Cop Out

Friday
The Bottom

His eyes opened to cloudy darkness. The sun rose at a little past six thirty this time of year and so it must be after six. Yes, there goes old man Tyrell’s rooster. The cock was past his prime in everything but his doodledooing, he was worse than an alarm clock. The Tyrells were down to one ancient biddy still trying for fertile eggs. Somebody ought to tell the poor old slobs, all four of them, the facts of life. Eggs.

How do you walk on them?

Malone sat up swallowing a groan and shivering, the house was cold and he had slept without a cover. He stretched and a minefield of muscles went off. When was the last time I sacked out on a bed?

On eggs. How do you walk on them?

He listened. Ellen and Barbara were breathing as if it were an ordinary day. There was a great quiet in the house. So the Three Bears were asleep, too.

He wondered where.

Malone went through his isometric exercises to get the circulation going and when he was satisfied he got to his feet with no noise, which was his objective for more reasons than Ellen and Barbara.

He felt around with his big toe and located the hole and slipped the floorboard back over the rat’s nest, thanking the Lord he hadn’t had to use it. Hinch must be sleeping off the one he tied on with Don’s scotch.

I could get away from them now, maybe all three of us could.

The thought came to Malone with the unexpectedness of all good things, in a rush of warmth.

All we have to do is slip out of the house and down the Hill to the station and we’re safe in John’s hands and that’s the end of the nightmare!

It could be that easy.

Or could it?

He took two minutes to open the bedroom door.

His eyes were used to the half dark now and in his stockinged feet he made his way inches at a time along the hall, hugging the wall so the floor would not creak.

When he came to Barbara’s room he found the door shut. With care Malone grasped and turned the porcelain knob and with more care pushed. The door refused to give. It can’t be Furia or Hinch, it must be the woman. But why should she lock the door? If she’d jumped into the hay with Furia I’d have heard them through the wall. It must be Hinch, she doesn’t trust Hinch.

He tucked that thought away with the others he was accumulating.

The door to the spare bedroom across the hall was half open. Were the two hoods bedded down there? Malone was puzzled. With his broken nose and a bellyful of scotch, Hinch ought to be sounding off like a freight train.

Malone crossed the hall in a tiptoe stride and pulled up at the other side, holding his breath. He listened some more. Very carefully he looked in, he could see well enough by now. But the room was empty.

One of the cots was gone.

They’re sleeping downstairs.

He catfooted to the landing and risked a look over the railing. He could see down into the parlor and he could see through the archway into the entrance hall. The sofa was gone from its place, they had dragged it into the hall and set it up against the front door. A small figure lay curled like a cat on the sofa, covered by Ellen’s afghan.

The sight of Furia defenseless tightened Malone’s hand and the railing squealed. Furia woke up like a cat, too. The Colt Trooper looked enormous in his hand. Malone dodged back to the protection of the wall, holding his breath.

After a while he heard Furia settle back to sleep.

Hinch must be bedded down in the kitchen on the cot from the spare room, blocking the back door as Furia was blocking the front. Malone strained and heard snores. He’s there, all right. Maybe he drank so much that I could… But there was Furia, who slept like a cat and woke up like one.

Malone made his way back to Ellen and Barbara. In the bedroom he made a slight noise and Ellen shot up in bed.

“Loney?”

The terror in her voice touched him like a live wire. He went over to the bed and stroked her tumbled hair and whispered, “It’s all right, honey. Go back to sleep now,” and she sighed and did.

Later, at the window, he even considered Ellen’s suggestion about a rope of bedclothes. But Ellen and Bibby couldn’t climb out without lots of noise and then there’d be hell to pay.

I’ll have to play it like it is.

Malone settled down, going over desperately what he had muddled through during the night. Does it stand up? Or is this another pipe dream?

Goldie wouldn’t have hidden the payroll where there’s any chance Furia might find it. So the cabin is out. Ditto the Chrysler. And she couldn’t hide all those bills on her body.

Then where?

