The desk sergeant slammed the briefcase down on the desk and glowered at the trio before him. "What kind of a rib is this? You jerks think I got nothing more to do than sit here and let you bounce your gags off me? Besides this isn't even a gag. It's got no point. Let's have the snapper, I'm listening."
The elder cop turned pale with amazement. The younger one, obviously of different metabolism, had turned beet red. After a thick pause they found their voices simultaneously.
"I'll swear on the Bible that there was money in that damn briefcase when we first looked into it...."
Paul passed up the bus, preferring to walk the ten blocks to his apartment. He needed the air and the sense of freedom was glorious. Thank heaven his mind had come unstuck that last moment and now the sheaf of money was back where it belonged—in the satchel of the armored car guard. Humbled, completely chastened and not a little scared, Paul hoped he had caused no one any inconvenience.
And strong indeed were his resolutions: no more mental transference. In fact no more martinis. From now on he would get his money the hard way. In the end that would turn out to be by far the easiest.
THE END