The Big Caper | Page 4

and leaned against the door of the tan sedan. There
was a large red spotlight on the top of the car, a tall, sturdy radio
antenna at the rear, and a chromed siren mounted on the right front
fender. Otherwise it was a stock Ford, except for the racks behind the
front seat that held the automatic rifle and the tear-gas bombs.
Sergeant Waldo Harrington yawned and stretched. He was alone in the
patrol car.
"Goin' be hot," he said.
Frank nodded.
"I'm gettin' off at noon," the Sergeant said. "Thought we might go over
to the beach and do a little surf castin'. Hear they're gettin' a few blues."
Frank shook his head. "Like to, fella," he said, "but I can't make it
today. My uncle just got in from the North and I have to run out and get
him settled."
Harrington stepped on the starter. "Too bad," he said. "Well, some
other time." He pulled out of the station, still yawning.
Frank got into the Chevvie. He drove two blocks north and then turned
west on Orange Drive. He crossed over the Florida East Coast tracks,
continued on another couple of blocks, and found a parking space a few
yards from the entrance to the Ranchers and Fruit Growers Trust

Company. He cut the engine and climbed out of the car, at the same
time reaching into his pocket for some change. He stopped in front of
the car and put a couple of pennies into the parking meter. Then he
crossed the sidewalk and entered the bank.
The Ranchers and Fruit Growers Trust was the only four-story structure
in the town. It stood, an imposing monument to the prosperity of Indio
Beach, at the intersection of Orange Drive and Seminole Avenue, in the
very heart of the business section. Capitalized at $12,000,000, and a
member of the Federal Reserve System, it was as strong as the Rock of
Gibraltar. Its reputation and its soundness were beyond question.
On this Tuesday morning, a few minutes after nine, the pseudo-marble
lobby, recently redecorated and air-conditioned, was crowded. There
was a preponderance of tanned, dungareed ranchers from the Glades,
wearing wide-brimmed Western hats. There were half a dozen men
whom Frank recognized as orange and grapefruit growers from the
eastern end of the county, a few housewives, and perhaps half a dozen
sunburned, sport-shirted men with well-developed paunches whom he
immediately placed as visitors from the North.
Hal Morgan, the bank's vice-president, was sitting at his desk in the
enclosure just beyond the entrance and was talking to a tall, gaunt
woman who stared at him with glazed and skeptical eyes. Hal looked
up and smiled as Frank passed. Frank nodded and waved.
Frank went to the row of high desks in the center of the lobby and,
taking a wallet from his rear right pocket, extracted three checks. He
endorsed them on the back and then made out a deposit slip. They were
small checks, one for three dollars and fifty cents, one for ten dollars,
and one for twelve dollars and thirty cents.
He passed the half-dozen tellers' windows until he came to the last
window on the north side of the room. The gold lettering on the sign
said, "Miss Simpson."
Miss Simpson was the chief teller. Forty-six years old, thin to the point
of emaciation, with a leathery, bony face hiding behind gold-rimmed

glasses, Miss Simpson was an exceptionally competent person.
But for the accident of the Second World War, Mary Lou Simpson
would probably never have been anything but a stenographer, or
possibly a saleslady. But the war came along and the Ranchers and
Fruit Growers Trust, like banks all over the country, suddenly became
aware of an acute manpower shortage.
Miss Simpson had been hired and from the very first had proved to
have an amazing adeptness for the work. Now, after a dozen years, she
was an institution within an institution, and there was even talk of
putting her on the board of directors someday.
It was only the second time that Frank had approached her window, but
she remembered him at once. She greeted him with a thin but friendly
smile.
"Mr. Harper," she said. "Nice to see you."
Frank smiled back and pushed the checks and the deposit slip under the
grille. He was through in less than a minute and a half and turned to
leave the bank.
For three months now, since the first week he had leased the run-down
gas station, he had been making it a practice to stop by at the bank at
least two or three times each week. He chose a different day of the
week each time, a different hour of the day, a different teller's window.
By now he knew the routine of