Had she set up a place in advance, the way they set up their hideout at Balsam Lake? But she couldn’t have known they were going to be hung up in New Bradford because of Pickney finding Tom Howland’s body so soon and the roadblocks being set up so fast. Or even if she figured on that, the thing just didn’t smell of a planned doublecross before the murder and robbery. The stocking on her head, the men’s overshoes and gloves, she must have bought them in town yesterday afternoon when she and Hinch came in, at some store where she could be sure she wasn’t known, maybe the Army-Navy Store on Freight Street, Joe Barron was only in New Bradford two years, it all smacked of spur-of-the-moment.

If that was true, then her hiding place for the money must have been picked on the spur of the moment, too.

All right. She’s got this loot. And she’s smart. She has to choose a hiding place where Furia can’t possibly put his hands on it even by accident. Even if he suspects her and tries to muscle it out of her. Even if he makes her tell him. That would be Goldie’s style.

All right.

The way it worked out, nobody in town knows the Aztec job was pulled by a gang including a woman. Nobody but Ellen and Bibby and me, and we don’t count. That’s the way she’d figure. So she can come and go in town like she did yesterday, with just the small risk that she might run into somebody who’d recognize her from the old days. And even if they did, so what? She’s back to visit her family. Nothing to tie her in to the crime.

Yes, one likely place. Just the hiding place a smart cookie like Goldie would hit on. I’ve got to check it out.

But the way things are, where do I go from there?

At this point Malone shut his mind down.

One thing at a time.

He waited with his ear against the door and heard the woman go downstairs and the whistle of the kettle in the kitchen and the spin of Furia’s voice.

Ellen was explaining things to Barbara.

“I knew those people were bad,” Barbara said in her grownup voice, the one she used when she disapproved of something. “Did Daddy get me back?”

“Yes, darling. How’s your head?”

“It feels icky. You know what they did, Mommy? That lady made me drink some liquor. She said it would make me sleep. I didn’t want to, it tasted awful, but she forced me.”

“I know, baby. Don’t think about it.”

“Why did I sleep in your bed last night?”

“They’re here in the house, Bibby,” Malone said. “I want you and your mother to stay in this room. Be very quiet and do what Mommy says.”

“Where you going, Daddy?”

“I may have to go out for a while.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Now none of that,” Malone said. He turned away.

“I’m famished.” It was her latest favorite word.

“I’ll get you some breakfast later,” Ellen said.

“Ellen, I’m going down,” Malone said.

“Loney, for God’s sake.”

“Don’t worry. Just stay up here unless they call you. Do exactly what they say. Don’t cross them.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Try to get Furia to let me go into town.”

“Do you think he will?”

“He’s got you and Bibby.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Malone opened the door. He could hear Hinch grousing and Goldie’s sarcastic laugh. He went over and kissed Barbara and then Ellen and left in a hurry so that he would not have to see their faces any more.

They were in the kitchen slupping coffee. The kitchen looked like a battlefield on the morning after. They had yanked out every drawer and emptied every cupboard. Dishes and cutlery and pots and bottles and boxes of cereal lay strewn about like the unburied dead. The door to the freezer compartment was open and Malone saw that half Ellen’s supply of meat was gone.

“Well look who’s here,” Goldie said. It seemed to him her brightness was forced. She’s walking on eggs, too.

“Who told you to come down, fuzz?” Hinch growled. He had a growth of red pig bristles and his eyes were shot with pig pink.

“Shut up, Hinch.” Furia looked at Malone over his cup. “Going somewheres?” Malone had changed into his good civvy suit. He was wearing a tie.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Now that’s being a smart fuzz.”

“I mean about-”

“I thought you’re ready to talk.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “I’ll tell you everything I can, Mr. Furia. But what I mean-”

“For openers, how about where you stashed my loot?”

“I told you, I didn’t take it. For one thing I had no time.”

He tried to keep his eyes ofl: the revolver on the table beside Furia’s cup. Hinch had the rifle and the automatic.

“Okay, you had no time. But your missus did. Where did she hide it?”

“She didn’t take it either. I don’t know what I can do, Mr. Furia, but keep telling you that. Ellen’s not out of her mind, you had our daughter. Look, I know this town inside out. If some local Lightfinger Louie snatched that bag yesterday, which is what I think happened, I could maybe get a line on him. If you’ll let me nose around. I want you to get the money and get out of here as bad as you do, Mr. Furia.”

