THE SAGA OF WILLY STEINBEX
It had been a long day and Willy Steinbeck was strolling on the common. Dusk was gathering as he watched the proud young mothers strutting about with their clean prams and fresh young babies.
To Willy it was a parade ground; the lovers issuing unspoken challenges: the furtive twitching and turning of the old men asleep on the benches: the leaves racing and swirling, surging with the changing wind.
For Willy, it had been a hard, yet not very rewarding day, serving in his tiny delicatessen on the corner of the High Street. So noisy and smelly, he thought; and sadly remembered the day he decided to leave home to make his fortune in the big country.
Suddenly the wind rose and a whirlpool of leaves swirled round his feet, and then it hit him. He was beaten. All along he had thought he was a winner. His ambitions seemed to materialize slowly but surely, but now, in middle age, as he watched the leaves spiral into a crescendo, he saw his dreams fade and he wept inwardly as he admitted defeat.
After he had finished the first bottle of cheap wine in his room beneath the shop, a powerful combination of anger, fear and frustration made him reach a fateful decision. He would have what he wanted. The money, the freedom, the sunny carefree life he idolised in the travel agencies. He must be prepared for a last do-or-die effort before giving up completely.
He frantically racked his brain for a solution, but it was a fruitless task, and in the small hours of the morning when the city was peaceful, Willy Steinbeck fell asleep.
Next morning as he sat facing the crowds, and idly watching the rain melt on his shop window, he was rudely awakened from a reverie of a sun drenched beach, by the grunt of a customer waiting to be served. “Half pound of garlic sausage, if you have a minute.”
It was that bloated Scotsman again. The one who came in every Thursday at a quarter past three after calling at the bank opposite to collect his firm’s wages. At least Willy supposed it was wages, for every Thursday at precisely three-fifteen for the past three months or so, Willy had watched the stout man execute the obnoxious routine of extracting himself intact from his car, present his identity-card to the side door of the bank, and after locking his case in the trunk of the car, drive straight across the road to collect his garlic sausage.
The last bottle had resigned itself to Willy’s system before this blustery mound of humanity thrust his bulk through the shell of Willy’s fantasies. It was probably the pungent odour of it on Willy’s breath, which caused the customer to mutter a derogatory remark about the stench of alcoholic drink.
And it was probably this insult together with the startling upheaval of a personality, which to Willy had seemed so taciturn and resigned, even epitomising the perfect customer, which caused Willy to sustain a momentary fit and drop the garlic sausage.
Whereupon the fat man with amazing agility bent down and retrieved it before Willy recovered enough to scramble round the counter to apologise. But the fat man was oblivious to Willy’s explanations and marched out. With despair Willy shut the door and turned to retrieve his ego in the wine, when he noticed a red folder on the floor. Of course, his suspicions were confirmed when he recognised it as the identity card used by the Scotsman to get into the bank after hours. This was the very card he had so often seen him present to the clerk who checked him at the side entrance to the bank. Fate, thought Willy; perhaps the Gods are with me, at last.
It was a new Willy Steinbeck who closed shop and retired with his empty wine bottle to the cellar, gaining hope and confidence with every beat of the ancient grandfather clock, whose presence segregated the silence with monotonous reliability.
Perched above it hung a decrepit shotgun; an antique device which had been de-commissioned and this was to play a decisive part in Willy’s plans as he sat in front of the fire drifting in and out of sleep. Escape and reality, he thought. If you got enough of one it equalled the other.
It was at ten minutes past three the following Thursday when Willy complete with briefcase, presented himself to the bespectacled clerk opening the bank door grill. Thrusting the authorization card in his face, Willy waited thankful that as yet he had had no need to speak. He knew the time lock for the vault would be open as it always was at closing time. As the clerk walked to the vault door to open it, Willy showed him the gun and prodded him inside.
Willy had pulled his scarf round his face, by now and prodded the clerk with the barrel, as he thought he was about to tackle him. Unfortunately the clerk bumped his head on the side of the heavy metal door and crumpled to the floor.
A babble of voices arose, and their owners quickly appeared, only to freeze at the sight of Willy with the clerk’s keys in one hand and the shotgun in the other.
Nobody moved as he stuffed all he could into the briefcase and rejoiced that so far there had been no need to speak, as he feared his accent would narrow down the inevitable list of suspects. Still not a word. It was as if a play was in progress and he had already rehearsed it.
It took Willy less than ten seconds to fill the briefcase, and he was out of the bank in another ten. He slammed the door and walked swiftly across the busy street in the direction of his shop when the alarm bell rang. Fighting back an impulse to run he soon rounded the corner and ran down the steps to the safety of his shop.
Through the Venetian blinds he saw a crowd gather outside the bank, and sweated profusely as a police car drew up on the scene. But he had expected this. He had expected everything, and nothing had gone wrong. He was safe. He had not spoken. No hero had thrown anything at him. He had not harmed anyone; except the clerk: but that was his own fault, and nothing serious.
