One said, “Hold it right there.”
I stopped, half-turning, and when I saw him looking past me at the suitcase I grimaced.
One noticed that, too. “Planning a trip somewhere?” he asked.
“Ah... yes,” I said. “A trip, yes. To the state capital — a bankers’ convention. I’m expected there tonight and if I don’t show up people will know something is wrong—”
“Nuts,” One said. He glanced at Two. “Take a look inside that suitcase.”
“Wait,” I said, “I—”
“Shut up, Luther.”
I shut up and watched Two lift the suitcase to the top of the desk, next to the nameplate there that read Luther Baysinger, Branch Manager. He snapped open the catches and swung up the lid.
Surprise registered on his face. “Hey,” he said, “money. It’s filled with money.”
One stepped away from me and went over to stand beside Two, who was rifling through the packets of currency inside the suitcase. A moment later Two hesitated, then said, “What the hell?” and lifted out my .22 Colt Woodsman, which was also inside the case.
Both of them looked at me. I stared back defiantly. For several seconds it was very quiet in there; then, because there was nothing else to be done, I lowered my gaze and leaned against the divider.
“All right,” I said, “the masquerade is over.”
One said, “Masquerade? What’s that supposed to mean, Luther?”
“My name isn’t Luther,” I said.
“What?”
“The real Luther Baysinger is locked inside the vault.”
“What?”
“Along with both tellers.”
Two said it this time, “What?”
“There’s around eight thousand dollars in the suitcase,” I said. “I cleaned it out of the cash room in the outer vault not long before you showed up.”
“What the hell are you telling us?” One said. “Are you saying you’re—”
“The same thing you are, that’s right. I’m a bank robber.”
They looked at each other. Both of them appeared confused now, no longer quite so sure of themselves.
One said, “I don’t believe it.”
I shrugged. “It’s the truth. We both seem to have picked the same day to knock over the same bank, only I got here first. I’ve been casing this place for a week; I doubt if you cased it at all. A spur-of-the-moment job, am I right?”
“Hell,” Two said to One, “he is right. We only just—”
“Be quiet,” One said, “let me think.” He gave me a long, searching look. “What’s your name?”
“John Smith.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not going to give you my right name. Why should I? You’re not going to tell me yours.”
One gestured to Two. “Frisk him,” he said. “See if he’s carrying any identification.”
Two came over to me and ran his hands over my clothing, checked inside all the pockets of my suit. “No wallet,” he said.
“Of course not,” I said. “I’m a professional, same as you are. I’m not stupid enough to carry identification on a job.”
Two went back to where One was standing and they held a whispered conference, giving me sidewise looks all the while. At the end of two minutes, One faced me again.
“Let’s get this straight,” he said. “When did you come in here?”
“Just before three o’clock.”
“And then what?”
“I waited until I was the last person in the place except for Baysinger and the two tellers. Then I threw down on them with the Woodsman. The inner vault was already time-locked, so I cleaned out the tellers’ drawers and the cash room, and locked them in the outer vault.”
“All of that took you an hour, huh?”
“Not quite. It was almost quarter past three before the last customer left, and I spent some time talking to Baysinger about the inner vault before I was convinced he couldn’t open it. I was just getting ready to leave when you got here.” I gave him a rueful smile. “It was a damned foolish move, going to the door without the gun and then opening up for you. But you caught me off-guard. That accident ploy is pretty clever.”
“It’s a good thing for you that you didn’t have the gun,” Two said. “You’d be dead now.”
“Or you’d be,” I said.
We exchanged more silent stares.
“Anyhow,” I said at length, “I thought I could bluff you into leaving by pretending to be Baysinger and telling you about the time locks. But then you started that kidnapping business. I didn’t want you to take me out of here because it meant leaving the suitcase; and if you did kidnap me, and I was forced to tell you the truth, you’d dump me somewhere and come back for the money yourselves. Now you’ve got it anyway — the game’s up.”
“That’s for sure,” One said.
I cleared my throat. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll split the eight thousand with you, half and half. That way, we all come out of this with something.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
I knew what was coming, but I said, “What’s that?”
“We take the whole boodle.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“We’ve got the guns, and that means we make the rules. You’re out of luck, Smith, or whatever your name is. You may have gotten here first, but we got here at the right time.”
“Honor among thieves,” I said. “Hah.”
“Easy come, easy go,” Two said. “You know how it is.”
“All right, you’re taking all the money. What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Do I get to walk out of here?”
“Well, we’re sure as hell not going to call the cops on you.”
“You did us sort of a favor,” One said, “taking care of all the details before we got here. So we’ll do you one. We’ll tie you up in one of these chairs — not too tight, just tight enough to keep you here for ten or fifteen minutes. When you work yourself loose you’re on your own.”
“Why can’t I just leave when you do?”
One gave me a faint smile. “Because you might get a bright idea to follow us and try to take the money back. We wouldn’t like that.”
I shook my head resignedly. “Some bank job this turned out to be.”
They tied me up in the chair behind the desk, using my necktie and my belt to bind my hands and feet. After which they took the suitcase, and my Colt Woodsman, and went out through the rear door and left me alone.
It took me almost twenty minutes to work my hands loose. When they were free I leaned over to untie my feet and stood up wearily to work the kinks out of my arms and legs. Then I sat down again, pulled the phone over in front of me, and dialed a number.
A moment later a familiar voice said, “Police Chief Roberts speaking.”
“This is Luther Baysinger, George,” I said. “You’d better get over here to the bank right away. I’ve just been held up.”
Chief Roberts was a tall wiry man in his early sixties, a competent law officer in his own ponderous way; I had known him for nearly thirty years. While his two underlings, Burt Young and Frank Dawes — the sum total of Fairfield’s police force — hurried in and out, making radio calls and looking for fingerprints or clues or whatever, Roberts listened intently to my account of what had happened with the two bank robbers. When I finished he leaned back in the chair across the desk from me and wagged his head in an admiring way.
“Luther,” he said, “you always did have more gall than any man in the county. But this business sure does take the cake for pure nerve.”
“Am I to take that as a compliment, George?” I said a bit stiffly.
“Sure,” he said. “Don’t get your back up.”