“It’s a trick,” Hinch complained. “Don’t listen to him, Fure. I don’t know why you won’t let me bang it out of him.”

“Because he just ain’t the bang-out type,” Furia said. “Drink your coffee, Hinch. You think it’s a trick, too, Goldie?”

Goldie shrugged in a swirl of hair. She had not bothered to brush it and she looked like a witch. “I still say they took it. He’s stalling for time.”

“I don’t know.” Furia pulled on his longish nose. Then he drummed on the table. He had scrubbed the soot off his hands and they were clean and neat again. “Suppose they see you?”

“Who?” Malone said.

“The fuzz. Your buddies. I was going to tell you to call in sick.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Malone said quickly. “The flu hit the department and I did double tricks for four days running. The Chief gave me a couple days off to rest up. So nobody ‘11 think anything of it if I’m seen in town in civvies.”

“He’s telling the truth about that, anyways,” Furia said. “I read in this New Bradford paper yesterday about how the flu hit the cops.”

Goldie said, “I still don’t like it.”

“Who asked you?”

“You did.”

“Well, I’m letting him go in. He ain’t going to be a hero, not with his wife and kid with us. Wait a second, fuzz.” Furia picked up the revolver. “Go upstairs, Goldie, and make sure those two are okay.”

Goldie pushed away from the table and brushed past Malone without a glance. She’s walking on eggs is right. He stood where he was respectfully.

“Okay,” Goldie called down.

“Okay,” Furia said. “Your story is this was an outside heist, Malone, you prove it. You got till one o’clock. You either bring me that bread or proof where it is or who’s got it. If you know what’s good for the missus and kid upstairs. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?” Malone said.

“When you come back here you better not have nobody with you. And don’t try any hairy stunts like coming back heeled. Put it out of your clyde. Because you do that and Hinch and me we’re going to have to decorate your floor with your wife and kid’s brains. Kapeesh?”

“I kapeesh.”

The Vorsheks lived in the Hollow near a narrow bend in the Tonekeneke. It was a settlement of poor men’s houses huddled in the companionship of misery, but with an impersonal beauty unknown to city slums. The usual dirty children played on the tincan landscape or on the lunar stones of the riverbed during droughts and there were always flapping lines of wash, but backyards in the spring showed unbuyable stands of very old magnolias in impossible bloom, and everywhere in the summer vegetable plots as green and true as Japanese gardens.

Peter Vorshek worked in the incubator rooms at Hurley’s chicken farm. Mrs. Vorshek did handironing for the ladies of New Bradford to boost the family budget, her free time given passionately to her church. Their daughter Nanette ran a loom at the New Bradford Knitting Mill and baby-sat nights for a few favored clients. The Vorsheks were of Slovak or Czech stock, Malone had never known which. The old man, who carried around with him the smell of chickenshit, still spoke with an accent. He had the European peasant’s awe of authority. He always called Malone “Mr. Poleetsman.”

Malone pulled the Saab up at the front gate and got out. Nanette was perched in a rocker on the porch reading a movie magazine. She was wearing skintight slacks and a turtleneck.

They look a lot alike all right.

“Mr. Malone.” Nanette jumped up. “Something wrong with Bibby? I had to leave early Wednesday night because my mother was sick-she still is, that’s why I’m staying home from work-”

“I know, my wife told me,” Malone said.

“Oh! What happened to your head and face?”

“A little accident. Mind if I sit down a minute, Nanette?”

“Mind? I should say not.”

She sat down looking flattered. He took the other chair and made his onceover casual. She was a large girl, larger than Goldie in every department, with the heavy Vorshek features but plainer than Goldie’s, the pug nose, the high bones, the straight brown hair her sister camouflaged. He had seen Nanette at least once a week since her high school days, but he had never absorbed more than an impression of a sort of homely niceness, Bibby worshiped her and she was reliable, which was all he cared about. From what he had heard she rarely went out on a date. The talk among the studs was that she couldn’t be made, her old man and old lady kept her on too short a leash, the YPF type, they said, a hardnose churchgoer, as tough to crack as a nun. But Malone thought he saw a certain something in her hazel eyes.

