The Safe Cracker by Ian C. Dawkins Moore
Reed Tims looked at the grim-encrusted edges of the safe which was petrified into the wall. It was an old one all right, and there was no knowing how it worked. There were four of them in the cellar: Mr. Christian, the new owner’s representative, Mr. Chan, the former owner’s relative, Mr. Simons the housekeeper and Reed Tims the safe cracker. They all had a vested interest in knowing what was in the safe.
Mr. Christian, unknown to Mr. Chan, had already obtained a court order to possess everything that was currently on the property. Mr. Christian’s company, Charles Bligh & Sons, had reason to believe that there was a small fortune hidden somewhere in the cellar of this old house which they had recently acquired.
Mr. Chan had flown in from his estates in Hawaii and was always interested in the possibility of acquiring more wealth. Plus his nephew still owed him money from the initial investment he made to him many years before. He obviously didn’t need the money as his Mercedes with his driver sat purring outside in the street, but it was the principle of the thing. He’d not gotten rich by giving money away, so it was natural that he wanted his money back.
Mr. Simons had been the housekeeper for years. Now in his seventieth year, he had little to look forward too. His wife had passed away five years before, and his son and daughter had left home years ago embarrassed by their father’s job as a glorified servant. Mr. Simons held onto the belief that his former employer, who had suddenly taken ill and died, would leave him something for all the years he’d provided devoted service.
“This is going to take some time gentlemen,” said Mr. Tims.
“Can’t you just knock the hinges off” said Mr. Chan.
“No, that will probably do more harm than good,” said Mr. Tims. “I need to figure out how the sequence of the bolt’s mechanism works, or locks could shoot out in all kinds of directions and clamp the door shut with no hope of getting it open at all.”
“You mean, you can’t just drill a hole in the door and pop it open, ala ‘George Clooney’ style.” said Mr. Simons.
“No, Sir,” said Mr. Tims, “movie safecrackers are for the birds. Real safe cracking requires trial and error and plenty of time.”
“So, were’ going to be here for a while then?” said Mr. Chan
“Yes,” said Mr.Tims.
“How long do you think it will take, then?” said Mr. Christian.
“Hard to tell, but at least an hour, maybe two.”
For the next thirty minutes, there was silence, except the noise from the drill as Mr. Tims, patiently inserted holes in and around the dial in the middle of the safe’s door. After each insertion, he meticulously took out a long instrument from his tool kit, attached another instrument with a light, and peered into the newly created hole. Then without a word, he would replace his tools, making sure to turn off the light, and set his equipment in their appropriate places in the toolbox. Then he would resume drilling into the door, but this time in another position. The anticipation of the assembled group was palpable.
“Why the silence?” said Mr. Tims. And as if a spell had been broken the group began moving around the small space.
“I’ll go and get some food,” said Mr. Christian, “I guess we’re gonna be here a while. Pizza OK?”
“Not for me,” Said Mr. Chan, “I want to live a long life free from cholesterol forming cardiac arrest.”
“Suit yourself,” said Mr. Christian, “I’m buying. Mr. Simons, what about you? Peperoni OK for you?”
“Well, maybe I’ll take a vegetarian slice or two.”
“OK. Mr. Tims, anything for you?”
“No, thanks”
As the stillness of the air was filled with the dust and drilling sounds of Mr. Tims continuing his work, Mr. Christian departed. Mr. Chan and Mr. Simons found some seats at the back of the room and settled down for a long wait.
“Have you ever been to Hawaii, Mr. Simons?” said Mr. Chan.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Well it’s a beautiful place. My ancestor settled it in the 1800s when the native Hawaiians were dying out because of inbreeding.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Oh, yes. All the kings and queens had a policy of marrying only their sisters, brothers and relatives. It is not uncommon with royalty. You’ve heard of the ‘Hapsburg Lip’, of course.”
“No I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, it was as a result of the Austrian Hapsburg kings… Well that’s another story. The Hawaiian’s never had much of a kinship or sense of unity. After their heroic voyage in canoes from Bora Bora, Fiji in the southern Pacific, a journey of over 1000 miles, with no navigational charts through frightening seas, they bumped into Hawaii. Stretched over five islands it proved impossible to find a common bond, particularly when the Hawaiian’s had left the south in search of individual independence. They were a warrior race you understand.
