Caper Page 4

“Hey, Jannie,” he said in his raspy, waterfront voice. “Long time no see. How you been?”

  “I’m not going to tell you,” I said. “Why should we both be miserable? A double brandy, Morris.”

  “What’s with the brandy?” he said. “I never known you to dip your nose in anything but white wine. Something wrong, Jannie?”

  “Ah, hell,” I said. “I got mugged last night, and I still got the shakes.”

  I held out a hand and trembled the fingers convincingly.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said bitterly. “You’re the third in the neighborhood this month. You get hurt, God fabbid?”

  “No,” I said. “Just the shit scared out of me.”

  “I can imagine,” he said. “But you weren’t hurt?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just took my wallet. A little over a hundred. Didn’t touch my credit cards. I guess I was lucky.”

  “You get a good look at him?”

  “What can I tell you? A kid with a knife.”

  “The lousy creep,” he growled and moved away to wait on a new customer.

  “What did the cops say?” he asked when he came back.

  “The cops,” I said scornfully. “They took my statement and promised nothing. What can they do? A hundred muggings a night. The animals are taking over. Morrie, I just felt so helpless. He had a knife, and I had nothing. He made me reach into my shoulder bag for my wallet. I swear if I had a gun in there, I would have shot him in the balls.”

  “Just what he deserved,” Morris said virtuously. “Your honest citizen, he can’t carry a gun. The assholes can carry an arsenal.”

  “Morrie,” I said, staring into his eyes, “I’m not going to get mugged again. Not without putting up a fight, I’m not. Do you know how I can get a gun?”

  He froze. “Aw, babe,” he said, “you don’t want to do that. So what if you plug a guy trying to rob you? Then you’re in trouble with the law.”

  “I don’t care!” I told him furiously. “I want to be able to fight back. Listen, maybe the next guy will rob me and try rape as a little bonus. Morrie, can you help me? Help me get a gun?”

  Again he moved away to wait on another customer. When he came back he leaned across the bar. I leaned toward him.

  “Well, listen,” he said in a growly whisper, “I think you’re doing the wrong thing. I mean, maybe you miss, and the bentnose decides to shoot you or cut you up, God fabbid. Who’s to say?”

  “I’m willing to take my chances.”

  “You know how to handle a piece?”

  “I can learn. Point it and pull the trigger—right?”

  “Well, yeah. Something like that. If your mind is made up, Jannie, maybe I can do something for you.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty, a hundred, more,” he said judiciously. “It depends on the iron. Let me get in touch with this guy I know.”

  “When can I meet him?”

  “Drop by tomorrow night,” Morris said. “Or give me a call. I’ll try to have some word for you. You’re absolutely positive you want to do this, Jannie?”

  “Absolutely,” I said firmly.

  “Okay.” He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ON TARGET

  I NOW HAD THREE possible targets I wanted Dick to inspect. We started with a store on the east side of Fifth Avenue, between 54th and 55th streets. A relatively small shop, one entrance, three clerks, plus a manager and armed guard. Two display windows, with only a few items tastefully exhibited. The vault was in a back room, protected with a steel gate and solid door, both open during selling hours.

  We took a look from across the street, then walked by once, then returned to look in the windows, then went in to stroll about. All the employees were busy with customers, so we had an opportunity to wander around and inspect the merchandise in showcases. We chatted, laughed, pointed out items to each other.

  After we exited, I took Dick’s arm and led him downtown.

  “Well?” I asked him. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “An awful lot of gold-plated costume jewelry and cultured pearls. I don’t think it would be a big take. Maybe they keep the best stuff in the vault, but that four-thousand-dollar necklace of small diamonds was the most expensive thing I saw. I just don’t think the place is worth the effort.”

  “All right,” I said. “The second one’s over on Park, just one more block south.”

  This was a larger, more elegant shop with a uniformed doorman, apparently no armed guard, and six clerks on duty, plus a cashier, floor manager, and an aged lady who apparently did nothing but gift-wrap. There were two small television cameras high up in opposite corners, so perhaps that missing armed guard was in a bulletproof cubbyhole, watching TV monitors.