She’s wondering why I’m here. No sign of being scared or worried like she’d surely show if she was in on this with Goldie and the two hoods. My hunch was right, she probably doesn’t even know her sister is in town.

“My father’s working and my mother’s in bed,” Nanette said with a downward look. For some reason her face was red. “You want to see mom, Mr. Malone?”

“I’m here to see you,” Malone said. “I took a chance you’d be home, knowing Mrs. Vorshek is down sick.” He managed a smile.

“Mrs. Malone know you’re here?” He could barely hear her.

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.”

By God, she’s got a thing for me. All these years and I never knew. He had been racking his brains trying to work out an approach, and he had come up the walk still trying. This could be the break.

“Nanette.”

She looked up.

“How long have you known me?”

She giggled. “That’s a funny question, Mr. Malone. You know how long. Years.”

“Have I ever made a pass at you?”

“You? Oh, no!”

“Ever catch me in a lie, or trying to take advantage of you?”

“I should say not.”

“Do you trust me, Nanette?”

“I guess I do. I mean sure.”

“I’m glad. Because I’m going to have to trust you, too. In a very important thing. Something I can’t even tell you about. I need information.”

“From me?”

“From Goldie’s sister.”

She went white. She whispered, “Wait a minute,” and jumped up and ran into the house. When she came back she said, “It’s okay, mom’s sleeping,” and pulled the rocker closer to Malone and sat down on the edge and clasped her big hands on her knees. “She’s in trouble, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Malone said. “But I can’t tell you what trouble, Nanette, or anything about it. All I can do is ask you to help me.

Her lips came together. “You want me to do something against my own sister.”

“The kind of trouble Goldie’s in, Nanette, she can’t get out of. Whatever you do or don’t do, sooner or later she’s going to have to pay for it. Nothing can make it worse for her. But by cooperating you can maybe help Bibby and Mrs. Malone and me. We’re in trouble through no fault of our own. Bad trouble.”

“Because of Goldie?”

He was silent. Then he said, “Will you help us?”

“I don’t get it.”

“I wish I could tell you, Nanette, I really do. But there are reasons why I can’t. Will you help us?”

She banged back in the rocker and began to rock in little fast rocks, like an angry old lady, lips’ fleshiness thinned, hairy brows drawn tight. Malone waited patiently.

“It’ll hurt Goldie?”

“I told you, it can’t hurt her more than she’s already hurt herself. You’ll just have to take my word for that, Nanette. You’ve got to make up your mind that your sister made the bed she’s lying in. But you can help out people who’ve always treated you right and never did anything against you.”

“She’s in New Bradford, isn’t she?”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything, and I’m not going to. Nanette, look at me.”

She looked at him.

“I’m desperate. I mean it.”

Whatever she saw in his eyes, it made her stop rocking. She looked out over the porch rail at the hills, seeing something he could not. “I guess I always knew Goldie would wind up bad. When I was a little girl I used to look up to her because she was so much prettier and smarter than me and the boys were all ape over her. And because she wasn’t scared of my parents. She’d sass papa back to his face something awful and he’d smack her hard and she’d never even cry, I thought she was so brave… What do you want, Mr. Malone?”

He let out his breath. “When is the last time you saw her?”

“Years ago.”

“You didn’t see her, say, this past summer?”

“This year? No.”

“Does she ever write to you?”

“Once in a while. Not often, but regular, if you know what I mean. From all kinds of places. My father always goes to work before the mailman comes, but I get to the mailbox in the morning before my mother in case there’s a letter from Goldie. Mom would tear it up on the spot if she got there first. My parents are still very Old Country, they never changed. Since Goldie ran away they won’t even let me mention her name. Not that she uses it any more, the Vorshek, I mean. She calls herself Goldie Vanderbilt, I don’t know why.”

Malone heard her out. When she stopped he said casually, “Ever save any of her letters?”

Jesus let this be it.

“Oh, all of them,” Nanette said. “I keep them hid in my old toy chest in the attic that mama hasn’t touched for years.”

“Could I please see her last letter?”

Nanette got up without a word and went into the house. Malone sat on the Vorshek porch looking out at the half-naked willows stooped over the river and the fading hump of hill beyond, seeing nothing but his predicament.

Even if my hunch proves out I’m a long way from home.

