Bank Shot

24

Victor said:

“Steelyeyed Dortmunder surveyed his work. The wheels were under the very floor of the bank itself. Hungry, desperate men, their hat brims pulled low, his gang had worked with him beneath the shield of night to install those wheels, turning the innocent-appearing bank into an…

ENGINE OF GREED!

“I myself had been one of those men, as recounted in the earlier tale, Wheels of Terror! in this same series. And now, the final moment had come, the moment that had filled our every waking thought for all these days and weeks of preparation.

“‘This is the payoff,’ Dortmunder snarled softly. ‘Tonight we get the whole swag.’

“‘Right, boss,’ whispered Kelp eagerly, his scarred face twisting into a brutal smile.

“I repressed a shudder at that smile. If my companions but knew the truth about me, how that smile would alter its effect! I wouldn’t last long with this crew of desperate ruffians, if ever they penetrated my disguise. I was known to them as Lefty the Lip McGonigle, late of Sing Sing, a tough customer and no friend of the law. I had used the McGonigle monicker twice before, once to capture the evil Specter of the Drive-In! and once to invade the criminal-infested precincts of the dread Sing Sing itself, that time to solve the slaying of the stoolie Sad Sam Sassanack, in the adventure later related under the title Brutes Behind Bars!

“And now, I was Lefty the Lip yet again, in the course of my duty to my God and my Nation as –

SECRET AGENT J-7!

“None of Dortmunder’s hoods had ever seen my real face. None knew my real name. None knew the —”

“Victor?”

Victor leaped, dropping the microphone. Spinning around in his chair, he saw Stan Murch standing in the open bookcase, framed by the night behind him. Victor was so deeply into his story line by this time that he recoiled when he realized he was looking at one of Dortmunder’s men.

Murch took a step forward, his expression concerned. “Something the matter, Victor?”

“No no,” Victor said shakily, shaking his head. “You just — you just startled me,” he added lamely.

“Kelp told me this was where I’d probably find you,” Murch said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, of course,” Victor said inanely. Looking down, he saw that the cassette was still running and switched it off. “This is where I am,” he said aimlessly.

“There’s been a problem at the bank,” Murch said. “We all got to assemble again.”

“Where?” Victor asked interrogatively.

“At the bank.”

“Yes, but where’s the bank?” Victor pursued puzzledly. He had last seen the bank in the high-school football field and didn’t know precisely where it would be kept for the rest of the night.

“You can follow me in your car,” Murch said. “You ready?”

“I suppose so,” Victor said uncertainly, looking around the garage. “But what’s gone wrong?” he asked belatedly.

“Herman says it’s a new kind of safe, it’ll take him all day to break into it.”

“All day!” Victor exploded, aghast. “But surely the police” — “We’re setting it up with a front,” Murch said. And then added, “We're in kind of a press for time, Victor, so if you could” — “Oh, of course!” Victor said abashedly. He leaped to his feet, then picked up the cassette and microphone and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. “Ready,” he announced earnestly.

They left, Victor carefully switching off the lights and locking the door behind himself, and the two of them walked down the dark driveway to the street. While Murch got into the station wagon parked there, Victor hurried across the street to the garage he rented from a neighbor, in which he kept his Packard. This was a more modern garage than his own, with an electronically operated lift door that he could raise or lower by touching a button on the dashboard of the car. For several months he’d been trying to get up enough nerve to ask his neighbor’s permission to do some work on the outside of the building, but so far hadn’t developed sufficient courage. What he wanted to do was make the front look like a seemingly abandoned warehouse, without doors, so that a section of wall would appear to lift when the dashboard button was pushed. There were two difficulties with this conception. First, he didn’t know what cover story to give the owner for wanting to make the change, and, second, a seemingly abandoned warehouse would look definitely out of place in this neighborhood — particularly in somebody’s back yard. Still, it was a pleasant idea, and he might yet be able to work something out.

At night, though, the effect was almost as good with the building just the way it was. Victor entered through the side door of the garage, switched on the dim red bulb he’d installed in the overhead light fixture, and by its darkroom-like illumination removed the plastic cover from the Packard, folding it like a flag and then putting it away on its shelf. Next he got into the car, took the cassette and microphone from his pocket and put them on the seat beside him, and started the engine. The Packard motor grumbled quietly but menacingly in the enclosed space. Smiling to himself, Victor turned on the parking lights only and pushed the button that caused the door to slide up. With a distinct sense of drama, he tapped the accelerator and steered the Packard out into the night, then pushed the button again and watched in the rear-view mirror as the door folded down once more behind him, the red-lit view of the garage interior narrowing from the top and at last disappearing completely. Only then did he switch on his headlights.

Murch seemed impatient. He was revving the engine of the stolen station wagon, and the instant Victor and the Packard reached the street he shot away from the curb and dashed away down the street. Victor followed at a more stately pace, but soon had to pick it up a little if he was going to keep Stan in sight at all.

The first time they were stopped at a red light, Victor ran the tape back a bit in the cassette, found the spot where he’d left off, and took it from there, dictating into the microphone as he followed Murch and his scuttling station wagon across Long Island:

“None of Dortmunder’s hoods had ever seen my real face. None knew my real name. None knew the truth about me, and it would be curtains for me if they did!

“Now, gimlet-eyed Dortmunder nodded in satisfaction. ‘Forty-eight hours from now,’ he boasted evilly, ‘that proud bank will be ours! Nothing can stop us now!’”