But he hadn’t even counted the money yet, and now babbled drunkenly at the crisp fivers he watched the briefcase burn and crackle in the dim light, where he had thrown it into the furnace. It was after midnight by the time he recovered enough to remember the shotgun. Evidence, he thought, better destroy it. Pity, had it quite a few years, he thought, and remembered when he had lived in the country and gone duck shooting at weekends. Happier days, he thought. Never mind, plenty more to come. Who says money can’t buy happiness?
He decided against throwing away the shotgun. Someone might find it and connect it with the robbery. They drag rivers to find murder weapons these days. But why worry, he hadn’t murdered anyone. He finally decided to bury it in the floor of the cellar. He was exhausted when he’d finished and had just enough energy left to crawl into bed. Thank God I don’t have to get up for work in the morning, he thought, I needn’t ever work again. Just over ninety thousand pounds. I can lie in every time I like.
Still, to be on the safe side, better stick to routine. Open the shop as usual, just to be completely safe, for they’re bound to question people in the area.
Next morning he rose early to unlock his shop door. While fumbling with the bottom bolt, his eye caught the morning paper and he read in horror, ‘Bank clerk murdered in robbery’ He tore open the paper to find the clerk had died of a cerebral haemorrhage. I didn’t push him that hard, thought Willy. At least it certainly didn’t seem hard. He read on to find that Sergeant Steve Donahue would be moving in from the Yard to take over investigations. Donahue had a formidable record in solving cases of homicide and fraud, and to the general public personified their image of a good cop.
Willy decided to persevere with his duties for the day, despite this recent setback, and was rewarded with the view of endless police cars arriving and departing while relays of anonymous people scuttled in and out of the bank.
In the afternoon he decided he would close early and go uptown to collect some travel brochures. He got home late armed with a complete array of world cruise folders and guides. He laid them on the mantelpiece while he had dinner and thought how they would pass the time away while the excitement died down. Until then I must play it very cool and normal, even to the point of depositing my till-money on Fridays. That would mean having to face Manchester, the chief clerk, and even the Manager. What if they recognise me, he thought. Impossible, nobody got a close look, and what with my scarf, sunglasses and hat, my own mother wouldn’t have known me.
The days passed quicker than he expected and Friday came round with its usual routine. At midday Willy went to the bank with his deposit. He signed the receipt, remarked about the raid, and offered his condolences.
Just as he was leaving, he spotted the Manager. Willy’s heart leapt as he saw recognition enter the man’s eyes, but he simply bid him good-day and walked on. Outside in the fresh air, Willy breathed deeply and offered a silent prayer. The man hadn’t recognised him. He was completely in the clear. On his way home he wondered about the Manager’s claim that one hundred and fifty thousand had been stolen, while Wily himself had only counted ninety.
It was after six that evening when he heard the door bell and answered it only to find Sergeant Donahue standing in the doorway. “Just a few enquiries, sir” he said. “I see your shop front offers a good view of the bank. Did you notice anything unusual last week?” Willy, getting over the initial shock, invited him in while Donahue continued. “ I know you’re a customer of the bank. For I remember seeing you there today.” He continued speaking while Willy offered him a cup of tea. It was as he was drinking it that he noticed the travel folders. They appeared crisp and shiny. “Going away, sir?” He asked innocently. “ No, can’t afford to,” said Willy, I always keep them there, to remind me of my travels in the war.”
What’s he lying for, thought Donahue; they’re new, there’s no dust on them and this basement is a very dusty place.
It was while looking for dust that he noticed a vague outline on the wall, and the more he looked the more convinced he became that it resembled a gun. My God, it must be him. No, crazy. Still, Stevie boy, you know some of these old guys. Desperate for a last fling in life. He must have sawn the barrel off in this room, thought Donahue. “ Got away with a hundred and fifty thousand,” he said to keep the conversation moving, while looking around for more evidence. He spotted some iron filings beside the table and on leaving put his teacup on the table.
“ Sorry,” he said, purposely dropping his cigarette on the floor beside the filings. He bent down to pick it up and managed to catch a filing in his thumbnail. “Do hope I haven’t troubled you, sir, and thanks again for your help”, he said on leaving. “ No trouble at all, goodnight” said Willy, and returned to relax and read his folders.
But Donahue was back inside an hour. The filing had been sent to the forensic science laboratory and had matched the grains of metal on the clerk’s jacket where Willy had prodded him with the gun.
It was early morning before they found the gun which was buried in beneath the floorboards and the money hidden behind the gas fire. Donahue sent for the wagon, which arrived about 8 o’clock. As they bundled Willy into the back, the local bank Manager was opening the bank. I must get some travel folders, he thought to himself, while watching the police drive Willy away. That extra sixty thousand is going to be very useful. Very useful indeed.