One step at a time is how you have to do it.

Then you figure out where you go from there.

Till one o’clock.

At this point Malone’s mind got stuck again.

When Nanette came back she was in a hurry. Her red hands were clasped about an envelope, trying to hide it. Malone had never noticed before that her fingernails were bitten all the way down.

“Mama’s getting restless,” she whispered. “You better go, Mr. Malone, before she wakes up. I don’t want to have to explain what you’re doing here.” She shoved the letter into his hand. “Put it away.”

He put it into his pocket without looking at it.

“It isn’t typewritten?”

“Goldie don’t know how to type.”

“Nanette, if I just knew how to thank you.”

“Go on, Mr. Malone!”

A hundred yards shy of the turnoff from the Hollow road to The Pike, Malone pulled the Saab over and killed his engine.

The envelope was cheap supermarket stuff but the note-paper was heavy and had a gold GV monogram on it and a powerful perfume. The envelope was postmarked jersey city n.j. 23 oct, the return address at the upper left said “G. Vanderbilt, care P.O. General Delivery, Boston, Mass. 02100.” The letter was less than a month old, just what the doctor ordered, a recent specimen, God knows I’m no expert, but this ought to do it.

From bitter compulsion he read the letter. It was full of news that couldn’t be pinned down: her “job” (without specification-and what sort of job would it be that spanned Jersey City and Boston?-that wasn’t very smart, Miss Vanderbilt), her “loaded boy friend” (no name), the glamorous nightspots, the marvelous clothes, the great times, and so on and on, no mention of a Furia or a Hinch or the grimy life the threesome must lead… all of it a fairy tale to impress the yokel kid sister (like the elegant stationery) and maybe get her to follow Goldie Vanderbilt’s example and split from the old family homestead out of some vicious need to corrupt Nanette and break what was left of the Vorsheks’ hearts.

The bitch.

The only good thing was that she wasn’t fooling anybody but herself. Maybe Nanette once felt envious, swallowing the fairy tales, but not any more; she knew it was all made up. She probably looked forward to the perfumed letters the way she did to a rerun of Snow White or a costume movie in bigger-than-life Panavision.

Malone put the letter carefully away, started the Saab, and drove on into town.

He waited on the three-seater leatherette bench outside the steel railing while Wally Bagshott turned down a nervous young couple for a personal loan. Wallace L. Bagshott was president of The Taugus County National Bank, founded by his great-grandfather in the days of the granite quarry and the hitching post. A Bagshott had settled New Bradford; the old Bagshott house, dated 1694, still overlooked the Green, a historic showplace opened to the public one day a year. The double statue on the Green of Zebediah and Zipporah Bagshott, known to the town as the Zizzes, was the favorite privy of the starlings.

“Wes, boy.” Bagshott had ushered the young couple out and was smiling over at Malone. “You want to see me?”

Malone jumped up. The banker was tanned halfway up his scalp, a result of spending all his free time hacking divots out of the New Bradford golf course. His employees called him “Smiley” behind his back and his customers “Wally the Knife,” on explosive occasions to his face.

“Hey, you look like you’re in line for a couple of Purple Hearts. What happened to you?”

“Believe it or not, I fell down the stairs. Wally-”

“What you doing out of uniform? John fire you I hope I hope? You know my standing offer-”

“I’m off duty,” Malone said, going through the gate. “Wally, I have to talk to you.”

“Squattee voo.” The banker sat down, still smiling. “Though if it’s about a personal loan, Wes, I’ve got to tell you right off-”

“It’s not about a loan.”

“That’s a load off. The way things are we’re having to tighten up. Well! Sit down, Wes.” Malone sat down. “How’s the better half? That’s one damn fine piece you grabbed off. Every time Ellen comes in my tellers get all worked up. And not just my tellers if you know what I mean. Haha.”

“Look, Wally,” Malone said.

“No offense, Wes, no offense. Share the wealth is my motto. Talking about that, terrible thing about Tom Howland, isn’t it? They say he was in on it.”

“I wouldn’t know. Wally, I need a favor.”

“Oh?” Bagshott immediately stopped smiling.

“I’d like to inspect your safe deposit records.”

“What for?”

“I can’t tell you anything about it. Except that it’s important.”

