Rumsey said, "I don't have to hear about other guys' scores, not even little ones."

"The point I'm making here," Algy said, "is twenty minutes ago. The plainclothes detectives didn't get there yet. You know, the victim interviews."

Rumsey's head and eyes and spirits lifted. "Everybody's rattled," he said. "They've shut the bank, but they're still there."

Stan said, "The security tape's been taken away for evidence."

Algy whipped a hand into and out of his trouser pocket, flashed at them a gold badge in a brown leather case, pocketed it again, said, "I always carry a little ID. You never know."

Big said, "Algy? What if a cop frisks you one time, takes a look at that?"

Algy grinned at him. "It says, 'Love Detective, Licensed To Kiss."'

Rumsey segued into a look that was very caring, very concerned, very earnest. In a voice like a funeral director, he said, "Mr. Manager, are you certain those felons didn't gain access to your vault? We'd better check that out."

Big laughed. "Nice to run into you fellas," he said.

Ten minutes after the apartment was empty, the dog finally started howling, but there was nobody around to listen.

When the vault door was at last reopened at three-thirty that afternoon to release the imprisoned bank employees, one of them, Rufold Hepple, had to be carried out by five fellow tellers, one at each limb and one at his head. (Fortunately, he was a skinny little fellow and didn't weigh much.) "I'll be all right," he kept telling everybody who looked down at him. "Just as soon as I get home, I'll be fine."

There were white-clad ambulance attendants in among the blue police officers and black-and-yellow firefighters, and they kept asking him, as he lay supine on the faux marble floor, head

cushioned by several empty money sacks, if he didn't want to go to the hospital, be looked at, checked over; but his fears of (a) hospitals, (b) doctors, and (c) people dressed completely in white, kept him saying over and over, "No, I'll be fine, I'll be fine. Get my strength back in a minute. I'll be fine as soon as I get home."

The nearly four hours in the pitch-black vault had been the worst experience of Rufold Hepple's life, calling into play simultaneously so many of his deep-seated fears, it was as though he’d been strapped into one of those machines for mixing paint. There was his fear of darkness, for instance, and his fear of crowds, his fear of unusual smells (several of his coworkers, when confined for a long time in a small, dark space, had turned out to have very unusual smells indeed), his fear of small, confined spaces, (It was his fear of long words derived from the Greek that kept him from even thinking the proper medical terms for all these fears.)

Lying there on the floor, with only his fear of being noticed by other people still actively searing him, Rufold Hcpple continued to give himself, as he had in the vault, the courage to survive this ordeal, by thinking only of his own little home, so near, so soon to protect him again. It was the great paradox of his life that only the comfort and security of his very own little apartment gave him the strength necessary to leave it every day, for his job here at the bank, or to shop, or to make his twice weekly visits to Dr. Bananen, just around the corner.

In just a few minutes now, he would be ready. He would stand, smile, show them all nothing, leave the bank, march the three blocks home and up the stairs and through the many locks, to be greeted by his only friend, his dear dog Sigmund. In just a few minutes. Just a few minutes, and he would be safe and sound.