  This time we asked to see a diamond solitaire—“something in the moderate range”—and were shown a gorgeous rock like a miniature ice cube held in platinum claws. Only $18,000. We asked if something better was available. Indeed it was, we were assured, but the manager would prefer to take care of us personally. Unfortunately, he was busy. If we could wait a few minutes …?

  We told the clerk that we had another appointment.

  Outside, to prove our innocence, we paused casually on the sidewalk to light cigarettes before sauntering away.

  “What about that one?” I asked Dick Fleming.

  “The money is there,” he acknowledged. “Did you see what the manager was showing the woman in the white mink? The emerald bracelet?”

  “Fifty-thousand minimum, I’d guess,” I said. “Wonder where the vault is? In the back?”

  “Or on another floor,” Dick said. “Up one level or down one. But that’s not what’s bothering me. It’s those TV cameras.”

  “Take a look at the last place,” I said. “Then we’ll discuss it.”

  My final possible was on East 55th Street, just west of Madison. But I was so impressed by it that I disregarded the business about traffic jams on crosstown streets. The outside was not prepossessing. There were small signs in the windows: “Watch and Jewelry Repair. We Buy and Sell Antique Jewelry. Silver, Gold, Precious Gems. Diamonds for Investment.”

  Dick turned to me. “What’s this—a supermarket?”

  “Take a look,” I urged.

  The place was called Brandenberg & Sons. It wasn’t the newest or the most elegant of the shops I had cased, but it was furnished in a kind of quiet, subdued opulence: deep Oriental rugs, upholstered Louis XIV armchairs for customers, small polished walnut showcases with brass corners and hardware. There were three clerks, all handsome young men, wearing navy blazers and gray flannel slacks.

  An opened door at the rear afforded a glimpse of an old-fashioned safe. No television cameras here, but there were several silent alarm buttons in plain view. No armed guard to be seen. Steel shutters that could be drawn down at night to protect the outside window displays. The whole place had a genteel, hushed, cathedral atmosphere.

  The three clerks were busy. The manager himself approached us. “Good afternoon,” he said, bowing deeply. “May I be of service?”

  “I noticed your sign,” I said. “I have a gold pocket watch—”

  He spread his hands and raised one shoulder. “But of course,” he said. “How old is it?”

  “I have no idea,” I confessed.

  “Bring it in,” he told me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Could we look around a moment?” Dick asked.

  “Please do,” the manager said, beaming.

  We didn’t stay long, just long enough to take a quick look at a dazzling display of gold, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. Incredible Victorian jewelry in worked gold, and avant-garde designs in crystal, silver, platinum. We heard one of the clerks say to a sable-clad dowager, “With the matching bracelet and earrings, madam, the necklace would be two hundred and eighty thousand.”

  When we got outside, I took Dick Fleming’s arm and walked him across the street to a l
uncheonette.

  “That’s it,” Dick said. “The place is loaded.”

  I reached across the table to squeeze his hand.

  “I’m glad to hear you say it, Dick. It’s my first choice, too. It’s not as flashy as some of the places I saw, but I think the loot is there.”

  “No doubt. And it has only one entrance. A total of six employees, counting the two repairmen in the back. Of course there may be messengers or others.”

  “Plus customers,” I reminded him.

  We were silent while our tea was served.

  He shook his head.

  “It just seems too good to be true,” he said. “No TV cameras. No armed guard. The door of the safe open.”

  “Alarm buttons,” I reminded him.

  “I know, but still—in a place handling two-hundred-thousand-dollar necklaces, the security seems awfully casual to me.”

  “Not to worry. All we’ve done is tentatively decided on a target. I’ll check out the place completely before we go ahead. I like this luncheonette. I can sit here and see when it opens, when it closes, how many employees report for work, when it’s crowded with customers, when it’s empty, and so forth. Also, I’m going to pay them at least one more visit. I really do own that old pocket watch I told the manager about.”