“Well, I don’t know. You’re out of uniform-”

“Let’s say it’s undercover work.”

“No kid?” The banker leaned forward eagerly. “It’s about this stickup, isn’t it?”

Malone was quiet.

“Well, if you can’t. Okay, Wes, I don’t see why not, seeing you’re an officer of the law.”

“One thing, Wally. I’ve got to ask you to keep this absolutely to yourself.”

“You knew me, pal.” Bagshott winked. “Tightest snatch in town.”

He waved his Masonic ring and led the way to the rear of the bank. He dismissed the woman on duty in the Safe Deposit Department and unlocked a drawer.

“Here’s the check-in card.”

“The one they sign when they want to get into their box?”

“Isn’t that what you want to see?”

“Yes. But I’m also interested in your latest applications for box rentals.”

“How far back you want to go?”

“Yesterday.”

The banker looked startled. “Yesterday?”

Malone nodded.

“You mean to say-?”

“I’m not meaning to say anything. Just let me have them, would you mind?”

Bagshott took out three cards. He was so conscious of the hot breath of crime that he broke his own rule about never allowing himself to look worried. “Three new boxes rented yesterday,” he said with a careful look around. “They haven’t even been put in the master file yet.”

“I’d like to take these into one of the rooms.”

“Good idea. Sure thing.”

“Alone.”

Bagshott frowned. Then he walked quickly away.

Malone went into the nearest unoccupied cubicle and shut the door. He sat down at the desk and pulled the light chain and spread the cards and took Goldie’s letter from his pocket.

He spotted it at once. “Georgette Valencia, The Cascades, Southville.” The Cascades was a twenty-year-old housing development straddling the town line, in an unincorporated village policed on contract by the New Bradford department. Malone knew every family in the Southville district. No one of that name lived there. So the “Georgette Valencia” was a phony.

For confirmation, the Gs and Vs in the signatures on the application and check-in cards were identically formed with those in Goldie’s letter, the Gs with a squared-off bottom line instead of the usual curve, the Vs like hasty checkmarks. Even the small ts were the same, with the crossmarks tilted downward from right to left in a fancy swash.

No doubt about it, Georgette Valencia was Goldie Vorshek, alias Goldie Vanderbilt.

So I doped it right. Goldie hijacked the stolen payroll and stashed it in the one place where nobody else could get to it, a safe deposit box in the bank.

So now I’ve got the money back.

Well, not exactly got it back, but I know where I can lay my hands on it.

Not exactly lay my hands on it, unless…

Malone stowed the letter away, gathered up the cards, turned off the light and went out into the banking room. Bagshott was alone at his desk, talking on the phone. The moment he saw Malone he hung up. Malone laid the cards on the desk and said, “I’d like to get into one of your boxes.”

The banker looked around. “Sure, Wes,” he said. “Sit down, make it look natural. I mean sure, soon as you bring me the court order.”

Malone lowered himself into the chair, holding onto the corner of Bagshott’s desk. “You won’t let me see it without the judge’s authorization?”

“I can’t, Wes. You know the law.”

“Well, how about these cards? If I could just borrow them for a few hours-”

Bagshott stared. It was his banker’s stare, the fish eye. “There’s something funny about this. You trying to pull something, Wes? You know I can’t let any official records out of the bank. What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Which box is it?”

Malone got up and walked out.

He drove over to Elwood’s and sank onto a stool. The breakfast rush was over and the diner was almost empty. He was grateful that no one had the juke box going. His head was kicking up a storm.

He was famished. He had not been conscious of his hunger until this moment. I haven’t eaten in how long is it?

“Morning, morning, Wes,” Elwood said, slapping his rag around. “Some excitement.”

“I can live without it, Ave,” Malone said. “Double o.j., wheats and sausage, stack of toast, coffee.”

“You sound starved,” the old man cracked. “Like it’s your last meal.”

Malone tried to appreciate the joke.

“And peaked, too. Damn shame how they run you boys ragged.” Elwood went into his kitchen wagging his head.

Run ragged.

That’s for sure, Ave.

What do I do now?

