Speaker 1: The failure by Harold Ward Amos Duncan paused for a
second beside the time clock in the hallway just outside
the offices of Carney and Kirk. Then, his heart beating
like a trip hammer, he mustered up courage enough to
push open the swinging doors and peep into the gloomy interior.
He was frightened, scared to the point of hysteria. Yet
for thirty years he had stopped in that self same
place in the hallway morning and noon on his way
to work. For thirty years, fifty two weeks in the year,
six days a week, and twice each day, had he
sought his number on the time clock and pushed the
button which registered his comings and his departures. Instinctively four
figures were one of his hobbies. He made the calculation
in his head. Eighteen thousand, seven hundred and twenty times
had he pushed his way through those doors. And never before,
except possibly the first time, when he had applied for
a place with the firm, had he been as frightened
as he was now. For this was the first time
he had ever come to rob getting a grip on himself,
he entered the Big Office on tip toe an office
covering nearly one fourth of a city block. Yet he
knew that Old Bill Judkins, the watchman, would be making
his rounds out in the factory at that particular hour.
It was part of his daily work to check up
the dial on the night watchman's clock. He knew that
the old man traveled as true to schedule as a
mail train. He halted just inside the doors and listened,
his eyes taking in every one of the familiar details.
From where he stood, he could discern the dark shapes
of rows and rows of desks, each identical in size
and finish with its mates. Around two sides of the
big room were innumerable cubby holes of offices, divided from
each other by ground glass partitions, extending two thirds of
the way to the ceiling. During working hours, they housed
the elite of the office world, the men and women
who had pushed their heads above those of their fellows.
His own desk was second from the front, and the
second row from the right, just inside the cashier's cage,
a huge affair of wire, netting and glass. It gave
him renewed courage for the task ahead as he gazed
upon its outline staring at him out of the darkness.
For twenty seven years, since the day of his promotion
from the office boy ranks, he had occupied that desk
or one like it in Cagney and Kirk's office, giving
to Cagney and Kirk the best of his manhood for
starvation wages and two weeks vacation yearly on pay. Others
had gone over his head, scores of them man no
better fitted than he, young cubs would pull or college education.
He had long since given up hopes of promotion. He
had reached the point where he was a mere cog
in the machine, a fizzle and a failure. In ninety
nine cases out of every hundred, when a man goes wrong,
a woman is responsible. In Amos Duncan's case, the woman
was missus Amos Duncan, a downtrodden cog in an office machine,
the man with little force of character. In the beginning,
hen pecked at home and abroad, Duncan held to the
firm opinion that his wife had conferred a favor upon
him by maryan him. The fact that he had rescued
her from a life of drudgery in the shipping room
of the factory changed his opinion not one iota, nor
did missus Duncan fail to keep his memory refreshed whenever
opportunity offered itself. Amos Duncan longed to appear as a
hero in the eyes of his wife. It had taken
him two years to screw up his courage to the
point of robbing Carney and Kirk, Yet he had planned
the affair so often that he knew he would be
absolutely above suspicion, and with the money once in his hands,
he would hide it until all memory of the affair
had blown over, and then, with a carefully concocted story
of a lucky speculation on change, resign and migrate to
some distant city to spend his declining years in ease
with the lady who had assumed his name. Carney and
Kirk always paid off in cash. Duncan knew that there
was close to fifty thousand dollars in the vault, ready
to go into pay envelopes in the morning. As assistant
cashier and one of the old timers with the firm
he had been entrusted with the combination. He had read
that skilled burglars were able to open vaults by listening
to the whirl of the mechanism. A rag saturated with
alcohol would do away with telltale fingerprints. The police would
think the robbery the work of a professional. Still walking
on his toes, he worked his way through the maze
of desks to the big vault in the rear of
the office behind the cashier's cage. Taking a tiny flashlight
from his pocket, he pressed the button and allowed the
stream of light to play over the dial while he
manipulated the affair with fingers that trembled as from the
augu it refused to work in his nervousness. He had
gone past the number. He took a deep breath, and,
with the sweat standing out out in great beads upon
his face, attacked the job again. Someone was entering the
office through one of the rear doors leading from the factory.
