“An’ could we stood it!” Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.
Mrs. Feeley emerged washed and dressed. Her black voile dress showed no sign of the wear and tear of the previous evening. She handed a roll of money to Mrs. Rasmussen.
“Keep this in your bag. If we take in twenty dollars today an’ tomorrow, we’ll have almost three hundred an’ fifty dollars for Timmy, we done so good last night.”
“We’re gonna be short on the bus fare,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“If the deal goes through,” Mrs. Feeley said after a moment’s thought, “Timmy can lend us the difference. We’ll send it outa the other checks when we get home. Don’t mind borrowin’ from him if he has this cash and the four thousand odd from McGoon.”
Whitey and his gang came in, quelled by the night before.
“Wonder why we ain’t heard from the Goon?” Mrs. Feeley said. “’Spose we overplayed our hand?”
“He’s probably got his fingers caught in the lid of his strong-box, diggin’ out the cash,” Whitey said.
“Turn the radio on, Miss Tinkham,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Turn it down nice an’ slow an’ bring us a nice cold beer. I think I’m gonna live!”
“It was fun,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but now it’s time to go…”
“The time has come…” Miss Tinkham said.
“To speak of many things!” Timmy Rafferty came in so quietly that the convivial three did not hear him. Beside him stood a lovely girl with shining red hair.
“Timmy!” Mrs. Feeley shrieked, “How’d you get out?”
“They let me out in Barbara’s custody! I’m better!”
“Pleased to meet you!” Mrs. Feeley shook Barbara’s hand warmly, “We’re waitin’ to make the kill any minute, Timmy. Had a sort o’ dummy-run last night.”
Whitey came over and was introduced to Timmy’s girl.
“So you’re going to school! More power to you,” he said.
“You’ve been swell,” Timmy said. “Mrs. Feeley said you were her right-bower.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Whitey laughed, “Hate to see ’em go.”
“You’ll have a scrambled egg with cream, the way I make ’em?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“I couldn’t, honest!” Timmy said. “They made me drink a big eggnog before they’d let me out.”
“But you’ll have a beer?” Mrs. Feeley said. Timmy shook his head.
“Barbara will.”
Mrs. Feeley went over to Whitey.
“It’s after six. I’d a thought sure he’d be round pesterin’ me about the deal. Hope I ain’t over-reached myself.”
“He’ll be along.”
“It’d be so rotten for Timmy to have the deal go sour an’ lose even the twenty-five hundred! Ain’t she a darlin’?”
“Built like a high-boy with the top drawer open,” Whitey smiled.
“Wasn’t none o’ you guys ever weaned?” Mrs. Feeley got up. “If I had teeth I’d be bitin’ my fingernails…got the willies.”
Mrs. Rasmussen had Barbara’s hand in hers and Miss Tinkham was deep in conversation with Timmy.
“It’s quite certain that he will produce the price; he really wants it. I can’t understand what’s keeping him! So much is at stake…not just the filthy lucre, bless it, but your future and dear Barbara’s. We are going to leave nothing, absolutely nothing for him. Mrs. Rasmussen suggested to me that Millers install the gas stove in back of their tailoring establishment so Mr. Miller can have his tea. It is unlikely that he will be frequenting Mr. McGoon’s Passion Pit! That leaves only the pianola to be disposed of.”
“Miss Tinkham,” Barbara said, “will you sell it?”
“Dear child, we wouldn’t dream of selling it! All we want is to find a good home for it!”
“Could we have it for the rumpus room at the Cape?”
“Nothing could please us more, unless it would be to dance at your wedding!”
“My brother will come and take it whenever you say. Thanks so much!”
There was a loud banging at the door, a sound of someone trying to batter down a door that was already open. Everyone in the saloon turned to stare. Mrs. Feeley got up on her feet in case of an emergency. The door swung open and Blondelle lurched in, totally and majestically drunk. She had her stockings drawn up over her arms like long gloves and wore her shoes on her hands.
“Hi!” she said, “I’m loaded!”
“Great gobs o’ sheet metal!” Mrs. Feeley yelled, “What do you call this?”
“I did it an’ I’m glad!” Blondelle gloated.
“Did what? Speak up, girl!” Mrs. Feeley shook her.