“When my people were imported to Hawaii as indentured servants, by the whites,” continued Mr. Chan. “it was to work on their plantations and breed with the dwindling population of Hawaiian’s. Over a generation or two, the population began to stabilize and we Chinese began to acquire our own lands and businesses. However, it was always difficult. The Haloes, that is the name we give to the whites, with their missionary zeal and their double talk about freedom and independence, never would let the Hawaiians, let alone the Chinese and later the Japanese, have any real power.”
“When my parents first came up here from Arkansas,” Interjected, Mr. Simons, “They earned their money the old fashion way, through hard work and fighting white racism daily. My father was a chauffeur for the Ghirardelli Chocolate people in San Francisco. He bought a whole string of properties around this area. When I was a kid I lived like a prince.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened’?
“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t seem to be living like a prince now.”
“I’ve got my stash. Don’t you worry? If you think I am staying on here, working for Mr. Wong, just for the money, you are wrong. I loved that man. And he’s treated me well, ever since…”
“Ever since what Mr. Simons? I don’t mean to pry, but have you had a reversal of fortune of some kind?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You were saying, Mr. Simons, your father owned a lot of houses around here, where particularly?”
“Do you know that place on Harrison Street and 14th?
“You mean the Harrison Hotel?”
“Yeah, my Father owned that and the corner building on Franklin and 14th street too. In fact he owned all the buildings between Harrison and Franklin on 14thstreet.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean? I rightly can’t say. All I know is when I came back from the Vietnam War we had nothing. My mother and father had died suddenly in 1970, and my eldest brother took to drugs. I had my own problems with the white stuff myself. I picked up the habit in ‘Nam. But Oakland in the 70’s was devastated by the stuff. We didn’t think it could get much worse, But the 80’s and 90’s proved us wrong when ‘crack’ hit the streets.”
Mr. Christian poked his head in the door. “Pizza, pizza, everyone. I got you three thick slices, Mr. Simons, Chicago style deep baked and oozing with veggies. Mr. Tims you can share my peperoni if you like?”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“But I thought you wanted some” said Mr. Christian,
“No, but thank you very much for thinking of me.”
“Mr. Chan. I got you some coca cola, it’s ‘the real thing’.
“Thank you son. If you insist.”
“So how’s it coming along? Have we struck pay-dirt yet?”
“Mr. Tims was explaining to us that he has to see where the bolt is going to drop in the sequence of the lock. He’s now drilling into the lock’s levers trying to trigger them to slip the bolt.”
“So what happened to listening to the inner workings of the lock, using a glass against the door?”
“That’s for the birds, Mr. Christian.”
“You mean, George Clooney and his band of desperados are frauds? Say it isn’t so George! Where do they get these crazy notions about how to crack safes?”
“They probably don’t want to give anything away.” said Mr. Simons.
“No, it just for the entertainment value,” said Mr. Chan.
“Well, given how long this is taking and how boring it is to sit here and do nothing, it’s a reminder that real life is really boring,” said Mr. Christian, as he found a seat in the opposite corner and sat down to play games on his Ipad.
Silence descended again. The tiny room quickly filled up with smoke from Mr. Tims’ drilling, after Mr. Christian had closed the door. Mr. Chan got up and opened the door again. Standing outside on the patio, which led to concrete steps up into a little garden, he stretched his arms up and out and touched the head of Mr. Simons, who had followed him out of the cellar.
“Sorry” said Mr. Chan.
Standing in the garden looking back at the house, Mr. Simons remarked absentmindedly, “I remember when my father built that section of the house. My mother, brothers, sisters, and I had to mix the concrete in one of those old oval buckets on wheels. I had the job of turning the handle. It was a miserable job, and my mother and father yelled at each other during the whole thing. ‘cause my Father didn’t let nobody stop. Not even to go to the bathroom. But we got the main wall bricked-up in less than a day. Man, were we happy and exhausted when we finished that, I can tell you. Later my Father explained we got to always stick together ‘til the project is done. After we had dinner together, we all bragged about our aches and pains. My Dad smiled, sitting at the head of the table. And even my mother’s lined brow; soften as she listened to her children’s excitement.”
