sepulchral.
The silence was contagious; it pressed in on you, demanding silence. Up in the cashier's cage, Dusty unconsciously lowered his voice. Then, as Bascom squirmed on his stool, he raised it again. Five-oh-five, Holloway. Food thirty-eight dollars, tips five, total forty-three. Bar twenty, tips three-fifty, total twenty-three fifty. Newsstand miscellaneous, twelve. C.O.D.'s fifty-two. Valet-'
'Let's see!' Bascom held out his hand for the charge slips without turning around. 'Hmmm. Living high, but he doesn't spend a nickel. Could be that he doesn't have it to spend.'
'Could be,' Dusty murmured.
'Well'-Bascom tossed the account to one side-'that's a headache for the clay crew. Let's have the next one.'
Dusty continued. Now and then he stole a look at the clerk. Bascom was strangely calm, matter-of-fact, tonight. Not friendly or unfriendly., simply a man carrying out a job that had to be done.
It was the way he should act, of course; everything had to go on as usual right up until the time of the holdup. But Dusty wondered at his ability to do it. He, himself, was anything but calm. Now, here right at the last when he needed confidence most, it was suddenly draining away.
Dusty glanced at the lobby clock. Two-thirty sharp. What was holding them up? They – Tug and the two men who were in on the deal – should have started down the stairs at two-twenty. Ten minutes was more than enough time to get down to the lobby. So unless something had gone wrong…
Tug had warned him not to leave the cashier's cage after two-thirty. If there was a room call or an elevator signal at two-twenty-five, or even a minute or so later, fine. He was to take care of it, and get back to the cage as fast as he could. But after that, no. People couldn't expect prompt service at this hour of the morning. If they did comment on the fact later, nothing could be made of it. The robbery, would have been going on, and –
But it wasn't going on! It was two-thirty-four, well, two-thirty-three, and nothing had happened. Suppose he got a room call, or the elevator night-bell rang, now. Suppose he stalled on it, and Tug and his boys didn't show up until three. How would he be able to explain that? And how could he cover up, meanwhile, with Bascom? Bascom wasn't supposed to know that he was in on the robbery. And Bascom certainly would suspect the truth, if he stalled indefinitely. A few minutes, yes: while they finished a transcript sheet or a series of charges. But a few minutes had already passed – it was already two thirty – and… Where were they? For God's sake, where were they?
'Bill…' Bascom spoke with his back still turned. 'You made a bad mistake, Bill.'
'W-what?' Dusty plunged out of fear and into terror.
'W-when? H-how do you -?'
'You've been making a lot of mistakes. You don't know what you're doing. Why don't you go home? I can say that you took sick, and call for another boy.'
What was he talking about? The work or the other? did he know or…?
'Do it, Bill. Now. Before you make a really big mistake.'
'I – No!' Dusty gasped. 'I mean, I'm all right I-'
'You're all wrong. But if you leave now, you can still…' Bascom paused, leaving the sentence unfinished. For from somewhere, up there on the echoing darkness of the mezzanine, a door had creaked open, and now there was the rapid pad-pad of feet upon thick carpeting. And then the clatter of those same feet descending the marble steps to the lobby.
They came down in a group, almost on each other's heels. One of them hurried up the lobby to the front door, another took up a position at the taxi entrance. And the third, Tug Trowbridge, stopped at the cashier's cage.
Something dropped to the desk from his hand, tinkled faintly. Six – no, seven tiny keys. The same hand grasped Bascom by the shirt front, hauled him up against the opening. The other thrust a gun into the clerk's chest.
'All right, kid,' he snapped. 'Get busy!'
'B-but-' Dusty stared at him, stupefied. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Tug had promised to keep him in the clear, with nothing to do but –
'Goddammit,'move! Get the ledger and the other keys. Get them boxes out here!'
Dusty's head was swimming. He stammered, 'B-but you s-said-'
'You heard what I said. Now, do it!'
He couldn't do it. He. couldn't even move. Then his eyes moved from the gangster to Bascom, and he couldn't see him full-face, but what he saw was enough. Bascom was startled, too. For him also things were hot going as they had been planned.
'You hear me, Dusty? I have to tell you one more goddamned time, and-' And Dusty sprang into action.
He had left the platform. The plunge was over, and now there was nothing but the short easy swim to shore. This was as it should be. As he must have known it would be. He hadn't known, of course, or certainly he wouldn't have agreed to it. He'd had no idea of the real truth. But so long as it was this way…
He sank deeper and deeper into the water; its pressure was unbearable. And then he was on the bottom – absolute bottom. And amazingly the pressure was gone. Once he surrendered to it fully, ceased to resist, there was no more.
Sure, he'd known; and he knew what must certainly happen after this. And what the hell of it? All that mattered now was getting to shore… getting away with it.
Swiftly, he unlocked seven of the little vault doors, yanked out their long steel boxes. He placed them on the desk, to one side of Bascom, and Tug gave him a tightlipped grin of approval.
'Atta boy! Now, reach around him, kid – I got the bag under my coat – and… Swell. You're doing fine. Now stuff the dough into it, and-'
'What about a count on it?'
'Count!' Tug let out a surprised grunt, then chuckled softly. 'A real pro, ain't he, Bask?' Bascom was silent. 'A good idea, kid, but make it fast. Just riffle through it. Don't matter if you're a grand or two off.'
Dusty nodded. He flipped back the lid of the first box, turned through the thick sheaf of bills. They were all hundreds and fifties,,with a preponderance of the latter. Large enough to total high without bulk, small enough for easy negotiation.
'Twenty-seven thousand.' He glanced at Tug. 'Okay?'
'Yeah, yeah! For Christ's sake, Dusty!'
There was twenty-four thousand, five hundred in the next box. The third held thirty-eight thousand, fifty.
The fourth…
All together there was two hundred and thirty-two thousand. Approximately that much. Tug nodded impatiently as he repeated the figure.
'Yeah, hell. It's close enough anyway… Now, you remember the combo on that bag? One turn right from zero, back left to ten, right to forty, and then left to--'
'I know. All the way, ten, forty, thirty… What about your own box, here? Haven't you got -?'
uneasiness of the two men at the doors. Why, they were jumpy. They were, and he was not. He was grinning secretly, patronizingly, as he entered and locked the door of the cashier's cage.
Everything was all right. It was exactly eight minutes since Tug had thrust his gun into Bascom's ribs. How much better could they want it?
'That goddamned phone, Dusty! Maybe you ought to – '
'Huh-uh. The operator will figure I'm busy. She'll stop, and call back in a few minutes.'
'You sure? She won't – ' The ringing stopped, but Tug still looked anxious. 'She won't call someone, tell 'em that she – '
Dusty shook his head. 'What's the difference, anyway? It's all over, isn't it?'
'Well… well, yeah,' said Tug, almost wonderingly. 'I guess it just about is, kid.'
'Bill!' Bascom spoke for the first time. 'Listen to me, Bill! It doesn't matter about me, but you've got to prom – '
Tug's gun exploded. Bascom reeled backward, clutching his chest, and Tug fired again. And again. The clerk's body jerked. Slowly, it began to bend at the waist. It sagged down and down, and he was clawing at his chest, now, gasping and clawing – a terrible rattle in his throat. Then, his knees swayed and crumpled, and blood gushed from his mouth, and he pitched forward to the floor.
