Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 3, March 1964
The Price of Fame
by Richard Deming
One needn’t be an exhibitionist to desire that his deeds be known and appreciated, but a reputation in many respects is like a mirror; it reveals much but may conceal even more.
Harry Cannon always cased his jobs carefully. For ten days he had studied the layout of Gilbert’s Liquor Store. He knew what time the place opened in the morning and when it closed at night. He knew the busiest hours of the day, and that the period just before the nine P.M. closing was the deadest. He knew what hours the two clerks worked and that the second-trick clerk left at eight P.M., leaving proprietor Arthur Gilbert alone for the last hour. One night he had even followed Arthur home to Long Island, so that he knew where the man lived.
But best of all he knew that Arthur Gilbert went to the bank only on Friday morning. Which meant that Thursday night, somewhere in the place, an entire week’s receipts were hidden.
Cannon pulled up in front of the liquor store at exactly 8:55 P.M. Through the glass front window he could see the plump, balding proprietor checking out the cash register. There were no customers in the place.
From the seat alongside of him Cannon lifted a false rubber nose attached to some black frames without lenses. When he fitted the frames over his ears, his appearance totally changed. His thin face seemed broader, and the contraption gave him a bulbous-nosed, owlish look in place of his usual pinched, scowling expression. It also added ten years to his bare twenty-eight.
It was both an effective disguise and a safer one than a mask, for from a distance it didn’t look like a disguise. There was always the danger of a mask being spotted from some nearby window or passing car. As he was, casual passers-by, unless they got too close, would merely take him for a rather ugly man.
Slipping from the righthand door of the car, Cannon shot a quick glance in both directions, straightened his lanky form and strode briskly into the liquor store. The plump proprietor glanced up from his register with a customer-welcoming smile which disappeared the moment it began to form. His expression turned wary and he slowly raised his hands to shoulder height even before Cannon drew the thirty-eight automatic from his pocket. The instant reaction made Cannon feel a bleak sort of pride in his growing reputation.
“I guess you know who I am,” he said between his teeth, stepping behind the counter and aiming the gun at the proprietor’s belt buckle.
“Yes,” the plump man said without fright, but still wearing a wary expression. “I won’t give you any trouble. The money’s right there in the drawer.”
Contemptuously Cannon motioned him through a door immediately behind the counter, followed as the man backed into the storeroom, his hands still at shoulder height. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one else was there, Cannon pushed the door partially shut to block the view from the street but still allow him a view of the main part of the store.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
The man presented his back. “You won’t have to shoot me,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to try anything.”
“You think I shoot people for nothing?” Cannon inquired sourly.
When there was no reply, Cannon said in a sharp voice, “Well, do you?”
“I know you have shot people,” the plump man said carefully. There was no fear in his voice, but it was extremely cautious, “I was merely pointing out that you have no cause to shoot me. I intend to cooperate fully.”
“Well, now. Then you can start by putting your hands down.”
Slowly, carefully, the man lowered his hands to his sides.
“Get on your stomach,” Cannon directed.
Without haste, but without delay either, the man dropped to hands and knees, then stretched full-length on the floor.
“Stay there until I tell you different,” Cannon directed.
Glancing through the partially open door of the storeroom, he saw that no one was passing on the street. Opening the door wide, he thrust the gun into his belt and stepped out to the cash register. The counter blocked the view of the prone man by anyone who might pass the front window, or even come into the store, but Cannon could still see him from the register. He kept flicking glances that way as he scooped bills from the open drawer and stuffed them into his suit-coat pockets. He ignored the change.
When the register was empty of bills, Cannon stepped back into the storeroom and partially closed the door again.
In a cold voice he said, “I guess you’ve read about me in the papers, haven’t you, mister?”
“Yes,” the man admitted.
“Tell me what you’ve read.”
After a momentary hesitation, the man said, “They call you the Nose Bandit.”
“I mean everything you’ve read.”
“Well, you’ve held up a lot of places. I believe you’ve killed three people.”
“You’d better believe it. What else?”
“The police advise not to resist you in any way.”
“That’s right. Why?”
The prone man said quietly, “I have no desire to make you angry.”
“The only way you’ll make me angry is not to do exactly as I say. Why do the cops advise people not to resist?”
With a sort of resigned caution, the man on the floor said, “They say you’re a psychopathic killer. That you’ll kill on the slightest provocation.”
“Now you’re coming along,” Cannon said with approval. “Do you believe that?”
“I only know what I’ve read. If you want me to believe it, I will. If you don’t, I won’t.”
“I want you to believe it,” Cannon said coldly. “That psycho stuff is window dressing because the fuzz is too dumb to catch me, but you’d better believe I’ll kill you if you give me any lip. You know why we’re having this little conversation?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because I figure it will save me a lot of time in the long run. You wouldn’t refuse to tell me anything I wanted to know, would you, Mr. Gilbert?”
“I doubt that it would be safe,” the proprietor said quietly.
“You are Arthur Gilbert, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I cased this job real thoroughly, Arthur. You keep a money box with the real cash in it. That chicken-feed in the register was just today’s receipts. You bank once a week, on Friday, and this is Thursday night, so that money box ought to be real full. I figure I’ll get to it faster if you tell me where it is than if I have to hunt for it while you lie here dead on the floor. But it’s up to you. I’m going to ask you once. If I don’t get a fast answer, I’m going to blow your brains out. Understand?”
“Perfectly. It’s behind the cognac on the bottom shelf over there in the corner.”
“Point,” Cannon instructed.
Raising one hand from the floor, Gilbert pointed.
Cannon had to remove two rows of cognac bottles before he found the square metal box behind them. It wasn’t locked, so he was spared the irritation of having to make Arthur Gilbert produce the key. There was nearly five hundred dollars in bills in it, plus a stack of checks. He pocketed the bills only.
Walking over to the storeroom door, he glanced out, then drew back again when he saw a young couple slowly walking past the plate-glass front window. He waited a few moments, looked again and saw that the street in front was now clear of pedestrians. Pulling the door wide open, he momentarily turned back to the man on the floor.
“You stay in that position for five minutes, Arthur,” he instructed. “If I see your head above the counter, I’ll blow it off. Understand?”