Blondelle sat down with the quiet determination of a drunk.
“He hit her.”
“Who hit who? C’mon!” Mrs. Feeley urged.
“He hit her. With the shaft of his glasses he hit her. On the tit.”
“Who?” Mrs. Rasmussen tried her powers of persuasion.
“He tapped her with it. On the tit. Everything got red in front of me like they slapped me in the eyes with a bowlful of raspberry Jello. And then I did it.”
“Goddamit, girl, you’re drivin’ us nuts!” Mrs. Feeley shouted.
“Was Mr. McGoon by any chance philandering?” Miss Tinkham said.
“In the vault. On the tit with his glasses. I saw him.”
“So what? Ain’t the first time. He’s always smowchin’ ’round!” Mrs. Feeley was all contempt.
“I slammed the door. And I’m glad.”
“What door?”
“The door of the vault…where they keep the padded pay rolls and the stuffers for the ballot-boxes. They’re in there. I hope they smother to death. I’m glad. He went in for the money and took her in with him.” Blondelle’s head rolled limply.
“Are you kidding?” Timmy said.
“Go look!” Blondelle smiled blissfully. “Democratic Headquarters. In the vault. Nobody can open it…they’re all gone to the country. Don’t know their phone number and I’m glad.”
“How long ago?” Timmy said.
“What time is it?” Blondelle peered up at the faces about her.
“Seven-fifteen.”
Blondelle began to chuckle softly. “Since five-thirty!” She laughed harder and harder. “He was going to leave early because the big bosses were gone. He took her in with him to show her the money he was bringing you for the bar.” Blondelle slumped forward on the table.
“Not yet!” Mrs. Feeley shook her hard. “Took who with him? Who’s in there with him?”
“That bitch brunette. He hit…”
“Don’t go into that song an’ dance again! Since five-thirty? Won’t they miss the girl at home? You gotta snap out of it an’ take somebody down there to find the phone numbers o’ them people that knows the combination! You got a key to the place?”
“Sure. I’m the head stenographer.”
“An’ you don’t know where they live? Sounds fishy to me!”
“Isn’t it?” Blondelle’s mirth attracted the other customers who stood in a ring watching the exhibition.
“You mean you won’t,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“That’s what I mean,” Blondelle smiled serenely. “Gave him the best years of my life.”
“Gimme the key!” Mrs. Feeley demanded. “Timmy, you stay here. You ain’t strong enough yet. Whitey, come with me. Smiley, tend bar. Miss Tinkham, look in her bag while I hold her! She’s…”
“T.U.D.! Taken unexpectedly drunk! And most unco-operative!”
Miss Tinkham found a key ring and stuck it in her own pocket.
“’Spose we don’t find no names? Or can’t get hold o’ them guys?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “How we gonna open it then?”
“We’ll get the police an’ the riot-squad,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Don’t worry,” Blondelle hiccupped; “that bitch’s husband will blow it open with dynamite! Wait till McGoon’s wife…” Her head bobbed down on the table again.
“It seems to me,” Miss Tinkham said, “that the situation calls for the somewhat esoteric talents of Mrs. Rasmussen’s friend, Mr. Flink!”
“The Creep!” Mrs. Feeley shouted, “How in hell will we get hold of him? ’Spose he’s outa town?”
“I seen his card today when I was puttin’ the money away,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“Get on the phone. Miss Tinkham! You guys pipe down! Go home!” Mrs. Rasmussen produced Mr. Flink’s card and Miss Tinkham called his hotel in New York.
“I’m gonna try black coffee an’ food on her,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “If The Creep does come, she won’t be no use in this shape.”
The men at the bar were still as mice.
“Gawd! This’ll be his suppertime, sure as shootin’! Out in the taverns lookin’ for refined ladies! ‘I open safes!’ he says. By God, he never had a finer chance to show off!”
“Ring Mr. Gaylord Flink’s room,” Miss Tinkham commanded the voice at the other end of the phone. There was a long silence.
“He what?” Miss Tinkham snapped. “You saw him yourself? Can you locate him for me? This is a professional matter! Two lives and as many reputations are at stake. You can’t? Take this number, then, and put a note in his room as well as in the mail box: Newark 4-8080. Mrs. Rasmussen. Urgent! Call immediately! What’s that? R as in Robert, a-s-s as in…my mistake, make that one
s!
