I shook my head and found myself being escorted out Furberry’s door, the topic of Sophie obviously curtailed.
The topic of banana was likewise terminated. It came up briefly at the faculty’s “Farewell, Furberries” party. Someone — did I see Bonnie and Betty exchange conspiratorial smiles? — furnished a great banana cream pie as part of the refreshments. I think Furberry looked a little shocked at the first forkful, as his tastebuds recognized that characteristic mellow flavor, but all remained jolly and merry. Furberry prattled and punned, and Sophie was grace and vivaciousness personified. She was even nice to me. I had suspected that Furberry had made me the villain of their estrangement, but Sophie seemed to have no hard feelings. I said the conventional things to her, and was surprised at her warm response, a reaction no doubt kindled by the Cold Duck then flowing freely.
As we talked, she leaned toward me a bit unsteadily, and a glass of the Cold Duck spilled onto the front of my best suit. “Oh, my!” she said, “oh, dear, I’m so sorry!” And she began brushing me with one of those paper napkins that quickly disintegrate into distasteful white fuzz. As she wiped, she jingled. She jingled as always, and this time the jingle’s source, her heavily laden charm bracelet, fell at my feet. With no little bumping of heads and undignified scrambling, I retrieved it for her.
“Oh, my,” she said, as she tried a bit unsteadily to stand, “that bracelet is such a trouble, but it was a gift from — oh, Professor Poffering, I would take losing it as a very symbolic loss.” She leaned forward, whispering. “Harold is sush, such a jealous man, you know. This is a collection of my life’s experiences. Giving it up will be like giving up a part of myself, but Harold gets absoluly, absolutely green.” She giggled a little, and in the process of opening her bag to stow the bracelet away, she dropped it again.
I was glad that she did. I was becoming embarrassed by Mrs. Furberry’s indisposition, and was glad to pick it up and focus my attention on it instead of on her fumblings. In retrieving it, I noticed some of the charms hanging from it: a wee mortarboard, a heart with a diamond in the center, a replica of the Eiffel Tower—
“Thank you,” she said as she took the bracelet from me. “How good it is to be with old friends as Harold and I begin a new life.”
As a matter of fact, it was a new life beginning for me also. I am enjoying Furberry’s former office that is now mine. I am even beginning to think about how I may decorate it. I think now and then also about how Furberry now decorates his. Sophie no doubt helps him with the interior design. I am sure there is no banana, but I am equally sure that Sophie, true to implied resolve, no longer clinks nor jangles.
As Miss Hagachoff brings me my morning coffee and as I swing pleasantly in my squeakless chair, I think, Farewell, Furberry. You have lost and you have gained. You will never see your purloined property again, and are now perhaps glad of it. May you also, Furberry, never see that charm bracelet again — mercifully never see what I saw as I held it in my hand that evening. For among your lady’s bangle’s shining and cacophonous penduli, hiding between the cunning treble-clef and the tiny American flag, hangs a brightly gleaming golden banana.
Dream Heist
by Carroll Mayers
Willard was delighted to learn Myra was a bank teller...
The steady drumming of rain against his bedroom window awakened Willard Coyle that morning. A smile quirked his lips as he recognized the sound and roused fully. A stormy day was an intangible he’d hoped for because conceivably it could mean fewer patrons in the bank at the zero hour, which in turn could boost Myra Flanders’ morale.
Shaving, Coyle regarded his reflected features with approval. Lean, dark, no blemishes. Yes, he had the looks, all right. Plus the shrewd acuity of a born opportunist and an offbeat suavity that most women found charming. Captivating Myra had been simple. Essentially introverted and not particularly pretty, the girl obviously had been starved for male attention.
A casual noon-hour exchange, initiated in a gift shop where Myra had been purchasing a cutlery set and he had been idly estimating shoplifting possibilities, had been cultivated by Coyle on the spot when the girl had mentioned her position as a teller at Manufacturers’ Trust. A bit of lunch together had been genteelly broached and hesitantly accepted. From then on, a series of dates had followed smoothly. If not fully in love, Myra Flanders was nonetheless in a state of blissful, pliant euphoria.
Not that Coyle had envisioned any particular caper at first. But a love-starved girl with ready access to large sums of money suggested some ploy to be duly pondered.
Dressed, Coyle checked the time. Eight-twenty. Recalling Myra’s nervousness the evening before, he decided a call of reassurance would be wise.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, honey.”
“Oh, Willard—”
Myra’s voice had a wavering timbre. He pressed quickly. “Is something wrong?”
“I... I don’t think I can do it.”
Coyle’s jawline set. She wasn’t backing out now. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’ll do fine.”
Her voice still shook. “I don’t know, Willard. I just don’t know.”
Coyle let his words take on an aggrieved edge. “You wouldn’t have any doubts if you really loved me.”
“But I do! You know I do!”
He smiled at the phone. “Then prove it, darling,” he said. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
Myra’s intake of breath was almost a sob. After a long moment she answered him.
“All right.”
He said, “That’s my girl. I’ll make it ten o’clock sharp.” He hung up and checked his pocket to make certain he had the holdup note. He’d printed it in crude block letters on a slip of yellow scratch paper:
I HAVE A GUN. I AM DESPERATE. FILL THIS BAG WITH MONEY. IF YOU SCREAM OR SOUND AN ALARM I WILL KILL YOU.
Practically every week there was an item on the news about a lone bandit boldly presenting a similar missive to a bank teller, only to be foiled and captured when the teller refused to be intimidated and sounded an alarm.
But — as Coyle’s diligent pondering of his relationship with Myra Flanders had finally evolved — if that teller had been in on the heist; if, in fact, he or she had filled his accomplice’s bag as though merely completing a routine business transaction like a payroll; and if he or she had delayed alerting any of the bank personnel or pressing the alarm until after his or her accomplice had safely departed, at which time he or she had professed abject fright as the reason for his or her inaction and had shown the holdup note as “proof”—
For the next hour, Coyle relaxed, smoking leisurely. He was satisfied Myra would follow the script through without deviation. He had first mentioned the plan one evening after the theater, when they’d visited an intimate little side-street cafe. He’d kept his tone casual, but his fingers closed warmly over Myra’s and his gaze stressed deep regard. Visibly affected, Myra still had expressed shocked disbelief.
“You can’t be serious!”
“But I am. It would let us start a whole new life together. Think of it: Paris, Rome — all those places you’ve told me you’ve dreamed about.”
“But not that way!”
“Honey, the bank wouldn’t lose a penny. They’re insured. And we’d have a small fortune—”
“But something could happen. You could get hurt.”