Gainer checked a notation on a pad he carried. "I suppose you've heard
that the man who lived here--Max Hawkes--was killed in an attempted
robbery this morning."
"Y-yes, sir. I heard it a little while ago, on the newscasts. I'm still
a little shaken up. W-would you care for a drink, Inspector?"
"Not on duty, thanks," Gainer said cheerfully. "Tell me, Alan--how long
did you know Max Hawkes?"
"Since last May. I'm an ex-starman. I--jumped ship. Max found me
wandering around the city and took me in. But I never knew anything
about any robberies, Inspector. Max kept his mouth pretty well sealed
most of the time. When he left here this morning, he said he was going
to the bank to make a deposit. I never thought----"
He stopped, wondering whether he sounded convincing. At that moment a
long jail sentence or worse seemed inevitable. And the worst part of it
was that he had not wanted to take part in the robbery, indeed _had_ not
taken part--but in the eyes of the law he was undoubtedly as guilty as
any of the others.
Gainer raised one hand. "Don't misunderstand, son. I'm not here as a
criminal investigator. We don't suspect you had any part in the
attempt."
"Then why----"
He drew an envelope from his breast pocket and unfolded the papers it
contained. "I knew Max pretty well," he said. "About a week ago he came
to see me and gave me a sealed envelope which was to be opened only in
the event of his death on this particular day, and to be destroyed
unopened otherwise. I opened it a few hours ago. I think you ought to
read it."
With trembling fingers Alan took the sheaf of papers and scanned them.
They were neatly typed; Alan recognized the blocky purple characters of
the voicewrite Hawkes kept in his room.
He started to read.
The document explained that Hawkes was planning a bank robbery to take
place on Friday, October 3, 3876. He named none of his accomplices. He
went on to state that one Alan Donnell, an unregistered ex-starman, was
living with him, and that this Alan Donnell had no knowledge whatsoever
of the intended bank robbery.
_Furthermore_, Hawkes added, _in the event of my death in the intended
robbery, Alan Donnell is to be sole heir and assign of my worldly goods.
This supersedes and replaces any and all wills and testaments I may have
made at any past time._
Appended was a schedule of the properties Hawkes was leaving behind.
Accounts in various savings banks totalled some three quarters of a
million credits; besides that, there were scattered investments, real
estate holdings, bonds. The total estate, Hawkes estimated, was worth
slightly over one million credits.
When Alan finished, he looked up startled and white-faced at the older
man. "All of this is mine?"
"You're a pretty rich young man," Gainer agreed. "Of course, there are
formalities--the will has to be probated and contested, and you can
expect it to be contested by somebody. If you still have the full estate
when the courts get through with you, you'll be all right."
Alan shook his head uncomprehendingly. "The way he wrote this--it's as
if he _knew_."
"Max Hawkes always knew," Gainer said gently. "He was the best hunch-man
I've ever seen. It was almost as if he could look a couple of days into
the future all the time. Sure, he knew. And he also knew it was safe to
leave this document with me--that he could trust me not to open it.
Imagine, announcing a week ahead of time that you're going to rob a bank
and then turning the announcement over sealed to a police officer!"
Alan started. The police had known about the robbery in advance--that
was how Max and the dreamduster Byng had been killed. Had Gainer been
the one who had betrayed them? Had he opened the sealed envelope ahead
of time, and sent Max to his death?
No. It was inconceivable that this soft-spoken man would have done such
a thing. Alan banished the thought.
"Max knew he was going to be killed," he said. "And yet he went ahead
with it. Why?"
"Maybe he wanted to die," Gainer suggested. "Maybe he was bored with
life, bored with always winning, bored with things as they were. The man
was never born who could figure out Max Hawkes, anyway. You must have
found that out yourself."
Gainer rose. "I'll have to be moving along, now. But let me give you
some suggestions, first."
"Sir?"
"Go downtown and get yourself registered in Free Status. Have them give
you a televector number. You're going to be an important person when you
get all that money. And be very careful about who your friends are. Max
could take care of himself; you may not be so lucky, son."
"Is there going to be an investigation of the robbery?" Alan asked.
"It's under way already. You may be called down for questioning, but
don't let it worry you. I turned a copy of Max's will over to them
today, and that exonerates you completely."
It was strangely empty in the apartment that night; Alan wished Gainer
had stayed longer. He walked through the dark rooms, half expecting Max
to come home. But Max wasn't coming home.
Alan realized he had been tremendously fond of Hawkes. He had never
really shown it; he had never demonstrated much warmth toward the
gambler, especially in the final days when they both lived under the
pressure of the planned robbery. But Alan knew he owed much to Hawkes,
rogue and rascal though he was. Hawkes had been basically a good man,
gifted--_too_ gifted, perhaps--whose drives and passions led him beyond
the bounds of society. And at thirty-five he was dead, having known in
advance that his last day was at hand.
The next few days were busy ones. Alan was called to Security
headquarters for questioning, but he insisted he knew nothing about the
robbery or Hawkes' friends, and the document Hawkes had left seemed to
bear him out. He was cleared of all complicity in the robbery.
He next went to the Central Directory Matrix and registered in Free
Status. He was given a televector transmitter--it was surgically
embedded in the fleshy part of his thigh--and he accepted a drink from
fat old Hines MacIntosh in remembrance of Hawkes.
He spoke briefly with MacIntosh about the process of collecting on
Hawkes' estate, and learned it was a complex process, but nothing to be
frightened of. The will was being sent through channels now.
He met Hollis in the street several days later. The bloated loansman
looked pale and harried; he had lost weight, and his skin hung flabbily
over his bones now. Little as Alan liked the loansman, he insisted on
taking him to a local restaurant for lunch.
"How come you're still hanging around York City?" Alan asked. "I thought
the heat was on for any of Max's old buddies."
"It is," Hollis said, wiping sweat from his white shiny forehead. "But
so far I'm in the clear. There won't be much of an investigation; they
killed two and caught two, and that'll keep them happy. After all, the
robbery was a failure."
"Any notion why it failed?"