The Vault

III Mike’s whole body was bathed in sweat at the thought of himself thrown inside the vault with armor-plated doors inexorably shutting out every atom of fresh air.

There were no lights anywhere, except that dim one by the gate through the stockade.

Oil–that would be the delicate lathes where precious metals were worked.

...on rubber gloves, but, rather curiously, they’ll leave your fingerprints on the safe knob. You see, I’ve done this twice before. Once I got away with a lot of bullion and a few indifferent stones. That was a year and more ago and everyone’s grown careless since then. I managed to plant it so the watchman was suspected. He’s...

Through an arduous and twice interrupted apprenticeship in his chosen trade–interruptions spent perforce behind stone walls–Mike had had drilled into him just two things.

“Got your fingerprints some time ago, Jack, when you knew nothing about it. I brought ’em out, photographed them, and contrived to fix them on the ends of these rubber gloves.

Mike, struggling to massage his leg into some semblance of life and to make no noise in doing so, heard the infinitely faint sound of the bound man struggling upon the floor.

In the fractional part of a split second he knew what had struck him, and he bounced into the air to alight noiselessly a full five feet away, ready for anything.

Hunched upon the floor of the smelly little book-closet, he shivered in uncontrollable terror from sheer horror at what he had escaped.

Mike was listening with a curious mixture of fear and indignation and curiosity.

There was some message, some terrible message, that he struggled to convey, but the gag prevented him.

“But in case you’re thinking that I might set off the trap, Jack, I’d like to mention that after I had you neatly trussed up, I pulled out the switch. It’s in that little closet back there. I shall turn it on after I’ve got the stuff out–and then the doors will close on you. But first I’ll tap you on the head, and put you inside.”

The other was the necessity for scientific, painstaking attention to detail.

Cold to the marrow, dry-lipped with fear, his little eyes staring, Mike started to raise himself to his feet as he heard the other man enter the vault.

Through an arduous and twice interrupted apprenticeship in his chosen trade–interruptions spent perforce behind stone walls–Mike had had drilled into him just two things.

Mike did not desire the intrusion of the police, but he wanted a nearby niche to hide in.

He vanished, utterly without sound.

Evidently the other man had arranged it for his own ingress.

And in an instant or two more he would inevitably be fighting.

He, himself, had a microphone apparatus in his pocket, which he had intended to use.

I’ve no notion of your writing an accusation of me while you’re in there; also I don’t want to kill you before you go in there.

Once within the walls of the factory he waited another long minute for a noise.

His eyes blinked and stared imploringly at Mike.

The bound man was struggling to release himself, struggling with a terrible desperation and a horrifying futility.

The man seemed to be gloating a little over the agony of his prospective victim.