Henry had been jarred out of his trance, a few beads of sweat on his forehead, by the impatient clearing of a customer’s throat. The idea hadn’t frightened Henry for very long. It became a part of him, another facet in that unknown portion of his personality. The bank vault, only a few yards from where he worked each day, became something more to Henry than mere case-hardened steel and flame-resistant alloys. With the passage of time, the vault assumed the aspects of a hiding place for Henry’s own secret treasure trove; a personal depository just waiting the day when he could claim his fortune.
He was young. He had plenty of time. Eventually, efficient worker that he was, he had to be taken into the inner circle, from which he would have intimate and unsuspected association with the treasure. It was his one hope. It was surely worth waiting for.
Meanwhile, he had more than his salary to sustain him. Each day, he would be near his treasure. In a way, he would be watching over it. With a start, Henry came out of his money-spangled fog. Greasy black smoke was rising from the hard lump of scorched hamburger. Not only that, someone was knocking on the door of his apartment He grabbed the frying pan, blistered his fingers, yelped, reached for a pot holder, and removed the pan to the sink. Then, sucking his burned fingers, he dashed for the door.
With a vacuous smile on her large, damp mouth, Miss Mavis Birdsong was standing in the corridor. She had moved into the building a few weeks previously. Ripened to the point of generosity in face and figure, she was a blonde with large, round blue eyes. There was just a little too much of her for Henry’s taste, although he had accepted her friendship from the day she had moved in and crossed the hall to borrow a cup of sugar.
“Hi, Henry.”
“Hello, Miss Birdsong.”
She gave him a little pinch on the cheek. “Come on over. I made spaghetti like even the Italians wish they could make, more than I can handle by myself.”
Henry thought of the charred mess in his frying pan. “Well, I… “Fine.”
She linked her arm with his, precluding any further hesitation on his part. “I even have wine to go with it.”
“If you’re sure it won’t inconvenience you, if none of your other gentlemen callers.…”
“Just a couple guys I know, Henry. But you’re the only real gentleman in my life!”
In her apartment Mavis hummed in a throaty voice as she prepared his plate. “How goes it at the bank, Henry?”
“Okay. Well, excellent really.”
“That’s great. You get a promotion or something?”
“I think I’m going to. I—I’m sure they’re going to make me cashier. It’s been a long time coming, five years, but I’m certain I’ll be more than amply rewarded.” He gave a beatific sigh.
“Wonderful!”
Henry gave her a glance. For some reason or other, Miss Birdsong seemed slightly strained this evening.
“I’m afraid,” Henry said, “I’ve bored you with nothing but talk of the bank.”
“Not a bit I’ve enjoyed every minute.”
* * * *
Henry woke bushy-tailed the next morning. He bounced out of bed, did his knee bends and twenty-five daily pushups with no more effort than bending a finger.
In the preparation of his breakfast, he grasped the skillet handle and flipped the eggs in a manner that would have brought the envy of a first-rate short order cook.
Even the date didn’t bother him today: first day of the month, the day for cashing those endless payroll checks from textile and food processing plants in the area.
Henry made his customary prompt arrival at the bank. The blinds were still drawn on the double front doors, but he knew that Mr. Darcy Featherstone would have already arrived, met the guard, and unlocked.
Henry stepped inside. He promptly ceased all motion as a small, round object was jammed against his back.
“It’s a gun, pal.” A gritty voice behind Henry imparted the information.
Henry’s gaze made a wild sweep of the bank. Judkins, the guard, with a lump on his head and no gun in his holster, was bending over a leather couch where Mr. Darcy Featherstone was recovering from a faint. Against the far wall, the bank’s small complement of employees were lined up under the gun of a squat man who wore coveralls and a rubber monkey mask that covered his entire head.
In a similar overall-mask disguise, the man behind Henry herded him forward. “You can fill the sacks, chum.”
“We’re vegetarians,” the second monkey face said. “We like lettuce. All that lettuce you got on hand to meet the payroll checks.”
“Save it,” the man behind Henry said. “Just be sure to watch them jerks so nothing goes wrong until we get the lettuce into her car.” Her? Henry had a queerly detached feeling. Her! Driving the getaway car. Waiting behind the wheel right now, engine at the ready, for her male partners to emerge from the bank loaded with loot Mavis Birdsong. Yes. It had to be. The men in coveralls and masks were the exact size and shape of the pair who had visited her. Her choice of apartments had been by design, as well as her friendship for Henry. She wanted him to tell her about the bank so that she and these two hoodlums could plan a despicable act. “Come on, come on,” one of the robbers was snarling at Judkins, the guard. “Get the cashier on his feet and about the business of
