Frank recovered quickly enough, forcing himself to regain control, then maintain his composure, but the harm was done. He was completely demoralized now, and when he saw his face in the mirror over the sink he was shocked to see how haggard and bleary-eyed he appeared. His face had lost colour and appeared waxen as a result. He felt cold as well, so that when he passed the hall closet he took out a heavy sweater which he put on. Even so he felt as though he were about to shiver and he kept his teeth clenched to prevent the tremors that threatened to convulse him.

"Are you cold, Frank?" the older, fat cop looked directly at him as he waited for an answer, in his eyes an unmistakeable knowing expression.

"A little," Frank replied, attempting to appear calm now, his knotted fists driven down into the bottoms of his pockets to control the trembling.

Frank was staring without full comprehension at Diane who was seated in her usual spot, facing the t.v. Piled in front of her were the packages of money, still neatly bound in the bank wrappers, that had been removed from his trunk during the night. She was attired in a blue housedress, and had made her face up some, put on lipstick at least.

That puzzled Frank. "She must have been expecting someone, … the police obviously." Then it struck him. He had been afraid the police might have been watching him all along, waiting for him to go to the stash and retrieve the loot. Not so! He could see now as clearly as that pile of money, how much these police officers knew. Diane had been snooping around last night some time, and had simply found that money, and she had called the police this morning. She felt his eyes on her and returned a defiant stare.

"Damn right," he thought, "and these cops are simply wondering where this money came from." Calm now, he asked "I beg your pardon?" suddenly aware the older man was addressing him.

"I said, could you please explain to us how you came to have all this money in your trunk."

Frank looked directly into his eyes and replied evenly. "I found it."

"You found it."

"Yeah."

"Frank, … you work as a messenger for a guard service, you have over a hundred thousand dollars in your trunk, all tied up in bank bundles, and you expect us to believe you found it. Where? At work?"

"No. Those aren't even our wrappers. I don't know whose they are. I found that money last night, and I can show you where too."

"So where?" the younger policeman demanded, his expression clearly hostile.

"Out where I hike on my day off. It was jammed into a hollow log. I spotted it last week, but I only found out it was a box of money yesterday when I sawed it out."

"So that's where the sawdust came front!" Diane exclaimed loudly, proud of her powers of deduction. "You lied. You said you were cutting up a tree at Tom McDermott's."

Frank snarled at her, "Why don't you shut your big mouth? Just shut the fuck up."

"All right Frank, that's enough," the older man admonished quietly. "Would you take us there and show us where you got it? You see, we can't let you keep it until we find out whether or not it's stolen, and that will require a full investigation."

The younger cop snorted disdainfully, but said nothing.

"Sure, I'll help you out any way I can," Frank volunteered. He dropped into a stuffed armchair, hoping to appear relaxed and confident. He was beginning to feel better now, this older guy seemed reasonable enough, and they couldn't really tie him to the robbery, even though they might suspect him strongly. Really the worst of it was the money was lost … his plans shattered … and Tom and Leila's shares gone too, because he had been too impatient to wait. The indescribable stupidity of it!

There was at this point a quick knock on the kitchen door, and it opened. Frank didn't get up, assuming it to be more police, but he was surprised to see George Wells enter the room.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Frank demanded. "There's no need for him to involve himself in this."

Wells looked him over and said nothing. He turned his attention instead to the two policemen.

"I'm detective-sergeant Ford," said the older one, "and this is detective Saunders. You did the right thing in calling us right away."

"Well, we weren't short any funds that I knew about, but there's obviously something wrong." He looked at the pile of money. "That's not ours," he said, puzzled.

"I just told them that much" Frank added sarcastically, "and now, since you won't be of any further assistance here, you can leave." Frank began to pull himself out of the depths of the chair.

"You leave him alone," Diane flared at him, "I called him, and I asked him to come here. Lucky for me he called the police. Heaven knows what you might have done to me if you had caught me here with all your precious stolen money. I've known you were up to something for quite a while now."

"How about we go now Frank? This is getting us nowhere. Jeff, you get an evidence kit from the car, we'll take this downtown too." he gestured toward the coffee table. "Can we have your car keys Frank? I'd like to have a book at that tool box if you don't mind. Maybe we'll take it along too .. It will be easier for us to talk downtown."

"I thought you wanted me to show you where I found the money," Frank reminded him, seeing now that despite his polite ways, Ford was taking him in for questioning.

"Oh sure, we'll get to that too, but I'm more interested right now in who this money really belongs to. I have a pretty good idea though."