He stopped for a second, then, as he heard the
footsteps coming toward him in the darkness, he leapt outside
the cage and drew his revolver. He had never fired
a gun in his life. He had bought this one,
a cheap second hand affair, merely as a matter of precaution,
and because he knew that burglars always carried such weapons
from out of the darkness came a flash, a report.
A bullet sped past his head and flattened itself against
the vault door. It must be Judkins, the faithful had
heard something suspicious and had entered the realization of his
mission in the office at that time of night stopped
him involuntarily. He gave a little squeak of fear. A
second bullet passed unpleasantly near instinctively, just as a cornered
rat will fight, so his finger pressed the trigger of
his own gun. He fired aimlessly in the general direction
of the other, dodging from desk to desk, knocking over chairs.
He was in a panic of fear. The other's fire ceased. Suddenly,
from out of the darkness across the great room came
a dull, throaty cry. Something metallic jangled against the tiled floor.
An instant later, it was followed by a heavier body,
a body that crashed against a desk as it dropped.
Duncan leaped through the folding doors and out into the
hallway again. To unlock the outer door and dash out
into the sidewalk was but the work of an instant.
Around the corner, he heard the shrill whistle of the
policeman on the beat. As attracted by the shots, he
came lumbering along, signaling for his mate. He dodged into
the shadow and turned into the alley. Behind him, he
could hear the policeman hammering on the office door with
his nightstick. From two blocks down the street came the
sound of another whistle in the distance. A third shrilled,
proving that reinforcements were on the way. Missus Duncan was
sleeping soundly when he arrived home after a round trip
through the alleys and side streets. Letting himself into the
house with his pass key, he hastily sought the security
of his own room. So far as he knew, no
one had seen him either going into the factory nor
leaving it. But God, what a fizzle he had made
of the affair. And there was blood on his hands,
the blood of poor old Judkins. What had he gained? Nothing?
Absolutely nothing. He paced the floor, every nerve tangling, he wondered,
poor old Judkins. And he had a crippled wife too.
With Judkins gone, she would have to go to the poorhouse.
It was something that he had not foreseen. He was
still pacing the floor when the sun came up in
the east. In the other room, he heard Missus Duncan
getting up. In less than two hours, he would have
to go to the office. Of course, no one would
suspect him, but he could hear Missus Duncan rattling the
pots and pans in the kitchen. When the door bell rang.
He opened the bedroom door crack and peeped through. As
she answered the summons, A gruff voice was asking for him.
He heard her admit the visitors. There seemed to be
two of them. When she called Shrilly up the stairway
for him. He knew that they were detectives from their
heavy tread. They were after him for killing Judkins. His
brain was in a horse. Yet he wondered how it
happened that they associated him with the crime. He had
been so careful too. Probably he had dropped something in
his mad rush to the outer door. He could never
face the music and Missus Duncan. What would she say?
He couldn't tell her that he had gone to the
office to rob the vault for her sake and had
made a failure. The gun lay in the bureau drawer
where he had tossed it. He picked it up and
broke it open. The chambers were all empty. He had
used every cartridge in killing poor Judkins. From downstairs came
a buzz of conversation. Missus Duncan shrieked. He heard his
own name mentioned. God, they had told her what he
had done. He must move rapidly. His glance fell upon
a bottle of carbolic acid. Missus Duncan and was at
the bottom of the stairway now shrieking his name. He
placed the bottle to his mouth and emptied it at
a gulp, With the fiery liquid eating into his vitals
his throat of fire, he reeled across the room and
tumbled in a heap upon the bed outside. Missus Duncan
was pounding at his door. Amos, wake up. She was
shouting between sobs, for Missus Duncan was a hysterical woman,
and awful things happened. There are two detectives here. Old
man Judkins went home sick from the factory last night,
and while he was gone, somebody broke into the office.
The robbers had a fight, cause one of them was
found dead when the police broke in after hearing the shots.
Right the cashier is out of town. And they want
you to come down and open the vault and see
if anything is gone. Oh, isn't it awful? Amos? Why
don't you answer the end of the failure