Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

The younger man came in, drying his face with a hotel towel. “All set and ready to get going,” he said.

“There’s your artillery,” Hooper told him, strapping his own shoulder holster in place. “Are you sure everything’s set in the cabin?”

“I told you, Sam, it’s all ready. I made a final check last week. There’s five hundred bucks worth of food laid in; a six-hundred gallon tank of fuel oil; a radio, four decks of cards, about a thousand magazines I got secondhand in the city; and we got checkers, dominos, parchesi — everything but a broad, an’ I could have arranged that, too, if you’d let me.”

“Sure, sure,” said Hooper, “that’s all we’d need. We’ll be at each other’s throats soon enough without having a dame to fight over. You don’t know how it is being cooped up with the same guy day after day.”

Madigan smiled. “We’ll make it, Sam. I know we will. And when it’s all over we’ll have—”

“I know, I know,” Hooper interrupted, “we’ll have money to burn. Come on, let’s get going or spring’ll be here before we even get started.”

Madigan got into his holster and rolled the shotgun up in newspaper. They both put on heavy Mackinaws, fur caps and rubber overshoes. Then they got their luggage and went downstairs to check out.

The bank opened at ten. Five minutes later Hooper and Madigan pulled up outside and parked. They were driving a four-year-old coupe with heavy-duty snow chains on the rear tires. Getting out, they ducked their heads against the windblown snow and crossed the sidewalk to the bank entrance.

There were six people inside; three tellers, the manager, his secretary and one customer. Madigan remained just inside the door, folding the paper back from the barrel of the shotgun so they could all see, what it was.

“Don’t anybody move!” Hooper ordered, leveling his .38. “This is a holdup!” His gaze swept across the three men in the teller cages. “If an alarm goes off, so does that shotgun, understand? Everybody just stand or sit right where you are and look down at the floor!”

When they were all very still, with Madigan moving the shotgun slowly back and forth in an arc that covered the whole room, Hooper slipped the .38 into his pocket and from under his coat drew out a large canvas bag which he quickly unfolded. He hurried behind the railing and methodically emptied the tellers’ cages of all currency. Then he stepped over to the bank manager’s desk and pulled the man to his feet roughly. “Get that vault open!” he ordered coldly.

The big thick outer door of the vault was already standing open. The manager fumbled with a ring of keys to open the barred inner door. When he finally got it unlocked, Hooper pushed him inside and made him sit in a corner while he systematically looted the bank’s reserve safe. Looks pretty good, he thought, as he stuffed the sack with bundles of tens and twenties and a few stacks of fifties and hundreds.

Finished, he stepped back out and snapped, “All right, everybody into the vault! Come on, move!” He glanced at the big clock on the wall as the other five people filed into the vault. They had been in the bank about seven or eight minutes, Pretty good time, he thought.

Hooper slammed the barred door and locked everyone in the vault. “Take a look,” he said to Madigan, hurrying toward the front door. Madigan peered out at the street; he saw nothing but swirling snow. “Looks okay,” he told Hooper.

“All right, let’s go!”

Madigan folded the newspaper back over the shotgun barrel, tucked it under his arm and opened the front door. Hooper stepped past him out of the bank and went directly to the car; Madigan followed him, closing the door gently behind him.

In the car, Madigan tossed the shotgun on the rear seat and started the motor. Hooper kept the sack of money between his knees, his revolver ready on top of it. The windshield wipers threw the loose snow away, giving them each a picture of the street up ahead. It was nearly deserted. Madigan guided the car slowly away from the curb and down the street.

Five minutes later they were out of town and approaching the curve where the highway began its winding descent to the lowlands.

“How’s it look?” Madigan asked excitedly, nodding toward the sack of money.

“Pretty good, I think,” said Hooper. “Looked like maybe fifty or sixty grand.”

Madigan grinned and went back to concentrating on the road. Where the highway curved downward, they turned off into a gravel road almost hidden by the snow. Their chains crunched noisily and caught and the car lumbered up a slight incline. As they gradually moved upward from the highway, Hooper looked back and saw fresh snow already beginning to fill their tracks.