Murder in Mount Holly (7 page)

10

A dusty twenty-five-watt bulb flickered in Miss Ball's dining-room. The less light the better, they had all decided. The three of them sat around the large mahogany table. Mr. Gibbon was wearing his khakis. His pistol was strapped on. In the dim light of the room the faces of the three people looked even older than they were, bloodless, almost ghoulish. Mr. Gibbon was doing all the talking. Only a few of his fifteen teeth were visible and his mouth seemed latched like a dummy's. His whole chin gabbled up and down.

“It's all relative,” he was saying. “Even though it doesn't look on the up and up if you say, we gotta rob a bank and we may have to shoot somebody to do it right, it's okay in this case. The country is at stake, and we're the only ones that realize it. Herbie's gone now to do his bit. It's up to us to do our bit even if the only place we can do it is right here in Mount Holly. It's the enemy within we're after. The ones right here grinning at us in our own backyard, as Miss Ball rightly said. It's all relative. Why, I know what it's like to be an American. You take your average American. He can't find his ass with both hands, can he? Bet your life he can't. It's all relative. A commie bank is right here in our midst picking our pockets. And what do we do? We rob that bank right down to the last cent, and if we get any lip from the You-Know-Whos we blast 'em.”

Mrs. Gneiss interrupted. “I hate to mention this,” she said, “but won't it be against the law to do this? I agree with you one hundred percent that something's got to be done—why, if the communists ran this country we'd starve in two days. But there's the law to think about . . .”

“Let me remind you, Toots, that the law you're so worried about is the law that's made
by
the You-Know-Whos
for
the You Know-Whos. It's not made for decent people like us. The law is made by coons. You got any objections against breaking the coon law? You don't think decent folk should break the coon law? When we rob this bank we'll be heroes. People will be brought to their senses. We'll be doing our country a turn and making the world safe for good government, small government. Now anybody knows that it's not legal to rob a bank. But is it legal for some bastard with dark skin and a party card, all niggered-up with fancy clothes, to walk into
your own bank
and put his fingers all over your money? If that's legal, then what do you call it when decent people want to set an example for their country? Okay, call it illegal if you want. It's all relative. But I'll tell you something: it broke my heart to fight the Germans. I was in that war and, Goddamit, I couldn't help but think that they knew what they were doing all along. I knew it in my heart. I said to myself, CharIie, it's all relative . . .”

“I'm not being an old sceptic,” said Miss Ball, “but when we get the money, what do we do with it? I mean, it won't be ours, now will it?”

Mr. Gibbon shook his head in impatience. He had the feeling he wasn't being understood. “We're not going to
steal
the damn money. We're just going to
transfer
it. I suppose we could give it to our favorite charities. Personally, I'd like to see a company like Kant-Brake, a company that's got a heart and thinks about the country, get a little of the dough. I'd like to see the V.F.W. get a little, the Boy Scouts a little, the White Citizens Council a little—spread it around, you see? Lots of people are entitled to it. We'll be fair . . .”

“I'd like to see the D. A.R. get a little bit. They deserve it. They're dedicated.”

Mrs. Gneiss did not name her favorite charity. She had some reservations about the robbery. It sounded like a lot of work. Give the You-Know-Whos a few swift kicks. They'd learn. Why rob a bank? And, if they went through with it, it seemed only fair that they themselves should be entitled to some of the cash. She thought of truckloads of Hershey bars, gallons of vanilla ice cream, a new television and, in general, goodies in return for their pains. But she kept silent.

“So it's settled. We knock off the bank and in the process we might have to break a few eggs—that's how you make omelettes, eh? I've got my old trusty .45.”

“You mean you might shoot your gun?” Miss Ball asked, her eyebrows popping up.

“Right,” said Mr. Gibbon. “How do you like
them
apples?”

Information was needed. Plans had to be made. The next two months were spent poring over detective novels and thrillers, watching spy movies, preparing dis
guises, masks, and learning to pick up items without
leaving ­fingerprints. Miss Ball was in charge of disguises, Mr. Gibbon had the novels, Mrs. Gneiss had television robbery-movies. Mrs. Gneiss watched all the programs on TV just the same, so it was no extra trouble. It just meant changing channels once in a while. When a detective story was over on one channel, another was starting on another channel. She flicked the knob and settled back with her food.

Mr. Gibbon continued working at Kant-Brake. He was excited about the robbery—it compared favorably with his best experiences in the army. He read the pulp thrillers during the lunch hour and earned the title of “professor” for doing so. The other employees credited the reading and contentment to “Charlie's new lady-friend.”

At the end of two months they met again, and this time used the stump of a candle for light. They had a map of Mount Holly in front of them. The Mount Holly Trust Company was marked with an X, and an escape route plotted out on it with one of Miss Ball's E-Z Mark crayons, which she had cleverly snatched from the kindergarten.

Plans were going well, said Mr. Gibbon. They had picked the masks they were going to use, the gloves and special shoes. And they had the escape route decided in advance. There was only one problem. They didn't know where the safe was. They had no floor plan of the bank.

“Oh, shucks!” said Miss Ball. “How can we rob a bank if we don't know where the money is?”

“But the employees know,” said Mr. Gibbon.

“A lot of good
that
does us,” Mrs. Gneiss said.

“Now just keep your shirts on,” said Mr. Gibbon. He explained his plan. What they would do was kidnap one of the bank guards, a white one, and beat the stuffings out of him unless he told them where the safe was. First, of course, they would divulge their plan. But if he didn't want to cooperate they would have to beat him up. He would be able to tell them where the safe was, the strongboxes, the money, the keys, the emergency alarms. “We'll have to kidnap him. It's the only way.”

