Cops and Robbers

Tom

I stood in that corridor a long time. I must have figured out fifty different ways for things to go wrong while I waited there, and no ways at all for things to go right.

For instance. It was true that Joe could keep an eye on Miss Emerson through the television screens in Eastpoole’s office, but what good would that do me if she decided to blow the thing to the guard in the anteroom after all? Joe would see her do it, he’d know what was going on, but he didn’t have any way to get in touch with me to warn me. For all I knew, it had already happened, and Joe was out of the building by now, leaving me to stand here and wait to be picked up.

Or say she didn’t do it on purpose, Miss Emerson, but her nervousness made her do or say something that got the guard suspicious. Same result; me standing out here as though I was waiting for the bus.

The bus to Sing Sing.

Would Joe clear out, if that happened? If the roles were reversed, and I was the one in Eastpoole’s office and saw it all going wrong on the television screens, what would I do?

I’d come looking for Joe, to warn him. And that’s what he’d do, too, I was sure of it.

Aside from anything else, it wouldn’t do Joe any good to get away and leave me here. Even if I never said a word, how long would it take the investigating officers to get from me to my next-door neighbor, who was also my best friend and also on the force? They’d have us both booked by nightfall.

Where was she, what was taking so long?

But Joe would come looking for me, I was sure of that.

Which didn’t mean he’d find me. He didn’t know the route from Eastpoole’s office to the vault any more than I had. I’d followed Miss Emerson, that’s all.

That would be beautiful. Everything gone to hell, me standing here not knowing about it, and Joe running back and forth all over the seventh floor looking for me. That would be too ridiculous to believe, and if that’s the way it went we’d almost deserve to be caught.

What was she doing in there?

I looked at my watch, but it didn’t tell me anything, because I didn’t know what time she’d gone in. Maybe five minutes ago, maybe ten. It seemed like a week.

The parade. If she didn’t get a move on, we’d miss the parade, and that would screw things up all over again.

You spend your life waiting around for women, I swear to God you do. You’ll be late for church, late for the movies, late for dinner, late for the parade, late for everything. You sit out in the car and honk the horn, or you stand in the bathroom doorway and say, “Your hair looks all right.” Or you stand around looking at your watch, in the middle of committing a felony. Nothing ever changes, men just wait for women and that’s all there is to it.

A door opened, farther down the hall. A girl came out, carrying a thick manila envelope. She was short and dumpy, in a plaid skirt and a white blouse, and she looked like the kind of girl who would go on working when everybody else in lower Manhattan was watching the parade. I stood there, clenching my teeth, watching her walk toward me. She gave me a neutral smile on the way by, walked on, and went through another doorway and out of sight. I exhaled, and looked at my watch again, and another minute had gone by.

I’d looked at my watch twice more before the anteroom door opened. I was standing back against the wall to one side, so I couldn’t be seen from inside the room, and it’s a good thing I was, because apparently the guard had come over to open the door for her. “See you again,” I heard him say, with that smile in his voice that men have when talking to a good-looking woman.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice seemed to me too obviously frightened, but he didn’t make any connections from it; at least, not that I could tell.

He probably thought it was her period. Any time a woman acts upset or nervous or weepy or anything at all out of the ordinary, everybody always takes it for granted it’s her period, and pretends not to notice.

She came out to the corridor and gave me a haggard look, and the guard closed the door behind her. I heard his phone ring as the door was closing. Let it be nothing, I thought.

She had a stack of documents in her arms, held against her chest. I nodded at them and said, “All set?”

“Yes.” Her voice was very small, as though she were talking from a different room.

“Let’s go, then.”

We headed back for Eastpoole’s office, retracing the same route as before. Parade noises still thumped in through the open windows, employees were still jammed at all the windows with their backs to us, everything moved along exactly as before.

At the end of one corridor there was a closed door. I’d opened it for her the last time, coming through, and now that her hands were full there was even more reason to do so. I did, and we stepped through into the next office, and I’d gone another pace or two when I suddenly thought about fingerprints.

Now, that would be smart. The most basic thing in police procedure is fingerprints, every six-year-old boy in the country knows about fingerprints, and I was about to go off and leave prints all over two doorknobs; the one going, and the one coming.

“Hold it a second,” I said.

She stopped, giving me an uncomprehending look. I went back to the door and smeared my palm all around the knob, then pulled it open and leaned out to do the same thing on the other side. I rubbed it good, and was about to shut the door again when movement attracted my attention. I looked down at the far end of the corridor, and one of the guards from the reception area was coming in, followed by three uniformed cops.

I ducked back into the room and shut the door. I was sure they hadn’t seen me. I rubbed the inner knob again, then turned back to Miss Emerson, took her by the arm, and started walking fast. She was startled, mouth open, but before she could speak I said, low and fast, “Don’t do anything, don’t say anything. Just walk.”

The windows were on the right, lined with employees. Band music was loud, making our own movements silent. Nobody saw or heard us.

There was an alcove on the left, full of duplicating equipment; a row of filing cabinets partly shielded it from the main area of the room. I turned that way, steered Miss Emerson in there. “We’re going to wait here a second,” I said. “Crouch down. I don’t want you seen over the tops of the cabinets.”

She crouched a bit, but apparently found that too uncomfortable because a second later she shifted position and knelt instead. She knelt in a prim way, back straight, like an early Christian martyr about to get it. She watched me, wide-eyed, but didn’t say anything.

I hunkered down, and peeked around the edge of the last filing cabinet. I’d let them go past me, and then follow. That way, if they were headed for Eastpoole’s office I’d at least be behind them, where I might be able to do some good.

Did Joe know about the cops being here? He’d have to, he would have seen them come in.

What was he doing now? Had my worst fears come true, was Joe wondering around these offices somewhere looking for me?

God damn it, what a mess.

I could smell the secretary. Fear was making her perspire, and the perspiration was mixing with whatever perfume or cologne or something she had on, and the result was a half-musky, half-sweet scent that brought back the whole sexual thing all over again.

I didn’t have time to think about that. I was doing some sweating myself right now.

The guard and three policemen appeared. Past them, a phone rang on one of the desks. The cops all stopped, right in front of me, to talk things over.

On the second ring of the telephone, a girl at one of the windows turned around reluctantly, gave an exaggerated sigh, looked long-suffering, and strolled over to answer it.

The cops had decided one of them would stay in this room. While the others walked on, he went over and forced a place for himself at one of the windows, looking out.

Meanwhile, the girl had answered the phone. “Hello?” She paused, then looked more alert and on-the-job. “Mr. Eastpoole? Yes, sir.” Another pause. She looked around, and shook her head. “No, sir, Mr. Eastpoole, she hasn’t been through yet.” Another pause. “Yes, sir, I certainly will.” She hung up, and hurried back to the window.

Now what? How the hell was Eastpoole making phone calls? Where was Joe? What was going on?

And I didn’t need that cop at the window, I really didn’t.

Well, I had him. Straightening up to look over the top of the filing cabinet, I saw him standing there, having taken a window for himself, and he was looking out, his back squarely to me. If he’d only stay like that, there was still a chance.

I hunkered again, and turned to Miss Emerson, “Listen,” I said. “I don’t want a lot of shooting.”

“Neither do I,” she said. She was so sincere it was almost comic.

“We’re just going to get up and walk,” I told her. “No trouble, no fuss, no attracting anybody’s attention.”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

I helped her up from her knees, and she gave me a quick nervous smile of thanks. We were developing a human relationship. We came out from behind the filing cabinets and walked down the length of the office, and out, without being seen.