I can’t go to the judge without telling him why I want the order, and if I do that I set Ellen and Bibby up for cemetery plots. Judge Trudeau is a stickler for the law books, people don’t mean a goddam to him, he’d have the house surrounded by state police in ten minutes. So I can’t get into the box. I can’t produce the money for Furia.

I can’t even take possession of the bank forms that along with Goldie’s letter would show Furia she rented the safe deposit box. And without proof that she doublecrossed him he wouldn’t believe me, it would be my word against hers, and I don’t go to bed with him. He’d get so worked up about what he’d think was a stall he’d likely shoot the three of us on the spot.

So where do we go from here.

Nowhere.

End of the line.

There’s just so much a man can do by himself.

It came to Malone suddenly that he had just thought a profound thought. It was the exact story of his life.

Ellen didn’t start calling me The Malone Ranger just for laughs. She tagged me good from the start. Wes Malone against the world and to hell with you, neighbor. Malone the on-his-own-two-feet guy, he asks nothing from nobody. Not even from the only man in the world he respects and trusts. Too proud, that’s Loney. Maybe too sore at the whole raw deal that began with the old man crawling into the sack every night giving nothing to anyone, not so much as a word or a look, and the mother cursing her life and taking with both tobacco-stained hands. So you grow up giving in spite of yourself.

Giving is giving out.

Taking is giving in.

Giving-out keeps you on top of the enemy.

Giving-in is crawling on your belly to the sonofabitch world.

Or is it? Is it being a loser to ask for a helping hand when you can’t make it any more on your own? What the hell else is the Marine buddy system but I’m-right-here-brother?

That’s why I was a lousy grunt.

That’s why I’m a lousy cop and husband and father. That’s why John and Ellen look at me the way they do sometimes, Bibby’s too young to know better.

I’ve been kidding myself. And shortchanging them.

But there’s the but.

Can I do it?

My whole life says no.

My whole life is my bag, that’s been my hangup. Now I’ve got to. No choices left. My back to the wall and Ellen’s and Bibby’s, too.

Their whole lives are on the line.

That’s what it comes down to.

Malone looked up at the diner clock.

Ten minutes past eleven.

Less than two hours to putup time.

He dropped a couple of one-dollar bills on the counter not bothering to wait for change I might chicken. And ran.

John Secco got up and took a few turns. He hated his private office and spent as little time as possible in it. It was down the hall from the three cells and it was not much bigger than they were, whitewashed brick walls and nothing on them, the only real difference was a door instead of bars. He looked tired, almost as tired as Malone.

Malone watched him.

After the third turn Malone said stiffly, “If you want my badge, John.”

The chief stopped. He had black brows under the gray thatch and they went up like windowshades. “What are you talking about?”

“I know I ought to have come to you right off. Any way I slice it I’m an officer of the law-”

“Any way you slice it you’re Ellen’s husband and Barbara’s father. What kind of a man do you think I am? I’d have done the same thing.” He dropped into his swivel chair and leaned back from the steel desk. “We’ve got to think this out, Wes. We can’t afford a mistake.”

“God, no,” Malone said.

“The first problem is Ellen and Barbara. And you, if you go back.”

“No if, John. I can’t leave them there alone.”

Secco nodded slowly. His face reflected his father’s pastures, full of steel ruts and the patience of livestock. “The question is, Wes, how to capture those three without endangering the lives of you and your family.”

“That isn’t the question at all,” Malone said. “I started out thinking that way, too. It can’t be done.”

The chief seemed about to argue. But he did not. “What do you mean it can’t be done?”

“There’s no way,” Malone said. “Believe me, John. As long as they’ve got the guns and Ellen and Bibby there’s no way. Any move we make they’ll shoot them. Or threaten to unless we let them make a getaway, using Ellen and Bibby as shields. Either way they’re goners. Furia’s got nothing to lose. He’s in for one murder, he may as well be in for three or four. You don’t know this man, John. Any way this thing winds up, Furia’s going to go out shooting. I doubt he can be taken alive.”

Secco said quietly, “What do you suggest, Wes?”

“The money. Give him the money.”

Secco looked away.

