“No!” said Oscar Blinney.
“Yes!” said Bill Grant. “Wait’ll I tell you. You’re not going to be able to resist this, Mr. Blinney. Not even you.”
XII
Bill Grant rose up from his chair and went to the slide-door of a shallow closet and slid the door and said, “I have bourbon and I have Scotch. What’s your preference, Mr. Blinney?”
“Scotch,” said Blinney.
Bill Grant tipped bottles to tumblers’, added tap water from the bathroom, brought a drink to Blinney and held a drink for himself. “I must first give you a prologue, Mr. Blinney. I must first tell you about me. I’m a guy that’s been looking for the big score all his life,” said Bill Grant. “Sure, I’ve earned money in my time. Oh, I can’t deny that. Five hundred a week. A thou a week. Two thousand a week.
“But that’s money that you spend. It’s not money, like capital. It’s not a hunk you can throw into a stock market, and if you get lucky, you’re a big man. It’s not a lump that you can operate from. I’ve always been looking for that lump, for a piece all together, for a big score. Can you understand that, Mr. Blinney?”
Blinney said nothing.
“This bum whom you married came down to Havana with a proposition which she thought I’d tie on to. I didn’t. The take wasn’t big enough, and the mark — that’s you — might shake it off. But the more she talked, the more I grew interested, because there were angles present that that idiot had no conception of. So I came back here to the States and checked and checked and checked. And you gain, and I gain, and there is no risk, and we get rid of what we don’t want. Are you with me, Mr. Blinney?”
Blinney still said nothing.
“You’re not the talkative type, are you?”
“No,” said Blinney.
Grant went to the drawer of a rickety desk, opened it, extracted long green sheets, and brought them to Blinney. “Recognize?” he said.
“What the hell are you doing with these?”
“Part of my research, Mr. Blinney. The payroll sheets that you’d study at home.” He sat down, and scanned the green sheets. He read from them: “Martin Aircraft. Number of employees, six hundred and fifty five. Total payroll, seventy thousand dollars. Fifty-five thousand in one hundred dollar bills. Five thousand in fifties. The rest in smaller bills. Hughes Construction. Number of employees, five hundred and Forty. Total payroll, sixty thousand dollars...” His voice droned on and on.
“I didn’t need the reading,” said Blinney. “I know those figures.”
“But do you understand the significance of those figures, Mr. Blinney?”
“Actually, they are approximations. Each set is for the week before.”
“Now don’t go banker on me, Mr. Blinney. Do you understand the significance?”
“What significance?”
Grant’s chuckle came from his chest. “Oh, you weird banker innocents. This significance, Mr. Blinney. Before distribution into all the little pay-envelopes, before the armored cars make their trips, before that whole big-deal operation of distribution, there’s like three hundred thousand dollars sitting nice and quiet in your cage-drawer, and like two hundred and fifty thousand of that — a quarter of a million bucks — is in large bills without earmarks. It is coming through to you, Mr. Blinney?”
Blinney squinted in disbelief, shook his head as though in remonstrance to a mischievous child, said nothing, drank.
Grant returned the payroll sheets to the drawer, went to the closet, and came back with an attache case. He opened it. “Notice, Mr. Blinney. An attache case, but a rather deep one, deeper than the usual kind.” He stared down at Blinney who was gazing up at him. Blinney was still squinting disbelief.
“This case,” said Bill Grant, “will hold two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in packages of one-hundred and fifties. I know. I measured. I used a dummy package. Of course it didn’t contain hundreds. It contained singles. But hundreds are no thicker than singles, are they, Mr. Blinney?”
“You’re crazy,” said Blinney.
“Like a fox, I’m crazy.”
“You can’t possibly think you can get away with anything like this. What’s the matter with you?”
Grant restored the attache case to the closet, and made drinks for both of them. He sipped and Blinney sipped and then he placed his glass beside the gun and leaned, easily and gracefully, against the mantel.
“I’ve cased that joint many times, your First National Mercantile. I’ve studied the entire layout. For instance, the south door lets you out practically at the entrance to the subway on Thirty-fourth Street Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that the south door is thirty-seven paces from your cage; thirty-seven paces of a normal man walking? Did you know that, Mr. Blinney?”
“No.”
“And the subway station right outside the door — the platform downstairs extends all the way to Thirty-sixth Street. As a matter of fact, if you put in your token and become part of that subway system, there’s a ramp underneath that goes practically to Thirty-eighth Street, with exits leading out to each street. Did you know that, Mr. Blinney?”
“Yes, yes, I know that.”
“I just want you to know that I know all of that, Mr. Blinney. Man, I’ve had six weeks of concentration on this. And I also know about alarm signals, and motion picture cameras that start shooting at the press of a button, and the four guards that patrol the floor with loaded guns in their holsters, and I don’t give a damn for any of that. Now I’d like to show you some more, Mr. Blinney.” He went again to the desk-drawer, extracted several objects, brought them to Blinney. “First take a look at these,” he said.
Blinney looked. He saw two tickets for a plane flight to London.
“Non-stop,” said Bill Grant. “Notice the date?”
“August eighteenth.”
“Which is tomorrow. And tomorrow is a Thursday. Flight time, by the way, is three o’clock in the afternoon.” He slipped the tickets into his pocket, handed Blinney another object. “You know what that is, don’t you, Mr. Blinney?”
“Passport.”
“Well, look at it, please. Examine it. Don’t be bashful.”
Blinney examined. He saw a passport, in perfect order, made out to one William Granville. He saw a photo of a smooth-shaven young man wearing glasses.
“Did you ever meet William Granville?” said Bill Grant.
“No,” said Oscar Blinney.
“You’re talking to him,” said Bill Grant.
“You?” said Blinney, looking up. “But, but—”
And now Bill Grant placed the last object in his hands, a pair of glasses, upon the bridge of his nose. “Clean-shaven and with my specs, I’m William Granville. And you have the signal honor, Mr. Blinney, outside of official-stuff, official documents, you know — you have the signal honor of being the first person in my adult life to have become acquainted with Mr. William Granville.”
“I tell you you’re crazy, Mr... Mr...”
“Stick to Grant, Mr. Blinney.”
“You’re crazy, Mr. Grant.”
“You’ll change your mind before I’m through, Mr. Blinney.” He removed the glasses, took the passport from Blinney, brought them to the mantel, deposited them. He sipped his drink, smiled. “I’m still up at the Silver Crest, you know.” He waved a hand. “I retained this princely abode about three weeks ago — as Bill Grant, of course. I paid a month’s rent in advance. Nobody knows about this place — except you, now. I’ve probably been here three times before today.”