Then he was gone. Like that. One instant he was alive, fighting to breathe. The next instant a great gush of blood flooded from his mouth, his head flopped over limply.
I climbed shakily out of the truck. The others had stripped off their coveralls. Jack Donohue was leaning against the truck again, smoking a fresh cigarette. His eyes were narrowed against the smoke.
‘He’s dead,’ I said to Donohue. ‘Satisfied?’
He looked at me without expression.
it was your idea,’ he said.
I turned away.
Dick Fleming came climbing out of the van. I helped him get out of his soaked coveralls. Blood had seeped through to make dark stains on his pants and blotches on his white shirt. There were blood smears on his face; his hands were sticky with the stuff. He tried to wipe it all away with his handkerchief. I stood close to him. I put an arm across his shoulders. I could feel him shake.
‘I’ve never seen a man die before,’ he said in a low, unsteady voice. ‘I’ve never even seen a dead person before. That’s strange, isn’t it?’
No one seemed to know what to do next. They were all looking at Jack Donohue, waiting.
‘The problem is-’ he started.
‘The problem is,’ I said, ‘that it’s not just armed robbery now. The helper is dead. An innocent man. Now it’s felony homicide.’
‘Shut your fucking mouth,’ he said without rancor, ‘and let me think this out.’
We waited. The others moved around quietly, putting on jackets, raincoats, topcoats.
All right,’ Donohue said. ‘I’ve got it sorted out. Clement getting snuffed is too bad, but we all took our chances. Rather him than us — right? The problem is, we were going to Clement’s pad up in the Bronx. I never figured on going back to the Hotel Harding. So Clement said we could use his place to hide out and make the split. But with him burnt, that’s out. So now we need a new hidey-hole. We got to get out of here, that’s for sure. So where we’re going is …’ His head turned slowly until he was looking directly at Fleming. ‘We’re going to your place.’
‘Dick’s place?’ I gasped. ‘Why the hell there? Why not my apartment?’
‘No way,’ Donohue said, shaking his head. ‘Plenty of witnesses saw the Bonomo cleaning van. How long do you think it’ll take the cops to get the rip sheet from Bonomo, go back over the truck’s route, and nose around every stop? Then they find your abandoned Jag in front of that antique shop on Madison Avenue. They check out the license plate and go directly to your apartment. They could be there right now, waiting for you.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said.
‘They’ll run a chase on you,’ Donohue went on. ‘All your friends and acquaintances. Sooner or later they’ll come up with Fleming’s name and address. But that won’t be for a day or two. Meanwhile his apartment will be as safe as any place in the city. We checked it out. Ten apartments in an old, converted brownstone. Everyone in the place works; right now we’ll have the whole building to ourselves. Am I right, Fleming?’
Dick didn’t answer.
‘Okay,’ Donohue said, ‘let’s get moving. All the pillowcases out of the van and the Chevy, into the Volkswagen and Ford. We’ll go like this: me, Jannie, and Angela in the VW, me driving. Smiley, Gore, the Ghost, and Fleming in the rented Ford, Smiley driving.’
It took less than five minutes to transfer the loot to the final getaway cars. While everyone was working, Donohue wiped down the van with a pair of discarded coveralls, smearing door handles, doors, side panels, steering wheel, gear shift lever, the interior of the cab, and the back of the van. Then, for good measure, he did the same smear job on the Chevy.
Finally, just before we left, he climbed into the van one last time and came out with the sodden pillowcase that had been used to jam Clement’s fatal wound. Donohue dropped the mess onto the cement floor of the garage and set fire to it. We waited until the soaked pillowcase was entirely consumed by flickering blue flames.
We stood around, watching that sad little fire. It was like a Viking’s funeral for poor Clement. (I never did learn if that was his first or last name.) When the fire had burned down, flared up, went out, I thought that was the end of a man who hoped to be something he could never be. Now there was only a small heap of grayish ash on the greasy floor of an abandoned garage.
‘Let’s go,’ Jack Donohue said, but not before he transferred my manuscript, Project X, from the back seat of the Ford to the VW. That guy didn’t miss a trick.
Fleming’s brownstone was empty, just as Donohue knew it would be. Dick handed over his keys without demur, seemingly still stunned by the death of Clement in his arms. We went up to his apartment, a few at a time, lugging the bulging pillowcases. Angela never strayed far from my side, and there was always an armed man close to Dick.
Inside, door locked and chained, everyone collapsed on chairs and sofa, physically and emotionally drained. Donohue asked politely for whiskey, and Dick brought out a bottle of vodka and a half-filled jug of burgundy. Everyone had a healthy belt. It was like drinking hope.
‘All right,’ Donohue said, ‘now comes the birthday party. Let’s see what we’ve got …’
He cleared Dick’s desk, piling books, manuscripts, magazines on the floor. He hoisted up the first of the fourteen pillowcases and ripped off the tape. He began to lay out the contents neatly on the desktop. We all clustered about.
I don’t care how expertly you describe gems, nothing can match the awe-inspiring sight of the real things in profusion. I admit we all (me included) ooh’ed and ah’ed as the items came out of the pillowcases and were arranged in close rows on the dark walnut top of Dick’s desk.
Donohue raised the shade and winter sunlight streamed through to strike sparks from those precious stones. Chokers and rings, pendants and earrings: All flashed, glittered, caught fire and burned. They took the light, ignited, glowed from within. What a display that was! I forgot for the moment that all this was stolen property, taken at the cost of two lives. All I could see were hard white, green, and red flames, twinkling and gleaming.
Donohue picked out a gorgeous bracelet of small cabochon rubies and diamonds set in flowerlike clusters on a white gold band. He handed it to Angela with a courtly bow.
‘With our thanks and compliments,
I was about to cry ‘What about me?’ in an aggrieved tone, and caught myself just in time.
‘Smiley,’ Donohue said, gesturing toward the desktop, ‘how much would you guess?’
‘Quarter of a mil,’ Smiley said promptly. ‘At least.’
‘At least,’ Donohue agreed. ‘Maybe more. But that’s retail value. Still, twenty percent from a fence ain’t bad. All right, let’s keep score. That’s a quarter of a mil.’
He swept the jewelry back into the opened pillowcase and set it aside. He pulled up another case and stripped off the tape. This one contained boxes and packets that had been taken from the safe in the vault room of Brandenberg amp; Sons.
Donohue pulled out a flat, black leather box and set it on the desktop.
‘Here we go,’ he said, and raised the lid.
We all craned forward. Children opening their Christmas gifts.
Inside the case, nestled on puffed velvet, was a gorgeous three-strand necklace of alternating diamonds and emeralds on ornate gold chains. The three strands were joined in front to support an enormous marquise diamond that seemed to have a million facets. They caught the light and gave it back, so that all the faces thrust forward were illuminated. That gem burned.
There were gasps, cries, a few spoken words. Then all sounds died away. We stood in silence. Everyone was staring at a small, chaste metal label fixed to the inside of the case lid.
It read: ‘Devolte Bros. San Francisco.’
‘What the fuck?’ the Holy Ghost said in a deep, wondering voice.
‘Now wait a minute,’ Donohue said. ‘Wait just one cotton-picking minute. It could have been a loan. It could have been sent to Brandenberg on consignment. Let’s take a look.’
The next fifteen minutes were madness. All of us, Dick and I included, tore those pillowcases open, ripped them apart. The sparkling contents were dumped onto the desktop. Cases were jerked open, locked boxes