  “And you’re willing to sell it to them?”

  “Why not? Help finance our campaign.”

  We both laughed. We were so light-hearted, so happy. All I can say in our defense is that we honestly had no intention of going through with it.

  JANNIE GETS HER GUN

  MORRIS SAID HIS GUN dealer promised to be at Chez Morris at 10:00 P.M. on Sunday night.

  “If you wanna seriously negotiate, babe,” he advised me, “you be here at 10:00 on Sunday. Don’t be late; this guy is very punctilious.”

  “Punctual,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Morris said.

  When I entered Chez Morris at 10:00 on Sunday evening I went directly to the far end to talk to Morris. He leaned across the bar toward me, speaking in a conspiratorial rasp.

  “He’s at the little table near the kitchen door,” he said.

  I turned slowly, took a quick look. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  “The plump little guy?” I asked Morrie incredulously. “The middle-aged cherub? He looks like everyone’s favorite uncle.”

  Morrie showed me a mouthful of teeth as big and yellow as salted almonds.

  “That’s what he’s called,” he told me. “Uncle Sam.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Just call him Uncle Sam.”

  “What do I do—just walk over and say, ‘Hello, Uncle Sam’?”

  “That’s right.”

  So I walked to the small table near the swinging kitchen door, stood there nervously, and said, “Good evening, Uncle Sam. My name is Jannie Shean.”

  He leaped spryly to his feet with a beneficent smile, shook my hand firmly, pulled out a chair and held it for me.

  “No last names, dear lady,” he said in a light, chirpy voice. “No need for that at all. Would you care for anything?”

  “A coffee?” I asked. “Black.”

  He held up a finger, and when a waiter appeared, asked for a pot of coffee for two.

  “Well, well,” he said brightly. “Here we are.”

  He was a twinkling little man, no taller than five-five, and rotund. He positively radiated health: sparkling blue eyes, a clear complexion, and alert, energetic movements.

  He was wearing a handsome jacket of go-for-broke plaid, open-necked tattersall shirt with a paisley ascot, a suede waistcoat with silver coin buttons, beige slacks. He had a horseshoe of perfectly white hair about a bald pate that was lightly freckled.

  “Dear lady,” he said, pouring our coffee, “I can’t tell you how devastated I was to learn of your recent misfortune.”

  I looked at him, puzzled, then recalled my fictitious mugging.

  “I don’t suppose it was all that unusual,” I mumbled.

  “Unfortunately not.” He sighed. “These are perilous times in which we live. To what sad state has our civilization arrived when such wolves may prey upon an innocent public without fear of apprehension and punishment?”

  I can recognize a rhetorical question when I hear one, and made no effort to reply.

  “It is,” he went on, “only natural to wish to protect one’s person against these depredations.”

  “I want to defend myself!” I said, with all the anger I could muster.

  “Of course you do, dear lady,” Uncle Sam said. “What type of weapon were you interested in?”

  This last was spoken in a perfectly ordinary tone. I would have supposed he’d prefer a place more private. However, I assumed he knew his business.

  “Uncle Sam,” I said, “to tell you the truth, I know very little about guns. I was hoping you might advise me.”

  “Of course, dear lady!” he cried, eyes sparkling. “How wise of you to put yourself in the hands of an expert. I shall be delighted to give you the benefit of my years of experience in this specialty. Now, may I make a few suggestions?”

  “Please do.”

  “I find, in dealing with ladies, that many are interested in the decorative aspects of the firearm. Nickel-plated. Pearl grips. Things of that sort. But I counsel against letting the mere outward appearance to be the convincing factor in the purchase. I believe sturdiness of construction and reliability of function to be much more important.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said, fascinated by his spiel. “What do you recommend?”