"Where, where did he get it," Diane wanted to know. Everyone ignored her, including Frank, who went to the hall closet to get his coat. He couldn't find it right away, and then he realized that in his haste he had left it behind at Tom's. He selected a fall jacket and pulled it on over the heavy sweater, and hoped Diane wouldn't notice. No-one seemed to, so he suggested finally, "Okay, I'm ready."

During what seemed an interminable delay, Frank waited quietly while the evidence was counted and itemized according to packages and denominations. It was finally put into a large bag and sealed. The tool box was likewise prepared. Meanwhile Diane had been asked to make some coffee; Frank knew that was to get her out of the room.

"One hundred and thirty-two thousand bucks," Saunders sneered at Frank. "So much for best-laid plans, eh Wilson?"

"I didn't have it long enough to lay any plans," replied Frank with a pained expression, but the cop merely smiled smugly.

Ford went into the kitchen and made several telephone calls, and though Frank listened carefully, he could decipher nothing from the quiet murmuring of his voice into the instrument. At last he appeared ready, the two detectives picked up the bags of evidence and issued some parting instructions to Diane and George Wells. "Please don't touch the car. The lab boys will want to go over it. I've already called them but there may be some delay."

Diane nodded obediently. "Okay," she agreed.

Wells now took the opportunity to inform Frank that he was suspended without pay pending the outcome of the investigation. "You understand our position," he concluded.

Saunders sniggered meanly as Frank received the news in silence, and at this Frank lost the last of his despondency and fear. The bitter hopelessness of his present situation, just when he had thought himself delivered out of the frustration of eighteen years with Diane; what seemed to him the injustice of this utter fiasco, was transformed into an articulation of anger that surprised everyone.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you? You red-headed prick! You get off on people's misfortunes, needling them and bullying them when you see they're vulnerable and helpless. You've probably dreamed about being a cop since you were three!"

"I do when I'm dealing with wise-guys like you." He opened the rear door of the police car and Frank began to get in. When he had his shoulder and one leg in the car Saunders grasped his left shoulder roughly and thrust him so violently into the car that he was thrown across the seat. Then he kicked Frank's leg, not hard really, just a peremptory reminder to get it into the car before he slammed the door on it. Frank realized now that there were no handles on the insides of the doors. He was effectively locked in. Ford slammed the trunk lid and was getting into the passenger's seat as Saunders started the car.

"Now, Jeff, just settle down. Frank here is co-operating with us. There's no reason why we can't all get along. Where did you say you found this money, Frank?"

The two men listened carefully as Frank described the exact location, and then he went on to explain his usual Tuesday routine, and how he had spotted the blue box in the hollow log, realized it was meant to be carefully hidden, and returned last night with a saw to remove it. The car, meanwhile, was headed not westward, but downtown toward the police station.

Frank saw Ford watching him in the rear-view.

"We're going to drop you off downtown for a little while. Just while we check out your story and find out where this money came from." The two policemen now entered into a series of quiet comments to one another about subjects that had nothing to do with Frank, and so he rode for ten minutes in silence. The police car turned into an underground garage beneath the police headquarters. It was filled with cruisers and unmarked sedans like the one they were in, Frank noticed they all wore the same parking-lot dents along the centres of the doors. They rode by elevator to the top floor where they were met by the biggest man Frank had ever seen. He was the full height and size of a doorway, and weighed, by Frank's estimation, three-fifty at least. He sat heavily behind the counter, and by means of a series of gruff questions filled out a report that contained Frank's name and the names of the two officers, Ford and Saunders. Then he demanded that Frank remove his jacket, belt and bootlaces, and turn out the contents of his pockets. These were placed in a large brown envelope.

"The sweater too," added Ford as an afterthought, and the turn-key put out his beefy hand to receive it. It disappeared under the counter with the rest of his belongings. Frank's pants were loose enough that he now had to hitch them up from time to time as he preceded the turn-key down the hallway and through the solid door into the cell-block. They stopped at the second cell on the right, though why Frank couldn't figure out, for all the cells he could see into were empty. The heavy gate slammed shut behind him, he turned and watched the huge man twist the key to seal him in.

"There's no need for that," thought Frank, "I'm not going to run away," but the turn-key would have had no interest in the voluntary nature of his detention, and he left Frank alone in the cell-block. The light from a large naked blub in the corridor ceiling illuminated the concrete cubicle, the walls striped at crazy angles by the shadows thrown through the steel bars. There was a toilet in the corner, with a seat but no tank, and a button inset in the wall to activate the flush; a small sink on the wall operated by a similar device. The only other item in the tiny cell was a steel platform that served as a bed, attached to the wall and suspended from it by two chains. There was no mattress or pillow, simply a bare steel slab.

