Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 3, March 1990

Night Deposit by Ed Dumonte

If the United States were a society of classes, Mr. Trumble might well be considered a part of the Aristocratic Class. As it is, Mr. Trumble was a common, ordinary citizen who, properly skinned and dressed from homburg to Guccis, might yield a pelt worth something in excess of three thousand dollars.

If the United States were a society of classes, young Tommy Benson might be considered a part of the Criminal Class. As it is, Tommy was a common, ordinary citizen dressed in chinos, denim, and tennis shoes who happened to be holding an automatic pistol pointed right at the middle of Mr. Trumble’s Savile Row suit.

“I’ll take that nice fat envelope you’re holding, Mr. Trumble,” Tommy said.

This tableau was being performed in front of the night deposit box of the First State Bank at one o’clock in the morning. The night deposit box was a stone pillar with a stainless steel door which Mr. Trumble was holding open, preparing to drop in what was indeed a nice fat envelope.

“Young man, I assure you there is nothing of any interest to you in this envelope,” said he.

“I certainly wouldn’t call you a liar, Mr. Trumble, but I happen to know that today is the day that you make your weekly deposit of the funds taken in by the fancy restaurant you own. I worked there one week as a dishwasher while your regular man was down with the flu. I started watching you then.

“I noticed that at the end of the day you would collect all the receipts and take them back to your office. But you didn’t leave the restaurant. Even after the kitchen help and cleaning people had finished and were going home, you were still in your office. It wasn’t until Sunday that you collected the receipts, went back to your office for a short while, and left the restaurant holding a nice fat envelope very like the one now in your hand.”

“You seem to be a very astute and discerning young man,” Mr. Trumble said. “I’m surprised I didn’t notice it at the time. In my line of work I’m always on the lookout for clever young men.”

“Oh? Do you really need clever dishwashers, smart swampers to mop the floors and vacuum the rugs, educated busboys to clear the tables and carry dirty dishes back to the sink in the kitchen?”

“You misunderstand, young man,” Trumble said. “What you have seen at the restaurant is merely the tip of the iceberg. A very lucrative tip, I grant you, but still just a tip. Enough to satisfy the tax people.

“The real work goes on in the other nine-tenths, the part that is under water. Or, more accurately in this case, underworld.

“You see, young man, the restaurant business pretty well takes care of itself. The cash registers are all automated and keep a running printout of food, liquor, and taxes. All I have to do is subtract a fixed amount for overhead and wages and I have a pretty fair estimate of what the day’s profits were.

“The hard part, the part that keeps me in the office late at night, is trying to figure the income from some of my other enterprises. The bookmaking, the numbers, the robberies, the auto thefts. The people who specialize in these fields are all my employees. Unfortunately, they’re not always honest and I have to keep a close check on them.”

As Mr. Trumble talked, Tommy’s gun had gradually lost its resolve and was now pointing straight down.

“Do you mean to say that you’re part of the,” he hesitated over the word and spoke it softly, “Mafia?”

“Oh, no,” Mr. Trumble said. “I’ve looked into it, of course, as any businessman would. But I found it was pretty much a godfather-son sort of thing. A closed corporation, so to speak. These other little things are all of my own doing and all completely under my control. I allow no outside interference. Sometimes quite forcefully.”

Tommy, now completely enthralled, gun quite forgotten, took a step closer to the larger man.

“This is where you come in, young man.” Mr. Trumble put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I told you earlier that this package held nothing of interest to you. Now it may be of very much interest to you indeed. You see, this package contains a powerful bomb. It’s a plastique that is shaped to blow a hole through armored steel such as the inside of this deposit box is lined with.

“This is just an experiment, but if it works I have greater things in mind and I want you to take charge of them.

“Now here’s my plan: there are thousands of night deposit boxes all across the country. I’m going to need a good man, bright and ambitious, such as you are, to travel across the country as an executive of my restaurant corporation to find new sites for us to locate in. As an executive, of course, you will have to dress the part, live in the most posh hotels, dine at the finest restaurants, escort the most beautiful ladies.

“Do you think you could handle that?”

Tommy, whose eyes had become glazed at the sight of the far side of the mountain, was unable to speak.

“Well, then. What I’m going to want you to do is take the design of this bomb to all the cities you go to and make duplicates of it. You will hire people to take them to deposit boxes like this one, perhaps half a dozen or more of them in a single night, blow a hole in them, remove the money, and bring it back to you.

“You pay your expenses from the top of the take, and we split the remainder, two-thirds for me, one-third for you. You pay the men you hire out of your cut, I advance the money you’ll need to get started.”

Tommy’s eyes suddenly became unglazed, and he took a step back and his pistol came to attention again, pointing at Mr. Trumble’s midriff.

“That was quite a con job, man,” he said. “You almost had me fooled there for a minute. But I’m on to you now. You’re trying to talk me out of the envelope that started this discussion. Now, let’s get back to business. As I said to begin with, give me that envelope.”

“Please, young man, believe me. There is a timing device on this bomb, and it is set to go off in just a few moments. If we don’t get rid of this thing and get out of here pretty quickly, we’ll be spots of bloody goo all over the street.”

“No more, Mr. Trumble,” Tommy said. “Give me the envelope and we’ll go our separate ways.”

“Please, young man...” But the gun was the convincing factor and the transaction took place.

Tommy put the envelope beneath his denim jacket and disappeared into the shadows. Mr. Trumble turned the other way and walked slowly to his car. As he reached the car he heard a dull thump from somewhere behind him.

With a heavy sigh he got into the car and started the engine. As he was about to pull away from the curb a police car pulled up beside him.

“Excuse me, sir,” the cop in the passenger seat rolled down his window and said, “we’ve had a radio report of some sort of disturbance in the neighborhood. Have you seen or heard anything unusual?”

“No, officer,” Mr. Trumble said. “Nothing I didn’t expect.”