Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 2, February 1964

The Big Grab by Carroll Mayers

A policeman’s lot frequently is not a happy one, but we do expect him to bear up under the strain. When and if he does not, our sympathies can be quickly overtaxed.

The weather turned foul late in the afternoon, blowing cold with intermittent rain squalls, but Gannon hardly noticed the elements. His mood had been grimly detached all day, ever since Captain Heisler had given him the assignment and the first seed of possible action had been planted.

Tooling the unmarked police car from headquarters garage, Gannon drove across town slowly, mechanically. His gaze was almost vacant as he scanned the homeward bound traffic, and when a sudden wet gust sprinkled the windshield he switched on the wipers absently.

He was still thinking about the money. Twenty-three thousand. Twenty-three thousand dollars in hard, cold cash which might be his if he hit upon a stroke of luck, and had the nerve to follow it through.

“It’s a long shot, I know,” Captain Heisler had told him that morning, “but Denver gave us help on that Ascot embezzlement, and I’d like to reciprocate. I know you’re tied up in court this morning, but make the Kirsch girl’s place this afternoon. Check her out.”

Paula Kirsch, erstwhile girl friend of Leo Sills, gunman and heist artist whose latest exploit involved holding up a Denver building and loan office and killing a misguided clerk who had tried to be a hero.

Gannon almost overran a stoplight. He braked hard, cursing the potential opportunity and the gnawing dilemma of indecision his assignment had spawned. Sills had made good his escape with twenty-three thousand, was still at large. Suppose he was at Paula Kirsch’s home, lying low until the heat died down? A smart cop — a cop fed to the teeth with routine and regulations, unmarried, with no strings and a growing desire to cut out, really live — could take Sills and that twenty-three grand.

The light went green and Gannon toed the gas pedal. His palms were slick on the wheel as his thoughts churned. Twenty-three thousand was no fortune but it could carry a man far. Canada, Mexico, one of those South American countries with no extradition. Only could it carry him far enough to forget he was a common thief, a crooked cop?

What do you care what you are? This is a lousy rat race. The only idea is to live, and twenty-three G’s will buy you plenty of living.

Gannon got a cigarette going, inhaled deeply, letting the acrid smoke bite his lungs. What was he stewing about? The whole idea was academic anyway. The odds were a thousand to one against Sills seeking out the Kirsch girl after two years. Captain Heisler had intimated as much in his briefing.

“This Paula Kirsch, Sir,” Gannon had said. “She’s Sills’ woman?”

The captain had shaken his head. “Hardly. I understand Sills took up with her when he was operating around here a couple of years ago, probably just for kicks.”

“Sir?”

“Not his type, actually,” Heisler said. “Quiet, reserved sort. Works as a cocktail waitress, but doesn’t go in for the bright lights bit after hours. Not too many friends. When Sills was squiring her, she lived with her widowed mother. Mrs. Kirsch was an invalid who died six months ago, but Paula didn’t give up the house. She still lives there alone, apparently doesn’t go out much.”

Gannon considered his chief’s remarks. “I can’t figure either Sills or the Kirsch girl becoming interested in each other,” he said.

Heisler smiled briefly. “Nor I,” he agreed, “except that opposites sometimes attract. Anyway, Sills did know the girl, and it’s worth a check.” He pencilled a notation on a flyer bearing Sills’ likeness.

“There’s the address. And Gannon...”

“Sir?”

The captain’s brief smile was gone. “I don’t have to tell you chat Sills is dangerous. This may be routine, but don’t operate on that basis.”

Oil, man, oil. You’re just a name on the city payroll. Get a bullet in you and you’re replaced the next day. Collect that twenty-three grand and they can keep their phony solicitude.

Gannon flipped away the cigarette butt, his pulse picking up as he reviewed the morning’s discussion. If Sills was at the girl’s place, how would the gunman play it? Because he might very well take a fatal slug in a shooting exchange, he’d first keep out of sight, have the girl put on an act. If that failed... Not if. When. A shrewd cop could be set for that precise moment.

He had cleared the heavy traffic now, and was driving into the city’s suburban area. Checking a corner sign, Gannon swung the car into a side avenue, drove a short distance before making another turn, pulling up before a white frame bungalow at the end of the street.

This is it. If Sills is inside, what do you do?

Gannon ran sweaty palms along his thighs. He didn’t know. After a long moment, he drew a breath, checked the gun in his belt holster, climbed from the car. His chest tightened as he approached the bungalow, thumbed the bell.

There was a perceptible wait before a thin-faced girl with yellow hair, set in a severe coiffure, answered.

“Yes?”

“Miss Paula Kirsch?”

“Yes.”

Gannon showed his ID card. “Sergeant Gannon, police headquarters. I’d like to talk to you a moment, Miss Kirsch.”

The girl had light gray eyes. Gannon detected a slight flicker in their pale depths before she stepped back. “Certainly. Come in.”

The bungalow was small. What appeared to be a single bedroom was directly beyond the living room. The bedroom door was closed, inciting his frank curiosity.

“Sit down, Sergeant. What is this all about?”

Gannon declined the invitation. His gaze swiftly appraised his surroundings, centered on that closed door. He shifted position to be out of direct line.

“I’m checking on a gunman named Leo Sills. I understand you knew him several years ago?”

Again that tiny flicker. “That’s right.”

“You went around with him?”

“Yes.”

“Despite the fact he was a gunman?”

Paula Kirsch smiled without humor. “Our association lasted only as long as I considered Leo attractive in a hard, flashy way. When I learned what he really was, I stopped seeing him.”

