“Not the exact program, perhaps, but near enough,” Starr commented.
With equal ease Bixby laid the disks carefully on the flange of the sill of the vault. Then he took the cloth from the desk, went to the vault, stooped and thumped his head up against the projecting lever. He went into the vault and carefully pulled the door shut after him, both hands on the main bolt.
Starr was silent for some moments, exchanging looks with the cashier.
“Any comments?” inquired the manager of the show.
“None, sir.”
“I'll simply say that the chloroform cloth can be put to the nose as occasion calls for. Bixby isn't doing that. I told Bixby that for the purposes of demonstration he might count one hundred slow and then figure that he had used up the oxygen in the vault, and then, if nobody came to open the door, he could—well, he isn't in there to commit suicide, but only to create an impression. I ask again—any comments?”
Vaniman shook his head.
Then the door swung open. Bixby was on his back, his heels in the air. He had pushed the door with his feet, his shoulders against the inner door. He rose and came out. Starr cut the tape with the office shears.
“That's all!” said the manager.
Bixby, not troubling about the torn office jacket, put on his overcoat and departed.