“Are you saying this house use to belong to your family, Mr. Simons?” said Mr. Chan.
“It’s Open!” cried Mr. Christian.
Filing back into the cellar, Mr. Simons and Mr. Chan joined Mr. Christian and Mr. Tims peering into the safe, whose door had now been pulled back but whose lock had been decimated by the repeated attacks of Mr. Tims’ drill. The safe’s walls and shelves were painted a weird violet and black paisley design with gold and silver circles, giving the impression of an entry to some fantasy world. It was hard to determine how deep the safe was or what was in it. Mr. Tims put his hand gingerly into the safe, and looking at us said, “I can’t feel anything not even the back of the safe” Suddenly his face turned red and he shrieked with pain. Pulling his hand out quickly there was some kind of crab-like creature hanging onto his middle finger. Shaking it off, it fell to the floor, where it promptly disappeared.
“What the hell was that?” said Mr. Christian.
“I don’t know but I want compensation for my finger,” said Mr. Tims. Shaking it and holding it in his other hand.
“Let me have a look at that,” said Mr. Chan. As Mr. Tims showed Mr. Chan his hand, his finger suddenly turned a bright gold color. Mr. Chan stood back, unable to believe his eyes. Mr. Tims, whose eyes were still on the spot where the creature had been, turned to respond to Mr. Chan’s gasp. Then he noticed his own finger and let out another wild shriek. Taking out his silver parker pen, Mr. Chan tapped Mr. Tims’ finger. It had a metallic sound.
“Does it hurt?” said Mr. Chan.
“No, but it feels very cold.” said Mr. Tims.
“Hold still,” said Mr. Chan, “let me try something.” Taking out his gold cigarette lighter he quickly clicked it on and before Mr. Tims realized what he was doing, the flame was melting the tip of Mr. Tims’ finger. Because of the unique properties of gold that allow it to melt at relatively low temperatures, Mr. Chan collected a small droplet of gold as it fell from Mr. Tims’ now reshaped finger.
“Hey, watch that. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“With your permission I’d like to make a test of this sample,” said Mr. Chan as he rushed out of the room.
“Hey,” said Mr. Tims, “Where are you going? You’ve got part of my finger there!” Turning to Mr. Christian, he said,
“Bligh & Sons are going to hear from my attorney and pay me a big fat check over this Mr. Christian. I’m getting out of here.”
“But Mr. Tims, I’m sorry, please don’t tell my boss about this. I’m sure we can work something out. You haven’t actually lost your finger. Think of it as a gaining a piece of gold. Think of all the people who will admire you now. Let’s face it, not everyone has a gold finger. In fact nobody in the whole wide world has a gold finger. You’ll be unique. I know you’re unique as a particular human being endowed with unalienable rights etc.… But really, Mr. Tims, you will truly be unique, special, one of a kind. Doesn’t that account for something? Why would you want to sue us when you’ve got your own money-making machine?
“Mr. Christian, I’ve heard enough.” Mr. Tims gathered up his tools hurriedly and headed out the door as Mr. Christian followed him beseechingly begging for a chance to make amends. Their voices died off out as they passed through the garden.
Suddenly alone, Mr. Simons got up from his seat and moved slowly but confidently towards the safe.
“Come here Horace you rascal. How many times have I told you to wait for my signal? Now come and touch this daisy chain the little girl next door made for me. I need some money for victuals this month.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Ian C. Dawkins Moore 2026
Image Source: Andrew Wong from Unsplash.com
Bligh and Sons and Mr. Christian; homage to “Mutiny on the Bounty?” Then a Midas-like creature that turns what it touches to gold? I’m uncertain what the real theme of this story is. We are introduced to various chacters, but they appear to have nothing in commonl aside from being unlikabe.I have to have at least one character I want to root for. There was an interesting aside about the history of Hawaii. There is a littlle gotcha at the end, but we don’t know quite what to make of it. Ends with still more questions.