“I’ll want something in addition to the eighty-three fifty,” said Logan, leaning forward and speaking in an even voice.
“What’s that?” asked Tritt.
“Ten thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills.”
Tritt’s pink face smiled. He started to look up into Logan’s face, but his eyes froze on the muzzle of the gun poking over the edge of the table. He did not notice the Scotch tape.
“Now just go to your cage and get the money,” Logan said.
It was William Tritt’s first experience with anything like this. “Mr. Logan. Come now, Mr. Logan...” He swallowed and tried to start again, but his self-assurance had deserted him. He turned toward Pinkson’s back.
“Look at me,” snapped Logan.
Tritt turned back. “Mr. Logan, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Keep still.”
“Couldn’t we give you a loan or perhaps a—”
“Listen to me, Tritt.” Logan’s voice was just strong enough to carry above The First Noel. He was amazed at how authoritative he sounded. “Bring the money in a bag. Place it on the table here.”
Tritt started to object, but Logan raised the gun slightly, and the last resistance drained from Tritt’s fat body.
“All right, all right. I’ll get it.” As Tritt moved erratically toward his cage, Logan dropped the gun back into the drawer and closed it. Tritt shut the door of the cage, and his head disappeared below the frosted part of the glass. Immediately, Mr. Pinkson’s telephone buzzed, and he picked it up. Logan watched his back, and, after a few seconds, Pinkson’s body stiffened. Logan sighed, knowing then that he would not get the money on this try.
Nothing happened for several seconds; then suddenly the little old guard came rushing around the corner of the cages, his big pistol drawn and wobbling as he tried to hold it on Logan.
“Okay. Okay. Stay there! Put your hands up, now!”
Logan raised his hands, and the guard turned to Pinkson with a half-surprised face. “Okay, Mr. Pinkson. Okay, I’ve got him covered now.”
Pinkson got up as Tritt came out of the cage. Behind the one gun, the three men came slowly toward Logan.
“Careful, Louis, he’s armed,” Tritt warned the guard.
“May I ask what this is all about?” Logan said, his hands held high.
“Mr. Logan,” said Pinkson, “I’m sorry about this, but Mr. Tritt here tells me that— that—”
“That you tried to rob me of ten thousand dollars,” said Tritt, his voice choppy.
“I–I what?”
“You just attempted an armed robbery of this bank,” Tritt said slowly. “Don’t try to deny it.”
Logan’s face became the face of a man so completely incredulous that he cannot speak. He remembered not to overplay it, though. First he simply laughed at Tritt. Then he lowered his hands, regardless of the guard’s gun, and stood up, the calm, indignant faculty member.
“All I can say, Mr. Tritt, is that I do deny it.”
“Goodness,” said Pinkson.
“Better take his gun, Louis,” Tritt ordered the guard.
The guard stepped gingerly forward to Logan and frisked him, movie style. “Hasn’t got a gun, Mr. Tritt,” he said.
“Of course he’s got a gun,” snapped Tritt. He pushed the guard aside. “It’s right in his coat.” Tritt jammed his thick hand into Logan’s left coat pocket and flailed it about. “It’s not in that pocket,” he said after a moment.
“It’s not in any pocket,” Logan said. “I don’t have one.”
“You do. You do have a gun. I saw it,” Tritt answered, beginning to sound like a child in an argument. He spun Logan around and pulled the coat off him with a jerk. The sleeves turned inside out. Eagerly, the teller pulled the side pockets out, checked the inside pocket and the breast pocket, then ran his hands over the entire garment, crumpling it. “The — the gun’s not in his coat,” he said finally.
“It’s not in his pants,” the guard added.
Tritt stepped over to the table quickly. “It’s around here somewhere,” he said. “We were sitting right here.” He stood directly in front of the closed drawer, and his hands began to move meaninglessly over the tabletop. He picked up the neat stack of deposit slips, put them down again, then looked under the desk blotter, as though it could have concealed a gun.
Logan knew he had to stop this. “Is there any place I can remove the rest of my clothes?” he asked loudly, slipping the suspenders from his shoulders. Several depositors had gathered on the other side of the marble fence to watch, and Mr. Pinkson had had enough.
“Oh, no, no,” he said, almost shouting. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Logan. Louis said you were unarmed. Now, Louis, put your gun away, and for goodness’ sake, request the customers to please move on.”
“But Mr. Pinkson, you must believe me,” Tritt said, coming over to the manager. “This man held a gun on me and—”
“It’s hard to know what to believe,” said Pinkson. “But no money was stolen, and I don’t see how we can embarrass Mr. Logan further with this matter. Please, Mr. Logan, do pull up your suspenders.”
It was a shattering moment for the teller — the first time his word had ever been doubted at the bank.
“But, sir, I insist that this man—”
“I must ask you to return to your cage now, Mr. Tritt,” Pinkson said, badly agitated. Tritt obeyed.
The manager helped Logan put on his coat, then steered him over to his desk. “This is all a terrible mistake, Mr. Logan. Please do sit down now, please.” The friendly little man was breathing heavily. “Now I just want you to know that if you should press this complaint, it — it would go awfully bad for us down in the main office downtown, and I—”
“Please don’t get so excited, Mr. Pinkson,” Logan said with a smile. “I’m not going to make any complaint.” Logan passed the whole thing off casually. Mr. Tritt imagined he saw a gun, that’s all. It was simply one of those aberrations that perfectly normal people get occasionally. Now, could Mr. Pinkson finish cashing his bonds? The manager paid him the eighty-three fifty, continuing to apologize.
Logan left the bank and walked through the soft snowfall, whistling a Christmas carol. He had handled himself perfectly.
In the weeks that followed, Logan continued to do business with Tritt, just as though nothing had happened. The teller tried to remain aloof and calm, but he added sums incorrectly, and his hands shook. One day late in January, Tritt stood halfway through a transaction, his great body trembling. “Excuse me, Mr. Logan,” he murmured, and rushed off into the corridor behind the cages. Pinkson followed him, and Logan took advantage of the moment to check on the gun. It lay untouched in the drawer. Then Pinkson came back alone. “I’m awfully sorry to delay you again, sir,” he said. “Mr. Tritt doesn’t feel too well.”
“Did he imagine he saw another gun?” Logan asked quietly.
“No. He just upsets easily now. Ever since that incident with you last month, he’s been like a cat on a hot stove.”
“I’ve noticed he’s changed.”
“He’s lost that old, calm banking touch, Mr. Logan. And of course, he’s in constant fear of a new hallucination.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Logan said, looking genuinely concerned. “It’s very sad when a person loses his grip.”
“It’s particularly disappointing to me,” the manager said sadly, “I brought Tritt into the bank myself, you see. Had him earmarked for a big spot downtown some day. Fine man. Intelligent, steady, accurate — why, he’s been right down the line on everything. But now — now he’s — well, I do hope he gets over this.”