‘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 luncheonette.
‘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 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 decide 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 Morris 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 speciality. 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 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