Radical Rooney ©
To Willy it was a parade ground; the lovers issuing unspoken challenges: the furtive twitching and turning of the old men asleep on the benches: the leaves racing and swirling, surging with the changing wind.
For Willy, it had been a hard, yet not very rewarding day, serving in his tiny delicatessen on the corner of the High Street. So noisy and smelly, he thought; and sadly remembered the day he decided to leave home to make his fortune in the big country.
Suddenly the wind rose and a whirlpool of leaves swirled round his feet, and then it hit him. He was beaten. All along he had thought he was a winner. His ambitions seemed to materialize slowly but surely, but now, in middle age, as he watched the leaves spiral into a crescendo, he saw his dreams fade and he wept inwardly as he admitted defeat.
After he had finished the first bottle of cheap wine in his room beneath the shop, a powerful combination of anger, fear and frustration made him reach a fateful decision. He would have what he wanted. The money, the freedom, the sunny carefree life he idolised in the travel agencies. He must be prepared for a last do-or-die effort before giving up completely.
He frantically racked his brain for a solution, but it was a fruitless task, and in the small hours of the morning when the city was peaceful, Willy Steinbeck fell asleep.
Next morning as he sat facing the crowds, and idly watching the rain melt on his shop window, he was rudely awakened from a reverie of a sun drenched beach, by the grunt of a customer waiting to be served. “Half pound of garlic sausage, if you have a minute.”
It was that bloated Scotsman again. The one who came in every Thursday at a quarter past three after calling at the bank opposite to collect his firm’s wages. At least Willy supposed it was wages, for every Thursday at precisely three-fifteen for the past three months or so, Willy had watched the stout man execute the obnoxious routine of extracting himself intact from his car, present his identity-card to the side door of the bank, and after locking his case in the trunk of the car, drive straight across the road to collect his garlic sausage.
The last bottle had resigned itself to Willy’s system before this blustery mound of humanity thrust his bulk through the shell of Willy’s fantasies. It was probably the pungent odour of it on Willy’s breath, which caused the customer to mutter a derogatory remark about the stench of alcoholic drink.
And it was probably this insult together with the startling upheaval of a personality, which to Willy had seemed so taciturn and resigned, even epitomising the perfect customer, which caused Willy to sustain a momentary fit and drop the garlic sausage.
Whereupon the fat man with amazing agility bent down and retrieved it before Willy recovered enough to scramble round the counter to apologise. But the fat man was oblivious to Willy’s explanations and marched out. With despair Willy shut the door and turned to retrieve his ego in the wine, when he noticed a red folder on the floor. Of course, his suspicions were confirmed when he recognised it as the identity card used by the Scotsman to get into the bank after hours. This was the very card he had so often seen him present to the clerk who checked him at the side entrance to the bank. Fate, thought Willy; perhaps the Gods are with me, at last.
It was a new Willy Steinbeck who closed shop and retired with his empty wine bottle to the cellar, gaining hope and confidence with every beat of the ancient grandfather clock, whose presence segregated the silence with monotonous reliability.
Perched above it hung a decrepit shotgun; an antique device which had been de-commissioned and this was to play a decisive part in Willy’s plans as he sat in front of the fire drifting in and out of sleep. Escape and reality, he thought. If you got enough of one it equalled the other.
It was at ten minutes past three the following Thursday when Willy complete with briefcase, presented himself to the bespectacled clerk opening the bank door grill. Thrusting the authorization card in his face, Willy waited thankful that as yet he had had no need to speak. He knew the time lock for the vault would be open as it always was at closing time. As the clerk walked to the vault door to open it, Willy showed him the gun and prodded him inside.
Willy had pulled his scarf round his face, by now and prodded the clerk with the barrel, as he thought he was about to tackle him. Unfortunately the clerk bumped his head on the side of the heavy metal door and crumpled to the floor.
A babble of voices arose, and their owners quickly appeared, only to freeze at the sight of Willy with the clerk’s keys in one hand and the shotgun in the other.
Nobody moved as he stuffed all he could into the briefcase and rejoiced that so far there had been no need to speak, as he feared his accent would narrow down the inevitable list of suspects. Still not a word. It was as if a play was in progress and he had already rehearsed it.
It took Willy less than ten seconds to fill the briefcase, and he was out of the bank in another ten. He slammed the door and walked swiftly across the busy street in the direction of his shop when the alarm bell rang. Fighting back an impulse to run he soon rounded the corner and ran down the steps to the safety of his shop.
Through the Venetian blinds he saw a crowd gather outside the bank, and sweated profusely as a police car drew up on the scene. But he had expected this. He had expected everything, and nothing had gone wrong. He was safe. He had not spoken. No hero had thrown anything at him. He had not harmed anyone; except the clerk: but that was his own fault, and nothing serious.
