Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1960

Faster Than an Honest Man by O. H. Leslie

The problem of our story is precisely one hundred and fifty yards in length, but our hero is a mere five-foot-nine — or thereabouts. This disparity makes for an underdog, which in turn stimulates interest and creates drama.

“It’s a question of legs,” Hart said. He leaned forward in the narrow booth and the table edge cut into his paunch. Skinner, sitting opposite with a knuckle in his mouth, looked at Hart’s fleshy middle and didn’t feel so inferior anymore. Okay, so he was driving a cab and Hart’s suit had cloth that was soft as silk, but Skinner still had a lean, hard body inside his workclothes. He was in shape, including legs.

“My legs are fine,” he said casually. “Only what’s that got to do with anything? What’s the pitch?”

“Stanley will tell you,” Hart said. He looked at the costly watch on his plump wrist. “He’ll be here any minute.”

“Look, I got to put some time on the hack—”

“A minute, a little minute,” Hart grinned. Skinner hadn’t seen him in almost seven years, not since they stood in the same line at the graduation exercises of Montgomery High. In seven years, Hart had gained weight and affluence. Skinner didn’t know how, but if Stanley Peace was his partner, he could make a good guess. Peace hadn’t stood in the graduating line; a year before, he had made a scholastic switch, to the county reform school.

“There he comes!” Hart said.

Skinner looked up as Peace came through the restaurant’s revolving doors. Peace was a thin, round-shouldered man with his small head perpetually cocked to one side, as if he was listening for something. Usually, he was. He could hear the squeak of a cop’s shoe at fifty yards.

“Well, if it ain’t Speedy Skinner,” Peace said, with an attempt at camaraderie. “Sure nice to see you again. Hey, they still call you that, Speedy, I mean?”

Skinner flushed. The red tint, under his blond crewcut, made him look High School age again. “Naw,” he said.

Peace slid into the booth beside Hart. “You earned the name, pal, you really did. I ain’t never seen anybody run like you could. What was that mile record of yours?”

“It was 4:10, but that was only the school record. It was the 220-yard dash I made my big record.”

“Sure, sure,” Peace said vaguely, snapping his fingers at a waiter. “Hey, how about some coffee here?”

“I did the two-twenty in under twenty-four seconds. That was the year Bragg made the A.A.U. mark, twenty-one point one. I almost made the State scholastic championship, but Lester Arnow beat me out by two seconds. Can you imagine that? Two lousy seconds!”

“Yeah,” Hart chuckled. “I thought sure you had him, Speedy. I never liked that stuffed shirt Lester Arnow.”

“Whatever happened to him, anyway?” Peace said.

“I dunno,” Skinner said gruffly. “He’s probably some big-shot executive by now. He was the type.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. And what are you doing these days?” Peace said slyly.

“Me? I’m driving a cab.”

Peace closed his eyes and smiled. “Lester Arnow’s a big shot, and you’re driving a hack. Guess he beat you out again, didn’t he?”

Skinner clenched his fists on the table. “Look, you guys got something on your mind, let’s hear it. I know you looked me up for a reason.”

“Sure we did, Speedy. Fifty thorn sand reasons.”

“Huh?”

“Fifty grand, Speedy. How’d you like to make that kind of money?”

Skinner paled, and the loss of color made him look older again. “You mean a robbery?” he whispered. “Is that what you guys are talking about?”

“You know about me and Hart, Speedy, don’t look so surprised. If you’re not interested, no hard feelings. We’ll just make some other guy rich.”

“But why me?” Skinner asked. “I never buddied with you two in school. Why pick on me?”

“It’s a question of legs,” Hart said. “I told you.”

Peace said: “The job’s fast and it’s foolproof. The payoff’s big. You interested or not?”

“How can I tell?”

Peace nodded understandingly, and then bent closer.

“You know the Triton Tool Works? Sure, everybody in town knows it. I used to work there myself, summers. Hart here, he’s been working there past two months, in the maintenance department, just to figure out the setup.”

“It’s a beaut,” Hart grinned. “The sweetest payroll heist yet.”

“Payroll?”