“It's for the good of the country,” said Mrs. Gneiss.

Mr. Gibbon said that it wouldn't be too much trouble to get one of the guards. They could lure him to Miss Ball's house. The only thing they needed was a decoy. They had to find a decoy . . .

Her face chalky with make-up, her cheeks rouged with circles, her lips gleaming with the scarlet goo of nearly one whole tube of lipstick, her hair a stiff mass of tight curls, her round body solid with corsets and fixtures, Miss Ball waddled to the back door of the Mount Holly Trust Company and looked for a bank guard to lure.

It was the middle of the afternoon and the sun was very hot. This caused the make-up to run a bit and get very sticky. Beads of perspiration appeared at Miss Ball's hair-line, behind her ears and on her neck.

There seemed to be no one to lure. She could see people walking back and forth inside the bank, accountants and tellers. They had little or nothing to do with the storing of money. They just collected it. But no one came out of the back door.

Miss Ball rather enjoyed standing there. Like a siren, she could lure anyone. It gave her a feeling of power. She knew the attraction that a woman's flesh had for men. They couldn't resist it. How many times had Juan, on the pretext of checking the cans of floor wax, covered her with rancid kisses in the broom closet? He couldn't stand it any longer. She understood the urge and let him paw her and grunt. Duty meant nothing. History was full of the stories of men who had given in to the low murmur of beckoning flesh. Fortunes, whole countries had been lost, careers ruined for a few minutes of pleasure in the bed of a beautiful woman.

And then she thought, when you're a decoy you've got to have something to decoy. There was nothing in the back of the Mount Holly Trust Company to lure. A dog sniffed at the hem of her dress and scuttered away, two little boys meandered by throwing spitballs at each other, and once someone peered from the second story of the bank. Miss Ball had glanced up, but before she regained presence of mind enough to wink at the person (one never knew what floor plan he had in
his
pocket) he turned away.

A full hour passed. Miss Ball was tired; her getup was a wreck. Her handbag felt like a large stone. She knew she didn't look as crisp as she had when she arrived. A man likes freshness and vitality in a woman. If much more time passed Miss Ball knew that she would be able to offer none of these.

Then a man appeared at the back door. Miss Ball pressed her lips together. She trembled. The man was white, wearing a blue suit with a matching cap, rimless glasses and a badge. He looked like a bus conductor. But he was a bank guard, and he certainly had a dozen more rolls in the hay left in him. He shuffled out the door with a shopping bag, then went inside and got another bundle and put that beside the shopping bag. After one more trip inside he deposited an umbrella and a pair of rubbers beside the other bundles.

Miss Ball took one step toward the man. She eyed him, fluttered her eyelashes, and said hoarsely, “That's an awful lot of gear for a little man.”

“Par' me?” said the man. He squinted through his glasses and coughed. Miss Ball corrected her false impression: the man did not have a dozen rolls in the hay left in him. He had one perhaps, at the most two. Also he was down at the heel and out at the elbow. But it made no difference. He knew the bank inside out. He had the information they wanted.

“Give you a hand?”

The man took another look at Miss Ball. The look cost the man a great effort. He shrugged.

Miss Ball smiled, took the shopping bag and umbrella and led the way. The man picked up the other bundles and the rubbers and followed.
Success,
thought Miss Ball.

They walked along Mount Holly Boulevard and attracted considerable attention.

The man glanced at her once or twice, then cleared his throat and asked her if she minded carrying the bag.

Miss Ball said that she didn't mind doing anything. She winked again.

The man said that he lived across town. Miss Ball said she knew a shortcut. She walked along as briskly as her little legs would move her and finally got to her house. With a sigh she dropped the bags and said that she could go no further.

“That's okay,” said the man. “I'll carry the stuff. I was planning to anyways.”

Then Miss Ball shrieked. The man dropped what he was carrying.

“For golly sake!” she said. “Look where we are!”

The man said he didn't recognize the place.

“It's my house! Well, isn't that the limit! God help us—it's a miracle.”

The man said that he had to be going. He had the week's shopping in the bags, not to mention his wife's umbrella (he called it a bumbershoot).

“You just take your brolly and your shopping and come in. We'll have a little tea. I'm weak. I don't think I can make it into the house.”

The man tried to carry Miss Ball into the house. He struggled and panted. Miss Ball remarked that he must have been a very strong man in his youth. The man said he was.

Miss Ball poured a large tumbler full of whisky and handed it to the man. The man drank it and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Red-eye,” he said.

“Oo! You like your tea, don't you now?”

The man said he didn't mind a spot now and then. He put his arm around Miss Ball and began pinching her breast.

“Not here, darling,” said Miss Ball. She tossed her head in the direction of upstairs. Then she stood up and took his hand and pulled him upstairs.

Mr. Gibbon and Mrs. Gneiss tiptoed out of the kitchen and upstairs after them. They listened, their ears against the door.

Inside the room bodies fell, groans resounded, flesh met flesh with slaps and shrieks. Miss Ball squealed, the man roared. Furniture fell and glass broke.

“Lotta spunk left in
her
!” Mr. Gibbon whispered.

“They're having
fun
!” Mrs. Gneiss said. She squeezed Mr. Gibbon's knee.

“Clever little woman,” Mr. Gibbon said. “See, she must have learned that in one of the books. She'll get him naked and helpless and then turn on the heat. She'll get him talking about the bank and find out. The man goes away happy and doesn't suspect a thing. Nice as you please.”

But there was no talking. The noise had ceased, and now Miss Ball could be heard crying softly. Mr. Gibbon wanted to go right in, but he waited five minutes, and when nothing had changed (the only sound was Miss Ball sniffing) he drew out his pistol and broke the door down.