Frank sat down on it, but didn't rest there long, the steel was icy cold and he found it more comfortable to stand, or to pace the small floor area, as inevitably he began to do. He covered the distance from the barred doorway to the rear wall in three paces and reversed direction, spinning his weight on one foot and beginning the return trip in one movement. As he paced he worried his mind for an answer to his problem. He assayed one crazy solution after another, arriving always at the same conclusion: his position was quite hopeless. They had after all caught him with the stolen goods in his possession, and as Ford had pointed out, the fact that he was a bank guard made his story too coincidental to be true. After all, if he were only the accidental discoverer of the stolen money (which the owners would be happy to get back), what was he doing locked in a jail cell? Ford knew he stole that money all right, despite his affable demeanour, and Saunders was making no secret of his feelings. And yet he could never admit his complicity, for then he would have to name his accomplices. He would go to jail no doubt, but at least they wouldn't convict his friends on his testimony. He ran back over the robbery in his mind, seeking out any detail that might have been overlooked and serve as their undoing. There was nothing. Even if the police could trace every move they made that day there had been nothing left behind; no finger prints or articles of clothing; nothing they had forgotten could be traced. Frank was confident enough in his disguise to say definitely there were no witnesses who could identify him.

He slowed his travel down now to short steps, placing one foot directly before the other to achieve seven paces instead of three. To further slow his travel he stopped at the end of each cycle to check to his left through the wired-glass window of the corridor door to see if anyone were coming yet. He calculated that the detectives would be gone more than an hour. It would take at least that long to drive to the nature trail site, then find the hollow tree on foot, and return. If they went for lunch he could calculate an additional half-hour. He recalled what time the turnkey had filed his report: eleven-thirty-five. He had until twelve-thirty or one o'clock to perfect his story before they would begin to interrogate him, a process Frank began to worry might be quite unpleasant, and yet there was so little he could do to prepare himself. His story was so simple and could be told in so few words. What could they possibly use to break it down? It was really very tight, and so long as he stuck to it, no-one else would ever be implicated.

As he reached the front of the cell he saw the blue shirt covering the little window, and then heard the dull heavy click of the latch as the door swung open. He appeared, carrying before him the almost inert figure of a derelict who, though his eyes were open, appeared unconscious of his surroundings, his feet moving weightlessly as he tried to walk for himself, his weight being supported, without apparent effort, by one huge hand at the collar of his filthy suit coat. His face and hair had been neither shaved nor cleaned in a long time, and he had soiled himself sometime in the past few days. The two passed in front of Frank's cell and Frank watched as the policeman held up his charge effortlessly while turning the key in the cell door, at no time allowing any part of his prisoner to touch his uniform. He could no longer see what happened next, as the partition walls were of concrete, but soon the turnkey banged the heavy door shut.

"Officer. What time is it? " Frank enquired.

"Twelve-thirty," was the reply as he walked away without looking at Frank. The corridor door shut loudly once more.

Twelve-thirty! Frank would have thought it was much later. In fact, he had been expecting Ford and Saunders momentarily. He sat down now, determined to stay there until his body heat had warmed the metal enough to sit comfortably. The wino next door began to snore, and Frank became vaguely aware of an obnoxious smell coming from that direction.

He was accustomed to hours of isolation, but this was different. He was in such serious trouble, and desperately needed someone he could talk to. It was cold in the cell block, not freezing, but just cold enough to become uncomfortable during a long period of inactivity. Worse, he had no idea how long he could be left there. If he could be placed in a cell block and left for an hour and a half, why not six hours, or twelve? The facts, as he saw them, were becoming repetitive and pointless in his mind, and yet he couldn't seem to let it go. He willed himself to think of other things, but he couldn't. Loud snoring could be heard from the cell next door, over the roar of the air-handling fan in the ceiling, and it began to irritate him. Finally he struck on the idea of using the noise to keep his mind off his problem and keep track of the passage of time; twelve breaths to the minute. He pulled his knees up before him on the steel bunk, put his forehead against them, and wrapped his arms tightly around his legs. He began to count off the minutes, first counting to twelve, then later to multiples of ten, one hundred twenty breaths to a period of ten minutes. Next thing he knew he had lost all track of time, and had no idea how long it had been since he began. He heard the corridor open, and the turnkey appeared with a sandwich and a cup of coffee. These had been purchased from a vending machine somewhere in the building, for the sandwich was wrapped in cellophane and the coffee was in a paper cup, additives and stir-stick piled on top. They were passed through the bars to Frank who attempted to get up to receive them, but found his legs had gone to sleep and he was unable to stand. He enquired once more about the time. The guard didn't even consult his watch.

