Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

I went back to studying the floor. We rode in silence until we reached Race Street, and there we got out.

Shoppers bustled on the sidewalk, carrying bags and boxes, hurrying on holiday errands. Street vendors hawked caps and scarves and bric-a-brac. Brakes squealed and horns blared from the street. A bus rumbled past, spewing exhaust and carbon dioxide.

I felt a crawling sensation all over. Nervous jitters, just nervous jitters. Too many people and too much noise.

“Are you all right?” Bob asked.

I blinked rapidly, trying to stay focused. “I feel overwhelmed—”

“Come on.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me forward. With his help, I managed to cross the street, and we headed toward Vine. I kept my gaze fixed on the sidewalk.

“Clear the way!” Bob bellowed. “Sick man coming through!”

To my surprise, people actually moved for him — shoppers, businessmen, kids, even a pair of nuns — and we made rapid progress. Finally we passed through the double doors and into the sanctuary of the Free Library. A soothing silence washed over me. Better, better, so much better here. I closed my eyes, just breathing, and felt muscles starting to uncoil.

Bob said softly, “If you need to go home—”

“I’ll be fine. The outside world is... difficult sometimes. I shouldn’t go into crowds on holidays.” I swallowed. “I’m feeling better now. Really.”

The card catalog of my youth had been replaced by computer terminals. I eased into a hard wooden chair, stretched my legs out as far as I could, and began my search for books on New York City banks.

Bob, with the occasional bored yawn, kept watch over my shoulder. I began jotting down titles and Dewey Decimal System numbers. When I had ten books selected, Bob took the list.

“I’ll find them,” he said.

Within twenty minutes, he returned with eight of the ten volumes. Not a bad average — he made a fair research assistant.

The Manhattan Federal Trust sounded like a good choice. After suffering a series of financial losses in the late 1960’s, it merged with Third Continental Loan, forming the Manhattan Third Federal Loan and Trust. It suffered a huge loss in 1973 when one of its armored cars had been hijacked. A half dozen name changes, mergers, and acquisitions later, I lost the trail in a 1991 savings and loan collapse. There didn’t seem to be a surviving corporate entity.

I sat back. Yes, it would do nicely.

“Why do you care about this particular bank?” Bob asked suddenly.

“My father did some work there a long time ago,” I said. “Can you find microfilm of back issues of the New York Times? I need to see July, 1973.”

“The whole month?”

“Yes. And maybe part of August.”

“You’re the boss.” Shrugging, he went to find a librarian.

Meanwhile, I returned to the computerized card catalog and began looking up volumes on the U.S. legal system — choosing more for titles than content. I had no intention of reading them if I could avoid it.

“You’re in luck,” Bob announced when he finally returned. “They have the New York Times going back over a hundred years on microfiche. A lady is setting up the viewer now. They have a private room you can use, too.”

“Excellent!” I beamed, as I handed over my new list. “When I’m done, I’ll need these books. Can you find them?”

“Sure.”

When he glanced at the titles, his eyes widened. Volumes like Circumventing the American Tax System, Overseas Tax Havens, and Criminal Statutes of Limitations: A State by State Guide must have caught him by surprise.

“What are you planning?” he asked.

“Bodyguards aren’t supposed to ask questions,” I said with a wink. “I’m doing some research.”

“If this is illegal, I want to know. I might be held responsible as an accomplice.”

I laughed. “Since when is research a criminal act? I’m thinking of writing a book.”

He frowned, clearly unsatisfied. But I offered no more explanations.

“Where do I go for the Times?” I asked.

“Over here.” Turning, he led the way to a small room at the back of the library. An elderly woman had a machine set up for me, and while Bob went off to find my legal books, I began to skim newspaper headlines. Minutes ticked by. My bodyguard returned with a stack of hardbacks, then settled into the chair next to mine.

Finally I found what I wanted: an article dated July 19, 1973. Five men made off with an estimated half million dollars in cash by hijacking an armored truck on the Brooklyn Bridge in broad daylight. It had been a daring robbery, ably executed.

“Way to go, Dad!” I muttered just loud enough for Bob to hear. Never mind that I hadn’t been born yet when the robbery took place — thanks to my accident, I looked thirty years older than my actual age.

I printed out the article, folded it up, and stuck it in my shirt pocket. Bait. The library charged thirty cents for the printout, and I paid the lady happily.

“That’s all I needed from the Times,” I said as I limped out of the room. I found an empty reading table and pretended to study tax evasion and statutes of limitations for the next half hour. The volumes seemed interminable.