  “Since you are, dear lady, a fine figure of a woman and, as I determined from the firmness of your handshake, you are the fortunate possessor of no little physical strength, I would like to suggest to you a handgun perhaps a mite heavier and of more rugged construction than I might advise for a frailer lady. Added weight usually means greater reliability and accuracy. In addition, I would urge the purchase of an automatic pistol rather than a revolver, since the technique of loading a well-designed pistol is easily mastered, more shots are available when needed, and the flat, streamlined shape makes it an excellent weapon to be carried in a purse without snagging on the lining in case a quick withdrawal is demanded.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything,” I said admiringly.

  “I do believe,” he said, lowering his eyes modestly, “that I am by training, temperament, and experience, well qualified to promise complete satisfaction to my patrons. But I must tell you, dear lady, in all honesty, that in most cases, a well-balanced revolver offers more accuracy than a pistol of approximately the same caliber. However, I do not believe long-range accuracy is a necessity in your case, since, if you should ever make use of the weapon against an attacker, the range would probably be quite short.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Point-blank.”

  “Precisely,” he said with some enthusiasm. “So I have no trepidation in recommending an automatic pistol to you. Now I will show you a small, private catalogue of various weapons of this type that are available …”

  The spiral notebook he put before me had an illustration Scotch-taped to each page. The pictures appeared to have been clipped from manufacturers’ catalogues. In addition to a photograph or line drawing of the weapon, there was a paragraph of descriptive material that included weight, barrel length, number of rounds capacity, muzzle velocity, range, etc. In all cases, a price had been inked on the border in an elegant, Spencerian hand.

  I folded the catalogue open at a particular page and handed the notebook across the table to him.

  “This one?” I suggested.

  “Ah … no,” he said regretfully. “I would not recommend that particular model to a lady of your sensibility, reasonable though the price may seem to you. A German design originally, it was a splendid, combat-proved officers’ pistol. Unfortunately, it has been copied in several countries with inferior technology. My last shipment was not up to par. Definitely not up to
par. No, dear lady, I cannot honestly recommend that weapon.”

  I retrieved the notebook and scanned the remaining pages. Then I turned back to an illustration that had caught my eye. Again, I folded the notebook open and returned it to him.

  “It’s a little more than I wanted to spend,” I said, “but it seems to be a well-designed, compact weapon. In fact, it’s rather sweet.”

  “Ah-ha!” he said delightedly, slapping the tabletop with his palm. “It is sweet indeed! The Pistola Automatica Beretta Modello 1951 nine-millimeter Parabellum. Magazine of eight. Weighing one pound, fifteen ounces. Muzzle velocity: more than thirteen hundred feet per second. Dear lady, an excellent choice. Excellent! In addition, I am happy to tell you that I can supply this particular model in a factory-sealed carton, complete with extra magazine, cleaning tools, instruction booklet, and so forth. A pirated model, I must admit, but of excellent quality and workmanship. I have test-fired this particular shipment personally, and I do assure you the firearm is equal to the original design and well worth the stated price.”

  “I’ll need some, uh, bullets,” I said faintly.

  “But of course. Understood. At a very small additional cost. I suggest a box of fifty.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Then you are quite satisfied with this particular gun, dear lady?”

  “Oh yes. As long as you recommend it.”

  “I do indeed. But you will be happy to know that should it prove unsatisfactory, for whatever reason, I stand ready to buy it back within a year of purchase at a mere twenty-five percent reduction of your cost. That is my personal guarantee to you. Now just let me do a little quick arithmetic here to arrive at the total cost of weapon and ammunition.”

  “Plus tax?” I said lightly.

  “Pardon?” he said absently. “Oh no, dear lady, no tax.”

  He tucked the catalogue back into his attaché case and removed a small scratchpad. He figured rapidly with a gold ballpoint pen.

  “One nine-millimeter Parabellum automatic pistol in factory-sealed carton, plus fifty rounds of standard ammunition for same … one hundred and … carry the six … and we arrive at one fifty-three, seventy-two. Oh, let’s round it out to an even one hundred and fifty dollars. How does that strike you, dear lady? Is it within your budget?”