"One o'clock" was the cursory reply, and Frank was left alone again. The liquid in the cup tasted only faintly like coffee but it was hot and sweet and he found it soothing. He ate slowly and his thoughts returned once more to his predicament. He knew he was entitled to say nothing and could demand a lawyer, but what good would that do? His story was simply that he had found the money and had no idea where it had come from. Why would a person in such circumstances require a lawyer, and why would he keep his information from the police? Especially when they were being as open-minded as Ford pretended to be? Besides he had no money; no savings whatever, and lawyers were expensive, Frank knew that, and involving one was sure to turn this into an expensive procedure. No, he was frightened and worried and alone, but he felt he could handle it on his own. After all, his story was unshakeable, and they could have no proof against him, he was confident of that. He would simply have to tough it through until they released him, which they must surely do sooner or later.

Two facts combined to give him the strength to resist indefinitely; first, he could never admit his complicity in the robbery without sending Leila to jail, and secondly, his belief in Tom McDermott was unquestionable. Whatever his faith in himself, he knew Tom to be stronger, more dependable. Tom had had experience of this kind before, and had come away clean, and Frank knew Tom would never be tricked, cajoled or bullied into talking.

Suddenly a sickening thought occurred to him. What if they beat a confession out of him? Frank had often heard such stories, of people being beaten up in the elevator, of police in Quebec putting a telephone book on your head and hammering it with a billy club. If they left no marks and permitted no witnesses, what was to prevent them? Frank began to shiver as he contemplated this, and he felt slightly nauseous.

The snoring from next door ceased abruptly and Frank heard a series of groans, followed by retching and the unmistakeable sound of the man falling off his bunk onto the concrete floor. It was quiet for several minutes during which Frank called out tentatively whether the man was okay. He got no reply and then finally came the familiar snoring sounds, this time at irregular intervals and Frank knew he had slipped into unconsciousness once more.

Frank paced the cell some more, painfully at first as the circulation returned to his legs, and then more quickly, the light exercise started to warm him and helped to control the trembling. He was thus occupied when the corridor door opened an hour later and the turnkey released him from the cell and followed him into the outer office. Saunders and Ford were waiting.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Frank," Ford smiled as he spoke, "we had to wait for the lab guys, and then show them where you found the box. You say you handled it eh? Of course, you must have," he laughed somewhat selfconsciously at himself, and then, "Anyone else touch it? That you're aware of? That is, other than your wife?"

"No-one. I cut it out of the log last night, left it in the trunk, and discovered it empty this morning when I took the chain saw back to the tool rental store."

They walked the length of the hall and down a flight of stairs to a floor filled with offices surrounding a common secretarial area. Ford opened one of the doors for Frank and they entered a small plain room, unfinished except for a metal desk with a swivel chair and two straight-backed wooden chairs in front. Frank sat on one of those while Saunders moved his so he could face Frank from the side of the desk. Ford took the swivel chair, removed a writing tablet from a drawer and handed it to Saunders who began to write on the top of the page.

Ford became all business now, and recited a litany he knew from memory. "You are presently held regarding an armed robbery perpetrated on October fifth at twelve hundred forty hours at Upton, Ontario against three armoured car employees, during which one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars was stolen. Do you wish to say anything in connection with the said charge? You are not bound to say anything, but whatever you do say will be taken in writing and may be given in evidence at your trial. You must clearly understand that you have no hope from any promise of favour and nothing to fear from any threat to induce you to make any confession or declaration. Did you fully understand the meaning of your legal rights just read to you?"

Frank nodded in the affirmative; Saunders wrote.

"What is your name and address?"

Frank told him.

"And you work for an armoured messenger service?"

Frank explained in detail what his responsibilities were at work and Saunders wrote it all down. He answered several other questions of a very general nature and then Ford began to zero in on the tool-box full of money. The first time through Frank realized that his story really did sound quite plausible. As he detailed his usual Tuesday routine, and how he came to be in possession of the stolen money, he appeared to himself to be a very unlikely bandit indeed. His habits, his lifestyle and his long and exemplary record with the guard service all pointed toward his innocence. Perhaps after all, he would be exonerated and released.