“A hundred fifty grand, at least,” Peace said. “They bring it in by armored car the first of every month.” He took a folded square of paper from his pocket; it had been creased so often that it was as soft as a towel. Skinner looked at the crude diagram, but couldn’t make sense out of it. Peace explained, spreading the paper flat and pointing, “This whole area here is the front yard of the factory. It’s a real big yard, maybe five hundred feet across; they used to park cars here until they bought the lot on the other side. Now the whole thing’s fenced in; you can’t get an auto anyplace near the main building. That’s why we got to do this different.”

“Different?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Now this here’s the front gate where the workers come in, and this here’s the side gate; that’s where the executives come in. Understand?”

“I guess so.”

“Now there’s one time when that dough is out in the open, and that’s on paydays. They take it out of the safe and put it into little envelopes; Triton likes to pay off in cash. Hart checked the time for five weeks, and it’s always on the button — ten-fifteen, every Friday morning, Wexler the paymaster, and three old dames, lock themselves in the office and start counting it out.”

“But if they lock the door—”

“It won’t be locked on the day we do the job,” Peace said. “Hart’s gonna fix that, right?”

“You bet,” Hart said. “See, I’m on the maintenance crew, Speedy, I can make a routine check of the doors the day before. I’ll fix that lock so that one good shove will open it. You won’t have any trouble.”

“Me?” Skinner said.

“Only a guy like you could do it,” Peace said soothingly. “It won’t be any trick to get the money bag; old man Wexler will be too scared to put up an argument. But the tough part is getting out with it; like I said, we can’t park a getaway car near the office. Somebody’s gotta run with it.”

“It’s a good hundred and fifty yards from the payroll office to the side gate,” Hart said. “The main gate is closer, but it’s always shut up tight by that time.”

“Oh, no,” Skinner said. “I’m not taking that kind of risk, not for a million bucks. Besides, how would I even get into the place? You got to have identification if you’re—”

“You’ll use Hart’s badge. He won’t be working that day; he’ll be sitting in a car by the side gate, with me. Nobody’ll stop you; they got new workers reporting into the factory every day. I’m telling you, Speedy, the whole thing is a cinch — for a guy like you, who can run.”

“I can’t run faster than a bullet—”

“There won’t be any bullets,” Hart said. “Old man Wexler couldn’t fire a gun if he had one. All you got to do is run like hell.”

“Fifty grand,” Peace said dreamily. “You could kiss that hack goodbye. You could get yourself a fleet...”

“Sorry,” Skinner said. “It’s not for me.”

“What’d I tell you?” Peace said contemptuously. “I told you he couldn’t run no more, Hart.”

“It’s not that—”

“Sure, we know. It’s your wind. That’s why you let Lester Arnow beat you.” Peace laughed, and dropped a dollar on the table. “Come on, Hart, let’s beat it.” He stood up, and touched Skinner’s shoulder. “If you change your mind, Speedy, give Hart a call at the Palace Hotel.”

“I won’t change my mind,” Skinner said.

But that night, he called Hart and did.

On Saturday morning, Skinner woke at six, put on a sweatshirt, khaki pants, and a pair of track shoes. He took a bus to Green Park at the edge of town. It was still early enough for the park to be deserted; only the birds and squirrels saw him pace off a hundred yards on the empty ballfield, and then race the distance with all the speed he could muster. He was puffing hard by. the time he reached the imaginary finish line, but he was satisfied with the way his legs had behaved.

On Sunday morning, he went out on another field trial, and his speed was even better. He was pleased with himself; he had dreams all week, about the State track event back in High School; only this time, he breasted the tape ahead of Arnow.

On Wednesday morning, they tested half of the scheme. Skinner took Hart’s identification badge, put on a pair of grimy coveralls, and reported to the Triton Tool Company. The guard at the main gate didn’t blink an eye. Skinner wandered around the buildings for a while, and then strolled casually about the front yard. It was just as Peace had described it; he could see the window of the payroll office, and the old guy at the front desk. He measured the distance between the office and the sidegate with his eye; it wasn’t more than a hundred and fifty yards. It wasn’t going to be hard.

On Thursday night, the trio met in Hart’s hotel room and went over the plan again, carefully, step by step. Skinner had heard it so often by then that he was sick of it; but he was even sicker when Peace handed him the small revolver that was part of the action.

“It ain’t loaded,” Peace said. “Don’t be scared of it, Speedy, we’re not taking any risks.”

“I’m not scared,” Skinner gulped, pocketing the gun. “You sure about that door, Hart?”

