All the way

was the real honey of the deal; I wouldn’t be trying to copy a signature, because it would be my own. Not my name, of course, and it would be only my version of Harris Chapman’s signature, but it would be what was on the signature card, because I’d opened the account. No, if we ended in disaster, it wouldn’t be this forgery thing that tripped us.

It went off without a hitch. I arrived at the bank shortly after it opened, and inquired for Dakin. He was at one of the desks behind a railing at one end of the main lobby, a nervous, self-consciously hearty, and overworked man who couldn’t have described me ten minutes later if I’d been wearing a monocle and a sharpened bone through my nose.

“Oh, yes. Yes. Mr.—” His eyes swept toward the memo pad to verify his old friend’s name. “Mr. Fitzpatrick called. Glad to have you as a depositor, Mr. Chapman. And we know you’ll like Miami.”

I filled in the form, signed two copies of the signature card, endorsed the check, and gave it to him. He carried it off to one of the tellers’ windows and returned with my deposit receipt and a check-book. He assured me it wouldn’t take over three or four days for it to clear New Orleans. I went back to the hotel, wrote out a check for five thousand dollars, borrowed an envelope from the cashier, and left it at the desk to be delivered to anybody from Fitzpatrick Realty.

Up in the room again, I got out the list of securities, opened the Herald to yesterday’s closing stock prices, and made a rough outline of what to sell. It would just about clean out the account; there’d be less than twelve thousand dollars left in it. I put through the call to New Orleans.

“Hello, Chris? Chapman—”

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Chapman. I see Warwick opened at two and a half again this morning, so we may not—”

“Never mind that,” I cut in brusquely. “It’s chicken feed. I’m on my way now on that deal I told you about— oh, incidentally, the twenty-five thousand dollars was here when I checked in at the Clive last night. Thanks a million. I opened an account and deposited it this morning. The deal’s going through at my price, beyond any shadow of doubt, and I’m going to need a hundred and fifty thousand dollars within the next few days. You got my list handy, and a pencil?”

“Yes, sir. But you’re not going to—?”

I paid no attention. “Sell the Columbia Gas, the PG &E, that DuPont Preferential, Champion Paper Preferential, and the AT&T— That should be pretty close to a hundred thousand. Now, let’s see—”

“But, Mr. Chapman, those are all good, sound issues. I hate to see you sell them.”

“What?” I asked absently. Then I did a take, and barked into the phone. “Goddammit, Chris, I’m not interested in being on the defensive. There’s no way to stand still in this economy; you keep going ahead, or you’re eaten alive by ducks. Let’s face it. The bull market’s dead, and I’m not interested in making four cents in dividends and giving three of them to the Government. I want to make money, and right now Florida real estate’s the place to make it; not in the stock market. When the market starts to move again, I’ll get back in, but for now I’m going to put that money to work.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. He didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do about it. We went on with the list.

“All right,” I concluded. “The largest block in there is a thousand shares. You can unload it all in an hour without even a ripple. Get the check off to me as early as you can this afternoon, registered airmail, care of the Clive Hotel, so I’ll have it by the time the banks open in the morning. It’s going to take several days to clear. Got it?”

“Yes. I have it all.”

“Fine,” I said. “G’bye.” I hung up, and breathed softly with relief.

That much of it was past now; the Chris phase was complete, and he’d never suspected a thing. It called for a drink, in spite of the hour. I was just pouring it when the phone rang. It was Fitzpatrick.

He was in high spirits. “Well, Mr. Chapman, it looks as if you’ve got yourself a deal. I talked to the owner a few minutes ago, and I think he’s about ready to accept.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m raising the money now.”

A woman’s voice cut in on the line. “Mr. Chapman, I’m sorry to interrupt. This is the hotel switchboard —”

“Yes?” I asked.

“We have a very urgent long-distance call from Thomaston, Louisiana.”

“Oh.” I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “I mean—put it on.”

“Harris! Thank God they located you.” It was Coral Blaine. “I’ve been trying for over an hour, but I’d forgotten what hotel you said. This whole place is in an uproar—”

“What is it?” I broke in.

“We’ve got to have the combination of that old safe, and you’re the only one who knows it. Barbara says you’ve got it written down somewhere in your office, but we can’t find it.”

I could feel the whole thing caving away beneath us, but I had to try. “Get hold of yourself!” I snapped. “What old safe are you talking about? And what’s happened?”

“Harris! The one that was moved out of here about six months ago when you bought the new one. It was stored in the warehouse, remember? And just before you left you told Mr. Elkins to sell it to the junk yard—”

Someone knocked on the door.

“ . . . Well, yesterday afternoon he and some more men moved it outside on to the loading platform, but the junk man forgot to pick it up. It was unlocked. And this morning about eight-thirty, some first-graders on the way to school—”

I could feel myself growing sick. “Oh, Jesus, not that!”

“No,” she interrupted. “Not one of the children. A dog. Judy Weaver’s miniature poodle—”

My knees bent, and I sat down. “Well, don’t tell me the whole goddamned town—”

There was another knock on the door.

“Harris! will you please stop swearing! That silly girl is practically out of her mind. They’ve got her under a sedative now, but when she wakes up she’ll start all over again. The Humane Society is driving me crazy. Mrs. Weaver says they’re going to sue you. Everybody in town is simply furious, and people have been calling up here until I’m ready to scream. Some machine shop has drilled a hole in the safe so the stupid dog can breathe, but they can’t get him out. The radio news got hold of it, and now the New Orleans papers are calling up. Barbara says you’ve got the combination—”

Maybe it would help, I thought bitterly, if she told me that again. Whoever it was in the corridor was banging on the door again. I had to get away from that voice and try to think.

“Hold it,” I said. “Somebody’s at the door.”

I put down the phone and answered it. It was a porter. “Telegram, sir,” he said. I handed him a coin of some kind, and took it.

I closed the door and leaned against it. We’d had it. It wasn’t on the tapes; I knew that. I’d been through everything in the wallet. The little address book! I grabbed it out of my pocket and flipped madly through it. Nothing but addresses.

I looked at the phone lying on the desk. This was the way it ended. You learned everything there was to learn, you took care of every contingency, you memorized, you rehearsed, you perfected—and then some kid locked a dog in a safe a thousand miles away and you were done.

I still had the telegram in my hand. Through the little glassine window I could see some figures, and Brindon, La. I’d never heard of it.

Louisiana!

I slashed it open and stared at the text.

RIGHT THIRTY-TWO LEFT TWO SLANT NINETEEN RIGHT THREE SLANT SIX REPEAT RIGHT THIRTY-TWO . . . TAPED BENEATH PENCIL DRAWER.

I sighed, and pushed myself off the door on watery knees. Picking up the phone and holding it a little way from my face, I said, “Sit down, and I’ll be right with you, as soon as I deal with this crisis.”

I spoke into it. “Coral? You there? That combination is taped to the bottom of the pencil drawer in my desk. But, hold on, I’ll give it to you. Write it down—” I repeated it off the telegram.

“Thank Heavens—”