Coffin for Mr Cash

And now another tale well calculated to keep you in. The Target, a solidly built two-story brick building on the edge of the industrial section of the city. The obstacle? Three locked iron doors and twelve armed guards.

The prize? Three million dollars in cash. The problem? and penetrate past the three locked doors of the armed guards and emerge safely with the money. The answer? Job? Night's superintendent of the Lakeside Municipal Crenatorium.

Time midnight about a year ago with the thunderstorm fallen up into the sky. I was reading the Western and my little office by the front door. My job was nice quiet when the hardly ever had any customers at night.

My entire staff, Danny Maxwell, was mopping the reception room. When I had the door open and someone come in, then the daddy of all Thunderbolts lifted me out of my chair. Whoever had come in spoke to Danny.

Hey, did you see that flash? Right enough to be judgment day. I guess it was judgment day, all right. For some people that is, did you know two people died just since you come in the door?

They did, huh? Died where? Where? Supplies in this country. Now one more has died. It makes three. Now it's four. That's the mortality rate for this country for a minute. For this city it's one every 30 minutes.

Two an hour. Forty-eight every day. And you'll be one of them if you keep up this line of chatter. I want to see your boss. Get him out here. Was Al Thomas his voice and of all the people in the world I didn't want to see.

Al was all of them. What I got outside fast. Ow! How Thomas! Well, long time no see. Hey, pity boy, you're looking good. Real good. Excuse me, Mr. Peeffe, this gentleman. He's an old friend of mine, Danny.