But he hadn’t even counted the money yet, and now babbled drunkenly at the crisp fivers he watched the briefcase burn and crackle in the dim light, where he had thrown it into the furnace. It was after midnight by the time he recovered enough to remember the shotgun. Evidence, he thought, better destroy it. Pity, had it quite a few years, he thought, and remembered when he had lived in the country and gone duck shooting at weekends. Happier days, he thought. Never mind, plenty more to come. Who says money can’t buy happiness?
He decided against throwing away the shotgun. Someone might find it and connect it with the robbery. They drag rivers to find murder weapons these days. But why worry, he hadn’t murdered anyone. He finally decided to bury it in the floor of the cellar. He was exhausted when he’d finished and had just enough energy left to crawl into bed. Thank God I don’t have to get up for work in the morning, he thought, I needn’t ever work again. Just over ninety thousand pounds. I can lie in every time I like.
Still, to be on the safe side, better stick to routine. Open the shop as usual, just to be completely safe, for they’re bound to question people in the area.
Next morning he rose early to unlock his shop door. While fumbling with the bottom bolt, his eye caught the morning paper and he read in horror, ‘Bank clerk murdered in robbery’ He tore open the paper to find the clerk had died of a cerebral haemorrhage. I didn’t push him that hard, thought Willy. At least it certainly didn’t seem hard. He read on to find that Sergeant Steve Donahue would be moving in from the Yard to take over investigations. Donahue had a formidable record in solving cases of homicide and fraud, and to the general public personified their image of a good cop.
Willy decided to persevere with his duties for the day, despite this recent setback, and was rewarded with the view of endless police cars arriving and departing while relays of anonymous people scuttled in and out of the bank.
In the afternoon he decided he would close early and go uptown to collect some travel brochures. He got home late armed with a complete array of world cruise folders and guides. He laid them on the mantelpiece while he had dinner and thought how they would pass the time away while the excitement died down. Until then I must play it very cool and normal, even to the point of depositing my till-money on Fridays. That would mean having to face Manchester, the chief clerk, and even the Manager. What if they recognise me, he thought. Impossible, nobody got a close look, and what with my scarf, sunglasses and hat, my own mother wouldn’t have known me.
The days passed quicker than he expected and Friday came round with its usual routine. At midday Willy went to the bank with his deposit. He signed the receipt, remarked about the raid, and offered his condolences.
Just as he was leaving, he spotted the Manager. Willy’s heart leapt as he saw recognition enter the man’s eyes, but he simply bid him good-day and walked on. Outside in the fresh air, Willy breathed deeply and offered a silent prayer. The man hadn’t recognised him. He was completely in the clear. On his way home he wondered about the Manager’s claim that one hundred and fifty thousand had been stolen, while Wily himself had only counted ninety.
It was after six that evening when he heard the door bell and answered it only to find Sergeant Donahue standing in the doorway. “Just a few enquiries, sir” he said. “I see your shop front offers a good view of the bank. Did you notice anything unusual last week?” Willy, getting over the initial shock, invited him in while Donahue continued. “ I know you’re a customer of the bank. For I remember seeing you there today.” He continued speaking while Willy offered him a cup of tea. It was as he was drinking it that he noticed the travel folders. They appeared crisp and shiny. “Going away, sir?” He asked innocently. “ No, can’t afford to,” said Willy, I always keep them there, to remind me of my travels in the war.”
What’s he lying for, thought Donahue; they’re new, there’s no dust on them and this basement is a very dusty place.
It was while looking for dust that he noticed a vague outline on the wall, and the more he looked the more convinced he became that it resembled a gun. My God, it must be him. No, crazy. Still, Stevie boy, you know some of these old guys. Desperate for a last fling in life. He must have sawn the barrel off in this room, thought Donahue. “ Got away with a hundred and fifty thousand,” he said to keep the conversation moving, while looking around for more evidence. He spotted some iron filings beside the table and on leaving put his teacup on the table.
“ Sorry,” he said, purposely dropping his cigarette on the floor beside the filings. He bent down to pick it up and managed to catch a filing in his thumbnail. “Do hope I haven’t troubled you, sir, and thanks again for your help”, he said on leaving. “ No trouble at all, goodnight” said Willy, and returned to relax and read his folders.
But Donahue was back inside an hour. The filing had been sent to the forensic science laboratory and had matched the grains of metal on the clerk’s jacket where Willy had prodded him with the gun.
It was early morning before they found the gun which was buried in beneath the floorboards and the money hidden behind the gas fire. Donahue sent for the wagon, which arrived about 8 o’clock. As they bundled Willy into the back, the local bank Manager was opening the bank. I must get some travel folders, he thought to himself, while watching the police drive Willy away. That extra sixty thousand is going to be very useful. Very useful indeed.
Radical Rooney ©