regret to inform you of your sons death stop killed gallantly in action today stop gave his life for his country stop that others may live stop deepest sympathy stop personal. effects forwarded first class mail to new address mount holly.
14
Dressed in authentic policeman’s garb, Mr. Gibbon and Miss Ball stood before the full-length mirror in the hall. Miss Ball had insisted on “being a policeman.” It took nearly the entire night to alter the jacket and trousers, but by morning — and a beautiful morning it was, the sun shining, the nasturtiums about ready to burst and bleed they were so full of color and sun — she was finished, and just in time for the robbery.
“We’re cops!” Miss Ball said. “How I wish my kindergarten could see me!” She brushed the sleeve and adjusted the cap and said, “Isn’t it a humdinger?”
Mr. Gibbon straightened Miss Ball’s tie and said, “Get them shoes shined and make it snappy, sojer.”
Mr. Gibbon had never felt more patriotic. He turned on the radio hoping for the Anthem. The news was on. “. . Tomorrow will be a national holiday in memory of our boys who have given their lives to preserve our way of life at home and abroad, said the president yesterday. The president is now up and around. He brushed his teeth while sitting on the side of his bed this morning and received scores of well-wishing messages from a host of world leaders. He has also been showered with dozens of floral arrangements and directed that some of them be sent to the front lines to remind the soldiers that the country was with them all the way. This morning, with the help of doctors and nurses, he signed his first piece of legislation. Now for the local news. Mount Holly will celebrate tomorrow with a parade through the business districts. Wreaths will be placed and Troop 45 of the Mount Holly Boy Scouts will carry flags. All are welcome to. .”
“A holiday tomorrow and all on account of Herbie!” Mrs. Gneiss said. “I knew he had it in him! And isn’t that thoughtful of the president?”
“We’re gonna march, by God!” said Mr. Gibbon.
“You’re darn tootin’ we are,” Miss Ball said.
And then they remembered that it was Friday, a working day. Mr. Gibbon called Kant-Brake and said he was in sick bay. Miss Ball called the school committee and said she was feeling sluggish and headachey. “A white lie never hurt a soul,” said Miss Ball.
A last check of the two tied-up and gagged (and nearly naked) policemen in the cellar showed one to be still unconscious from the conk on the head the day before. The other was hopping up and down, struggling to get free. He was stooped over because of the high-backed chair Mr. Gibbon had tied him to.
“You worried about your pal?” Mr. Gibbon said to the hopping man.
The man continued to hop, trying to get loose. Mr. Gibbon took this hopping up and down for a “yes.” “Don’t you worry a bit, he’ll be fit as a fiddle in a day or two,” Mr. Gibbon said heartily.
Then Mr. Gibbon pulled out his pistol. The hopping man’s eyes bugged out when they lighted on the pistol. Mr. Gibbon tossed his head in a I-know-what’s-best manner and said, “You’ll thank me for this someday.” He bopped the man on the head.
When Mr. Gibbon came upstairs he said it was zero hour.
“Those two nice policemen are going to catch a death in their undies. It’s mighty chilly in that cellar,” said Miss Ball.
Mr. Gibbon told Miss Ball to stop worrying her head about little things. There was a country at stake. He went around back, threw off the lilac branches and the canvas from the car, and then proceeded to test each item: the horn, the brakes, the oil, the gas, the siren, the water, and even the windshield wipers. Mrs. Gneiss had told him about TV movie robberies that had failed because the getaway car had run out of gas, or the lights had failed, or it wouldn’t start. In one of the movies a man had been gunned down as he pressed the starter and got only an aw-aw-aw from the engine. Mr. Gibbon reflected: what is more humiliating than dashing out of a bank after a successful robbery and getting into an ornery car? It must be damned discouraging.
They had started down the street in high spirits when Mr. Gibbon suddenly spun the car around and drove back to the house. He parked around back and said that he’d changed his mind.
“Good,” said Mrs. Gneiss. She extracted a handful of jelly beans from her purse and began munching.
“We can’t both be policemen,” he said, looking at Miss Ball.
Miss Ball started to pout.
“I don’t want to spoil anyone’s fun,” Mr. Gibbon said, calmly. “What I said was, we can’t both be policemen. That’s all I said.”
“But you’re the big cheese, Charlie. You can play policeman if you want. Me and Mrs. Gneiss are nothing. You’re the one who makes the rules!”
Mr. Gibbon stretched his lips. He was deep in thought. Finally he said, “No, you’re right. You be the policeman. But remember to follow orders or I’ll give you the business.”
“Hot dog!” said Miss Ball. She rolled her eyes and spoofed a face.
“Let’s get the show on the road,” Mrs. Gneiss said, between mouthfuls of jelly beans.
Mr. Gibbon got out of the car and went into the house. He returned dressed in his sneakers (“for quick take-off”), flapping fatigues and wearing a felt hat with the brim turned down all around. He also had a shopping bag with him. He showed the ladies that Old Trusty was inside. He handed both Miss Ball and Mrs. Gneiss police pistols.
He had another idea, he said. He had gotten it as they were driving down the street. He would explain it by and by. They were abandoning the “Quarterback Sneak” plan. They should have scrapped it long ago.
In the meantime he had a few things to do. He made several more trips into the house and came back with some cans of whitewash and a big brush. He looked at the doors. mount holly police was written on the front doors, together with a facsimile of a policeman’s badge and the telephone number of the police headquarters. With careful strokes Mr. Gibbon painted the front doors white. Then he removed the large chrome searchlight from the right front fender and the long antenna from the back. These he handed to Miss Ball.
“Give you four seconds to put them back,” he said. “Okay, go!”
Miss Ball scrambled to the rear of the car and stuck the antenna in the hole. When she started for the front of the car she glanced back and saw the antenna start to topple — she ran back just in time to save it. But by then she had used up five seconds and still held the chrome searchlight in her hand.
“Criminy sakes,” said Miss Ball. “I can’t do it for the life of me!” She prepared to pout.
“Now I’m going to show you how to do it proper,” said Mr. Gibbon. He whizzed to the back of the car and jammed in the antenna, then huffed to the front fender and, with a little grunt, fixed the searchlight into its socket.
“Think you can do that? Or have I got a real clinker in my platoon?”
After six tries Miss Ball did the same. She managed it in slightly over six seconds. “How’s that for an old bag? Clinker indeed!”
Mr. Gibbon stood at some distance from the car and looked at it, closing first one eye and then the other. Finally he took the antenna and searchlight off and put them in the back seat. On the floor of the back he put two buckets of water. A last look at the car, blue and white like a taxi; “Pretty snazzy,” he said.
They all squeezed into the front seat, and Mr. Gibbon explained his new plan in detail. He said they should all be shot for not thinking of this plan before. It was surefire. It couldn’t miss.
“Oh, botheration!” said Miss Ball. “How can I drive the getaway car if I can’t drive?”
Mr. Gibbon told her to pipe down and listen. When he was through talking they synchronized their watches.