Oh dear, just say Erna, his fiancée, needs him desperately!” She hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, dear lady, but it was the simplest way.”
“That oughta bring him runnin’!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We’ll sure be sweatin’ it out till he calls! ’Spose he’s out providin’ the cup that cheers, as he calls it?”
“The police, I guess?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. She was forcing Blondelle to take large sips of black coffee and spoonfuls of scrambled egg. Miss Tinkham was tending bar with one ear cocked toward the telephone.
“Give us all a beer!” Mrs. Feeley said, “My nerves is workin’ buttonholes!”
Mrs. Feeley sat down disconsolately.
“McGoon’ll be so mad he’ll back outa the deal! If he ain’t dead! How long can people live shut up in a safe?”
“Depends on the size of the vault,” Timmy said. “And lots of other things.” No one talked for a while. Suddenly the silence was shattered by the shrilling of the telephone.
“Jesus God!” Mrs. Feeley shrieked, “I jumped right outa my skin! Miss Tinkham, you take it!”
“Hello-o-o-o-o!” Miss Tinkham shrieked into the phone. “Yes! Yes! It is true! She is right here beside me!” She beckoned wildly for Mrs. Rasmussen, handed her the receiver, and pushed her close to the phone.
“H’lo!” Mrs. Rasmussen grinned in spite of herself. “The happiest day o’ your life? No, I haven’t changed my mind…better get over here in a hurry…no…”
“Don’t tell him anything discouraging at a time like this!” Miss Tinkham hissed. “Call him darling, or sweetheart! Anything to get him over here.”
“I said
they
couldn’t wait, not me! Bring your tools! Can you take a taxi? You will? Now you’ll hurry, won’t you? Corner o’ Street an’ Avenue. We’ll be out front lookin’ for you. Stow it! You can tell me all that after! ‘Bye!”
Mrs. Feeley and her two friends collapsed in the nearest chairs.
“Everything happens to us,” Miss Tinkham said.
“From where I sit,” Timmy laughed, “it looks like something happened to McGoon and his girl-friend.”
“How long will it take him to get over here, Timmy?” Mrs. Rasmussen asked.
“Depends on the traffic, and the cab driver.”
“If he thinks he’s gonna see Mrs. Rasmussen,” Mrs. Feeley said, “He’ll be runnin’ through red lights an’ bribin’ the cops on the way. What was he sayin’ to you?”
“Same ol’ stuff.”
From time to time one of the ladies got up and peeked out the door. The rest of the time they sat eyeing the clock, except when some importunate customer demanded beer. Blondelle was sitting quietly, eating the bread and cheese Mrs. Rasmussen put in front of her.
After what seemed a century but was only forty minutes, Miss Tinkham spied the cab turning the corner. The Creep hopped out, looking even smaller and grayer than she remembered. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen came out.
“You sent for me!” he took both of Mrs. Rasmussen’s hands.
“Don’t let the cab go!” Mrs. Feeley said. “We got work to do.”
She went in and dragged Blondelle out to the sidewalk.
“Whitey,” she yelled, “you look after the place.” Miss Tinkham had the key. Mrs. Rasmussen got into the taxi beside Mr. Flink.
“I’m coming, too!” Timmy said.
“There’s five in the back seat now!” the driver said.
“We can ride three in the front seat.” Timmy shoved Barbara in ahead of him. “Step on it!” He directed the driver to the Democratic Headquarters.
“Good thing you come,” Mrs. Feeley said. “She can’t or won’t!” Blondelle was asleep on Mrs. Rasmussen’s shoulder.
Timmy opened the door to headquarters after trying several keys. In her anger, Blondelle had left the lights on. The large black door of the vault loomed up ominously.
“There is someone inside?” Mr. Flink asked.
“Two,” Mrs. Feeley said.
Mr. Flink’s eyebrows went up and the ghost of a smile fluttered around his lips.
“Routine situation,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“I’d like a word with him before you let him out…if he can talk,” Mrs. Feeley said. Apparently McGoon could talk. They could hear him faintly through the door: