were too frightened to press the alarm.”

He built a wry smile. “If you appeared truly shocked they might even let you take the rest of the day off to recover.” His smile warmed. “I’ll be at your place waiting with the plane tickets.”

“Oh, Willard, please don’t ask me to do it!”

“It’s our future, Myra. I’m talking about us.”

Her lips trembled. “I’ll have to think about it,” she pleaded.

“Of course.” Coyle gave her hand a final squeeze. “Think about our happiness.”

Once the seed had been planted and adroitly nourished, Coyle held no doubt of its fruition. Three nights later, Myra capitulated. The fact that she had at intervals appeared uncertain did not deter Coyle. The girl was obviously hopelessly smitten with him. She would act out the charade.

At nine-thirty, Coyle stubbed out his cigarette, collected a small flight bag, and left the apartment. The weather continued inclement and the bank was some twelve blocks distant. He hailed a taxi.

It was ten o’clock exactly when he walked into the bank. Pleased to be precisely on schedule, Coyle was even more gratified to note the rain had curtailed the morning’s activities. There were but two patrons at the moment, neither of whom were at Myra’s station.

Casually, he approached Myra, passed her the flight bag and the demand note. She did not look at him, but a tic was pulsing in her cheek and her hands shook as she stuffed money packets into the bag.

A ripple of concern coursed through Coyle. If, after all his planning and nourishment, Myra cracked, went to pieces—

“Easy!” Coyle’s lips were taut with the whisper. “Easy!”

Myra still did not glance at him or speak, but she managed to get herself in hand. In another moment she returned the bag to him.

Exultation surged through Coyle. He moved briskly, but without undue haste, to the exit. The uniformed guard on duty evinced no interest in him and Coyle reached the street without incident. Another cab answered his wave.

A half hour later, excused for the balance of the day as Coyle had intimated, Myra also flagged a cab. The trip to her modest midtown apartment was brief, but for Myra it was an eternity. She saw little of the traffic. Her mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Paying off the cabbie, her chest constricted, her palms were slick. This was the moment of truth, the moment she desperately feared.

Coyle was not in the apartment.

For several agonizing pulse beats, Myra stood transfixed. Then, slowly, with tremendous effort, she forced herself to sit down. In her heart of hearts she had known this was how it would end. Coyle’s professed love had been feigned. From that first fatal day he’d used her, manipulated her to acquire the small fortune that would assure “their” future, and then ditched her to fly off to wherever his whim fancied.

Her plain features tight and vacant, Myra stared out the window at the rain.

At the airport, Coyle’s suavity deserted him and his emotions turned riotous when he saw the contingency tactic Myra would have undone prior to their boarding had he played the scenario straight.

His protests died in his throat as officials opened the flight bag and discovered $53,000 with the bank’s identifying wrappers still intact. Crammed in between the bills were the two gleaming steak knives that had tripped off the security gate’s metal-detection system.