“Positive. One good push does it. Just act fast; shove that gun at Wexler and grab for the bag. But make sure you get there at ten-fifteen, on the nose.”

“How’s the wind?” Peace grinned.

Skinner’s wind wasn’t so good when the alarm woke him on Friday morning. He knew it was only a quirk of his nervous system; he had felt the same shortness of breath on the day of every race.

When he reported at the main gate of the Triton Company, his heart was thumping violently under the big metal badge that identified him as a member of the maintenance department. This time, the guard at the gate even nodded familiarly to him. He moved along with the tide of employees entering the main factory building, but detached himself before he reached the time clocks. There was a men’s room at the end of a long corridor; he went inside and locked himself in a booth until five minutes of ten. Then he came out, and went to the front yard.

There were two men in mufti strolling about, both gray-haired and paunchy; they looked like company executives on a tour of inspection. Skinner started to sweat inside the unfamiliar coveralls; then he got the idea of picking up a loose two-by-four and parading through the yard with it. The prop made him feel more authentic; he even whistled as he passed the executives, who didn’t give him a passing glance.

At five minutes past ten, the gray-haired types went into the administration building. Skinner, alone in the empty yard, began to feel conspicuous. He leaned the two-by-four against the brick wall, and stooped down to tie his shoelace. Then he began walking across the yard, slowly, giving Wexler, the paymaster, plenty of time. He put his hand in his pocket, and felt the cold muzzle of the small revolver.

It wasn’t quite ten-fifteen when he neared the payroll office, but luck was with him. Wexler had started early; he was bending over and twirling the knob of the chunky office safe.

Skinner kept on coming; his timing was perfect. At the very moment when he was within fingertip distance of the doorknob, Wexler was lifting the heavy black bag out of the safe.

He put his hand on the door knob, and pushed. It resisted for a moment, and Skinner almost panicked. Then he pushed again, and it gave inward.

The old paymaster looked up with an expression that was more indignant than surprised or frightened. Skinner fumbled in his right hand pocket and produced the gun. The woman in the office gave a short, sharp scream, and Skinner snapped:

“Everybody shut up! You hear me? Hand over that bag, you!”

“I can’t!” the old man gasped. “It’s our payroll!”

“That’s what I want,” Skinner growled. “Hand it over!”

“Mr. Wexler!” the woman whimpered.

“Give it to me!”

The old man handed it over reluctantly; Skinner grabbed it and was startled at its weight. It was a good twelve pounds; it would be a handicap, but he could manage it.

“Don’t make a sound,” he said, backing towards the door. “If anybody chases me, I’ll shoot!”

Then he was out of the doorway. He slammed the door shut, and started to run.

Speedy! Speedy! Yay, yay, yay!

It was like seven years ago. He could almost hear the ocean roar of the crowd. He could feel his legs pumping beautifully. He could feel the sun on his face, hear the wind whistling by his ears. Behind him, he was conscious of other feet pounding after him on the concrete pavement of the factory yard, but they were leaden feet and his were winged. He say the side gate ahead of him, more desirable than any tape he ever wanted to reach, and he knew he was running the race of his life. Faster and faster, wishing he could be timed, wishing his feat could be recorded in the annals of the sport forever...

Speedy! Speedy. Yay, yay, y—

He was tackled from behind!

He saw the concrete rise up, and managed to twist his body to meet it with his shoulder. The impact knocked the last bit of wind out of his lungs. He tried to get up and run again, but his legs were pinned. He cried out in disbelief; he had never run so well before. How could this happen?

He twisted his head around. The young man who was holding his ankles looked at him, and grimaced.

“Sorry, buster,” he panted. “I couldn’t let you get away with our dough. That’s my salary in there—”

Skinner stared at him, and recognition came slowly. The man’s hair was darker, and there was less of it. The chin was dominant, and still determined. He hadn’t gained any weight since school days, and that made it easier to remember Lester Arnow, the track champion.

“Arnow,” he groaned. “Lester Arnow! What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” Arnow said stiffly. “I’m a department manager. What’s wrong with that?”

Then there, were others surrounding him, picking up the money first and Skinner second; vaguely, he heard them talking about the two men who had been apprehended by company guards outside the gate. But he didn’t care about the fate of Peace and Hart — or about his own. He didn’t even care about the payroll. All he cared about was the fact that he had come in second again.