“I suppose so.” Handy agreed doubtfully.
“Besides, his windows overlook the back of the house, and that’s the way we’ll be going in.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Handy shook his head and threw the match away. “I’m not used to this idea, breaking into a house. I’ll keep my mouth shut and let you do the planning.”
This was the second time they’d disagreed and Handy had admitted being wrong. The first time, Handy had wanted to wait till three or four in the morning, when the whole crowd would be asleep, but Parker had explained to him what was wrong with that.
“That way, there’s six of them in six different rooms, and a silent house. It’d take us too long to get them all squared away. If we wait till the Monopoly game’s on and Bronson’s wife is watching television in that little room on the right and Bronson is up in his den, we’ve got six people in three rooms, a house with enough noise in it so we can move around, and the only person on the second floor is the one we’re after. We won’t have to brace the bodyguards at all. We can by-pass them and go straight for Bronson. Just so we keep an eye on the stairs, that’s all.”
That last point, about by-passing the bodyguards, was what had mulled around in Handy’s head for the last few hours. If they were going to ignore the bodyguards, why not ignore the chauffeur, too?
Now that had been straightened out, and they were in agreement, Parker looked over at the house. “There goes the light on in the den. It’s time.”
“Right.”
They got out of the Olds and walked down the street on the park side, strolling, like friends out for a constitutional. Tonight, both wore topcoats, snug-fitting, to allow freedom of movement, and hats tilted back from their foreheads. Their shoes were rubber-soled and rubber-heeled. They had their hands in their topcoat pockets. Their guns were in their right-hand topcoat pockets.
Now that the time had finally come, Parker felt his tension draining away. At long last, the peace of working hours was spreading through him. It could take an hour to walk around the block; it wouldn’t matter. He was patient, and calm, and certain.
They crossed over, went down the dim cross street, turned right. This narrow street was lit only at the intersections, leaving a pool of darkness in the middle, where the rear driveway to Bronson’s house was. They walked down that way, their shoes silent on the sidewalk, and then slipped through the hedge on to Bronson’s grounds. The blacktop muffled their steps, too; they would have had to be more cautious with gravel.
To their right, was the four-car garage. An outside stairway up the far side led to the apartment above. Parker and Handy, guns now in their hands, hurried across the face of the garage, and then moved slowly and cautiously up the white wooded stairs. The sky was blanketed by cloud masses; it was a moonless, starless, black night. The white stairs were vague grey shapes in the darkness.
At the top was a landing with a door. There was a four-paned window in the door, covered with thick curtains, so that only a vague hint of light came through.
Parker rapped on the door. A sudden startled voice from inside called, “Just a second!”
Parker raised an eyebrow, surprised. He’d expected the chauffeur to ask who it was, and he’d intended saying that Bronson wanted to see him. Which should have been enough to make the chauffeur open the door. The guns would have done the rest, keeping the chauffeur quiet while they went in and tied and gagged him. But the chauffeur hadn’t asked anything at all. Which maybe meant he was expecting somebody. Parker glanced towards the house, but saw nothing. No lights were on in the rear of the house; no one was coming towards the garage.
He’d have to make sure, once they got inside.
The door opened and the chauffeur stood there, wearing black trousers, an undershirt, and brown slippers. He looked at them, at the guns in their hands, took a step backward, crying “Oh my God!” He looked as though he were going to faint. He made no attempt to shut the door again.
Parker had the crazy feeling the chauffeur had been expecting him, that he, Parker, was the one the chauffeur had been waiting for.
The chauffeur’s face was curiously mottled. He kept backing away across the room, shaking his head, gesturing wildly, and murmuring, “My God, my God! I knew it, I knew it. My God, I knew it”
Parker walked in and to the right, and Handy came in after him, shutting the door. Parker said, “Take it easy. Don’t get excited, just take it easy.”
But the chauffeur kept backing away and muttering to himself, until he ended up against the far wall. He stood there, shaking his head, terrified out of his wits, his hands still making vague, half-formed movements.
They were in the living room. It was nicely set up with modern furniture and pole lamps and a large stereo rig against one wall.
Handy was frowning at the chauffeur, just as baffled as Parker. “What’s the matter with you?” He looked at Parker. “What the hell’s the matter with him?”
“I knew it,” mumbled the chauffeur. “I knew it, I knew it, my God, I knew it! Why didn’t I have some sense, why didn’t I”
“I don’t know,” said Parker. “You. Shut up.”
The chauffeur immediately shut up. He brought his hands to his sides and kept them there. He stood at a sort of ragged attention, leaning backwards against the wall.
And then all of a sudden Parker understood. He laughed and said, “Watch him, Handy. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing.”
“Mister,” said the chauffeur. His voice was hoarse. He sounded as though he were going to start pleading.
“Just shut up a minute, friend.” Parker walked on by him.
Beyond the living room was a dining room and a hall that led to a kitchen, with a bedroom and bathroom off that to the right. Parker went to the bedroom door and turned the knob. It was locked.