Then the detective began a new tack. "Where were you on the afternoon of October fifth?" The question took Frank by surprise, he had been lulled into thinking perhaps this was merely a witness statement he was making.

"I was at home."

"All day?"

"No, I went for my walk as usual."

"Usual time as well?"

"I think so, yes, from ten until two or thereabouts."

"You're sure? Anybody see you?"

"Yes, an old lady I often meet on my walks."

Saunders exploded. "How the hell can you remember exactly what you did on a given afternoon almost two months ago? We never said it was a Tuesday."

"I know it was. I'm a guard remember? I take an interest in armed robberies." Frank was aware of a growing hostility between him and Saunders and he could recognize it in his own voice when he replied. "I remember everything I did that day, because I heard about the robbery on the radio as I was coming home from my walk."

Ford took over once more. "Did you do anything else that afternoon that anyone might remember?"

"I went to the library, browsed around there for a while and borrowed a couple of books."

"I suppose you remember the names of the books too," Saunders suggested sarcastically.

"Of course."

"So what then? You went home?"

"Yes, and I stayed there the rest of the day, listening to the news reports on the radio and t.v."

"Well, we're not really interested in what you did after the robbery anyway. It's where you were while it was being committed that we have to establish. Now let's begin again and make sure we haven't missed anything."

Frank explained again his Tuesday routine and how he never missed seeing the old lady and her dog just at the start of his walk. He described her car, and on the day in question, he remembered, there was a yellow school bus parked in the lot when he emerged from the forest. Saunders continued to write. When they had exhausted every detail Frank could provide Ford struck a new direction.

"Who do you hang out with Frank? I mean, who are your friends?"

"Well, nobody really. I'm kind of a loner I guess."

"What about Tom McDermott. Your wife says you're with him all the time. That true?"

"No. Tom used to be my guard at work, sometimes we would travel back and forth together, that's all. We don't see much of each other now."

"Well your wife says otherwise," Saunders snapped.

"Well my wife is full of shit!" Frank snapped back.

"Okay, this is getting us nowhere." Ford stood up and arched his back, palms flat upon the desk top. I'm going to get some coffee. Cream and sugar Frank?"

"Please." He was avoiding Saunders' steady glare. The moment Ford left the room he attacked Frank anew.

"So who else was with you the day you pulled the robbery, Wilson?"

Frank received this in stony silence. He would wait for Ford to return before answering any more questions, and when Saunders realized this he grew furious, his face crimson, his eyes wild with fury.

"Listen you asshole," he had a hold on Frank's shirt front now, he was shouting loud enough to be heard in the outer office. His face was so close Frank could feel his hot breath as he raved. "I know you stole that fucking money. Now you've got this cute story cooked up and you think you're pretty safe; got all the angles covered. Well I'll show you! I'm going to see your ass in jail yet."

The door opened and Ford stood in the doorway. "What's going on here, Jeff?"

"This guy thinks we're a couple of goofs, Sergeant. I'm just telling him the score."

"Well, keep it down. They can hear you all over the building." He sat down. "I'm making a fresh pot. You want to go get it?"

Saunders stormed out of the room, banging the door loudly behind him. Ford grinned at Frank. "You'll have to excuse my partner. He sometimes takes things a little too seriously …. he doesn't like to be conned." He gazed directly into Frank's eyes but Frank said nothing. "You know Frank, I think you'd feel better if you got this off your chest. Why don't you just tell me the truth."

Frank said nothing.

"You know it's bound to go harder on you if you force us to go to work and build an elaborate case and waste all kinds of the taxpayer's money convicting you. Now that we know who did this, it's only a matter of time before we prove it. Why don't you make it easy on yourself?"

"Sergeant, you've got my statement there," Frank indicated the writing pad on the desk. "That's my story and I'm sticking to it. If you think you can prove otherwise, go right ahead and try, but I'm not going to answer any further questions. Now are you going to charge me or let me go?"

Ford received all this with calm patience. "It's not that easy Frank. We have a right to keep you here for twenty-four hours. I'll want to have a police line-up later, and Jeff and I will check out your story in detail, then we'll talk some more."

"It won't do any good. I'm not answering any more questions."

"You might change your mind about that. In the meantime maybe you'd like to rethink your story and see if maybe there isn't anything you want to change."

Ford stood and indicated the door, and Frank knew he was being returned to the cell block. The clock on the wall in the outer office read three-fifteen.