Fact? Or fiction? Studying the girl, Gannon couldn’t decide. Paula Kirsch might be attractive to some men, but not many. Certainly not the lush type a man like Leo Sills might be expected to favor.

On the other hand, just as certainly the introverted sort likely to have few friends, go few places, and who could have been attracted to a flashy operator like Sills, until knowledge of his true character pulled her back into her shell. Or until the man had tired of the kicks bit, and jilted her.

“That was just two years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

Gannon said, “Sills killed a clerk in Denver, Miss Kirsch, and is still at large. We have reason to believe he’d seek help hiding out.” He let the implication hang.

The girl met his gaze directly. “I haven’t seen Leo Sills in two years, Sergeant.”

“Or heard from him?”

“Or heard from him.”

Gannon shot another quick glance at the bedroom door. His throat was constricted now, along with his chest, but he managed to hold his tone casual as he made an encompassing gesture. “You don’t mind if I make a routine check for my report?”

She might have hesitated. Gannon couldn’t be sure. But her voice was even enough. “Go ahead.”

Gannon swallowed. He ought to stall, make up his mind exactly what he intended to do, but there was no more time. He whirled, whipping free his gun, lunged against the bedroom door.

The door slammed back against the wall. Bent low, Gannon lurched into the room, gun out thrust, gaze swivelling. An involuntary oath escaped him as he pulled up.

The room was empty. So was the single closet. But resting beside the bed was a hat box and an overnight bag strapped, ready to go.

She’s been snowing you! Maybe she hasn’t seen Sills yet, but he’s phoned her. He’s headed here and she’ll hide him and after a couple of days they’ll make a break together. With that twenty-three thousand!

Gannon’s mind was racing. Perhaps he’d been uncertain before, but he wasn’t now. No man — cop or other — had a chance like this tossed in his lap twice. Sills expected a safe haven, but he sure wouldn’t get it. He and the girl would get slugged, and they’d lose that money.

Gannon made a perfunctory check of the kitchen and breakfast nook, returned to the girl. “Thank you, Miss Kirsch,” he said soberly. “If Sills should contact you, just phone headquarters. We’ll take it from there.”

Her mien matched his. “I will, Sergeant,” she told him, somberly straight-faced.

Back in the car, Gannon’s thoughts kept their fever pitch. Once he’d taken care of Sills and Paula Kirsch, grabbed the money, he’d make his break. A wanted killer and his accomplice girl friend could hardly yell for the police. Even if they tried an anonymous tip, he’d be miles away, out of the country before the wind was really up.

Would Sills show tonight? The girl’s veiled nervousness, her false aura of normalcy strongly pointed to the gunman’s imminent arrival.

Play it that way! What have you got to lose?

Driving off, Gannon circled the block, parked at the head of the street on the cross avenue where his view of the bungalow was unrestried. A street lamp midblock would give sufficient illumination after dark.

A residential section, there was no volume of traffic. Several cars turned into driveways or parked before homes as their owners returned from work. It began to darken; lights went on in many of the houses, including the front room of Paula Kirsch’s bungalow.

Gannon chain-smoked, gaze centered down-street. Just this one chance, that’s all he needed...

Abruptly, he spat out the cigarette. A late model sedan, bearing out-of-state plates, turned into the street, rolled swiftly down the block. Approaching the Kirsch girl’s bungalow, it braked, swung in to the opposite curb.

It was now quite dark. Gannon had been unable to match the lone male driver’s features with the flyer in his pocket, but the action which followed suggested such identification was unnecessary. The sedan’s lights blinked off, but the driver made no move to leave the car. A minute passed. Two. Suddenly the man slipped out of the sedan, darted swiftly across the street — carrying a small money satchel? — and was almost lost in the shadows. The door of the bungalow opened, and he eased inside.

For all the night’s chill, Gannon felt burning satisfaction. His hunch had paid off. Sills was there. Sills and twenty-three grand. The man was a killer. He’d shot down one man, wouldn’t hesitate to blast another.

Grimly, Gannon lit a final smoke. He wasn’t backing down now. He’d give them five or ten minutes to settle, then play it out. He still thought Sills would remain hidden, let the girl act her innocence until the last possible moment. That would give a determined cop the opening he needed.

Driving back to the bungalow, Gannon slammed the car door loudly, openly strode up the walk. There was a slight delay before Paula Kirsch answered his ring. When she did, Gannon flashed a wry smile, tapped his breast pocket self-consciously. “My ID card, Miss Kirsch,” he explained. “I believe I jolted it from my pocket when I barged into the bedroom: Would you mind looking?”

The glitter in her narrowed gray eyes told him she didn’t believe him, but under the normal circumstances she was feigning she could hardly refuse. “Of course not,” she said evenly. “One moment, Sergeant.”

She turned then, moving toward the closed bedroom door, obviously intending Gannon should remain where he was.

He didn’t. Stepping silently in the girl’s wake with drawn gun, Gannon shoved her aside just as her hand touched the knob, once again stormed- suddenly into the bedroom.

The move was a calculated risk. It could have succeeded the first time, had Sills been in the room. It could have succeeded now except that Sills was flat on his back with a blood-oozing bullet hole in the center of his chest.

You figured wrong! It’s Paula Kirsch who’ll kill twice. Paula’s a bitter, jilted, tied-down girl, but she’s grabbing her big chance now. She’s planned the same solo caper for that money you did!

Realization rocketed through Gannon’s brain in the one split second when he recognized Sills. He tried to recover his equilibrium before Paula could squeeze the trigger of her silenced revolver. Gannon never made it. The slug tore off the top of his head.