She was wearing her usual flip-flops, along with shorts and a tank top. I had to admire the comfort with which she occupied her overblown body. I'd have been cold in that outfit, but it didn't seem to bother her.
Chester smiled when he saw me. "Hey, there you are. We were just talking about you. Come over here and take a look at this. See what you think." Mr. Friendly, I thought.
Bucky stepped back, showing me a panel he'd swung away from the back wall of the closet. A small residential safe had been tucked into the space, encased in what appeared to be a block of poured concrete. The safe door was approximately sixteen inches wide and fourteen inches tall. The panel itself appeared to be carefully constructed, a flush-mounted plywood partition with inset hinges. The magnetic latch looked to be spring-loaded and probably released at a touch.
"Impressive. How'd you find that?" I asked.
Bucky smiled sheepishly, clearly pleased with himself. "We'd emptied the closet and I was sweeping it out when I bumped my broom handle up against the back wall. Sounded funny to me, so I got a flashlight and started looking at it real close, you know, knocking across the wall. Seemed like there was something goofy about this one section, so I give it a push and this panel popped open."
I hunkered down in front of the opening, peering into the cavity that had been hidden in the "found" space between the joists. The front face of the safe was imposing, but that might have been deceptive. Most home safes are not built to withstand a professional burglar with the proper tools and sufficient time to force his way in. The safe I was looking at was more likely a fire safe, in which what appears to be a solid steel wall is only a thin metal outer shell filled with insulating material. The function of such a safe is protection from a home fire of fairly short duration. Insulation in an old safe might be something as basic as natural cement. A more modern safe might rely on vermiculite mica or diatomaceous earth, particles of which can often be traced back from a burglary suspect's tools and clothing to the specific safe manufacturer.
On closer inspection, I could see the safe wasn't actually embedded in concrete. The concrete formed a sort of housing into which the safe had been shoved.
"We got a locksmith on his way," Chester said. "I couldn't stand the wait, so I called an emergency number and told 'em to send somebody out. We could have all the answers right behind this dial." He was probably picturing maps and ciphers, a small wireless radio, a Luger, and transmission schedules written in invisible ink.
"Have you looked for the combination? It's possible he wrote it down and tucked it someplace close. Most people don't trust their memories, and if he'd needed to get into it, he wouldn't want to waste time searching."
"We thought of that, but we looked every place we could think of. What about you? You searched pretty good yourself. You come across anything might be the combination to that?"
I shrugged. "I never came across any numbers, unless he was using his birthdate or Social Security."
"Can they do that?" Bucky asked. "Make up a combination to suit any set of numbers you give?"
I shrugged. "As far as I know. I'm not an expert, but I always assumed you could do that."
"What do you think, should we pull that thing out?" Chester asked.
"Couldn't hurt. The locksmith will probably have to do it anyway once he gets here," I said.
I rose to my feet and stepped out of the closet, allowing Bucky and Chester sufficient room to maneuver the safe from its resting place. It took a fair amount of huffing and puffing before they managed to set it down on the floor in the middle of the room. Once they'd eased the safe out of its concrete housing, we could take a better look. The three of us inspected the exterior surfaces as if this were some mysterious object that had appeared from outer space. The safe was maybe sixteen inches deep, with a two-tone beige-and-gray finish and rubber mounting feet. It didn't look old. The dial was calibrated with numbers from one to a hundred, which meant you could generate close to a million combinations. There wasn't any point in trying to guess the right one.
Babe had abandoned her packing and was watching the whole procedure. "Maybe it's open," she said to no one in particular.
We turned in unison and looked at her.
"Well, it could be," she said.
"It's worth a try," I said. I reached down and pulled the handle without success. I turned the dial a few numbers in one direction and then the other, still pulling the handle, thinking the dial might have been left close to the last digit in the combination. No such luck.