“Get it out of the safe deposit box. If you talk to him, maybe Judge Trudeau will play ball. He owes you, John, if not for you he’d never have made judge. So get Trudeau’s order and get the money out of the box and offer Furia the twenty-four thousand in exchange for Ellen and Bibby. Give him a safe conduct and time for a getaway. The money is what he wants. It’s the only deal he’ll make.”

Malone stopped, exhausted.

The chief said nothing.

“You won’t buy it,” Malone said.

“No, I won’t, Wes. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not in my power to do what you want. That payroll belongs to Aztec.”

“The hell with Aztec!”

“It’s not that simple,” Secco said. “I guess I’d feel the way you do if I were in your spot, Wes. But I have the legal responsibility. Even if I were willing to do it, it isn’t my money to dispose of.”

“Then put it up to Curtis Pickney! What the hell is twenty-four thousand dollars compared to two lives? Even Pickney ought to be able to see that!”

“It doesn’t belong to Pickney, either. It belongs to his company. It really wouldn’t be Aztec’s decision, either. They’re insured against robbery and theft, so it’s the insurance company that’s holding the bag. Can you see an insurance company authorizing a deal with a payroll robber at their own expense? Wes, you’re dreaming. If you weren’t so desperate you’d realize it.”

“You’ve got to do this for me, John,” Malone said hoarsely. “I don’t care whose money it is. If I could borrow twenty-four thousand dollars from the bank or a personal finance company I’d do it in a shot, even if it meant going into hock for the rest of my life. But you know Wally Bagshott or nobody would lend a man with my salary and no collateral that kind of money. Even selling my house wouldn’t do any good, I have less than six thousand dollars’ equity in it. That Aztec payroll is all I’ve got to bargain with! John, for God’s sake.”

John Secco shook his head. His eyes were screwed up as if the sun were in them.

“You won’t do it for me.” Malone cracked his knuckles, not knowing he was doing it. “The first time I’ve ever asked you or anybody for a goddam thing and you won’t do it!”

“I can’t do it,” Secco said. “I’m the police officer in charge of law enforcement in New Bradford, Wes, I’ve got a sworn duty. I can’t take somebody else’s money and make a dicker with a gang wanted for murder and robbery-I’d be open to indictment for conspiracy and grand larceny myself. And even if I did it, do you think this gang would trust a police chief to hold up his end of such a deal? They’d still take Ellen and Barbara as hostages for their getaway. No, there’s got to be some other way-”

The telephone rang.

“Yes?” Secco said. His face turned to stone. “Yes, he’s here, Ellen.”

Malone gaped.

“Wes.” Secco held out the phone.

“Ellen,” Malone said in a whisper. “What is it?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all over town.” He did not recognize her voice, it was inhuman, something out of a machine. “They’ve left.”

“Left.”

“Furia got nervous. He decided he couldn’t trust you. That woman worked on him. So they left. They took Bibby with them.”

“Let me get this.” Malone ran the back of his hand over his forehead. “They took Bibby… “

Now she was crying.

“Honey. Please. Did they say where to make contact with them? Did they go back to the cabin at the Lake?”

“I don’t know, Loney, I don’t know… “

“Ellen, you’ve got to stop crying a minute, I’ve got to know exactly what they said. They must have said something.”

“Furia said you’re to have the money by noon tomorrow here in the house and wait with it till they get in touch with us he didn’t say when and no police he said or we’ll never see Bibby again, not even her body, it’s our last chance he said… “

“I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

Malone hung up.

“I heard it,” Chief Secco muttered. “I’ll give you all the time you want, Wes, I won’t make a move or say a word to anybody about this without your permission and if there’s any way I can help, I mean except… “

“Go to hell,” Malone said, and walked out.

He made his approach with the old stealth knowing it was unnecessary and hoping it was necessary but they were gone except for a garbage can full of empty food tins and liquor bottles and some filthy dishes in the sink.

Malone searched the cabin for a clue, anything that might tell him where they had gone. There was nothing and for a time he went out of his mind, he did everything in a trance of fury, blundering through underbrush and kicking cabin doors in and racing up and down dirt roads along the Lake looking for a sign of life, a smudge against the sky, a car in the bushes, anything.

Afterward, in the dusk, he drove the Saab slowly back to town.

First I had the money but lost Bibby.

Then I got Bibby back but lost the money.

Now I’ve lost both.