Paulus sat on the floor in the back of the truck, and fidgeted. It was pitch black in the truck, nothing to see, nothing to do. Paulus liked to be able to observe what was going on, to see symmetry in the motion around him, and to see whether or not things were going right. Sitting here in the truck, in darkness, while actions important to him were going on outside, was torture.
From time to time, Wycza’s walkie-talkie spoke out in Parker’s voice, saying where they were, what they’d done. That they’d ruined the equipment in the radio station. A little later, that they’d captured the guard on the west gate. Just the bare facts, unadorned.
It wasn’t enough. Paulus wanted to be able to see. He wanted to look at the radio station equipment and knowit was no longer workable. He wanted to see the guard, find out his name, watch his reactions, gauge the possible danger he might be during the course of the night. He wanted to know precisely the situation at the telephone company, the firehouse, the police station. He wanted to see exactly where Salsa was stationed near the town line. He wanted to have a clipboard, and a list, and a pencil with which to check off completed items satisfactorily handled. He wanted to see symmetry and balance and precision.
A match flared; Wycza lighting a stub of cigar. In the small light, Paulus again saw the plank floor and metal sides of the truck, saw Wycza and Wiss and Elkins sitting, like himself, on the floor, saw his own sturdy suitcase full of tools and the weatherbeaten black bag like a doctor’s bag in which Wiss kept his equipment. He looked at his watch, but he wasn’t fast enough; Wycza blew out the match.
He shook his head in annoyance. It was important to know the time, know whether or not they were keeping to the schedule. He reached for his own matches.
But a clinging self-consciousness wouldn’t let him light a match just to see his watch; he didn’t want the others to know he felt that strongly about knowing the time. So he got out his cigarettes, too, though he didn’t particular want a cigarette. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, and kept the match aflame till he’d read his watch.
Twelve thirty-five.
Not too bad. He’d be in at the bank vault well before one. He shook the match out, and sat holding the cigarette, not smoking it.
The walkie-talkie spoke again: “Got the east gate. Going into the main office now. You can get started, W.”
They had to use the initials because of Grofield. He was at the telephone company, with one of the walkie- talkies, and the women there could hear everything it said. It was Paulus who’d suggested the initials.
Wycza was saying, “Okay. You gonna prowl now?”
“After we get the main office.”
“Check.”
Paulus clambered to his feet, felt around in the dark, and picked up his suitcase. He moved toward the rear of the truck, and before he got there Elkins pushed the door open and jumped down to the street. Elkins reached up and took the black bag from Wiss, and Wiss clambered down more carefully. Paulus waited for Wycza, and as Wycza passed said, “You go first, I’ll hand you my suitcase.”
“Sure.”
Being the last out, Paulus was careful to close the truck doors again. He took the suitcase back from Wycza and stepped up on the sidewalk. Wiss and Elkins had already started across the street.
Directly ahead of Paulus was the Merchant’s Bank building, with the offices of Nationwide Finance & Loan Corporation on the second floor. The building was modernistic, made mostly of glass and chrome. Even the doors were mainly glass.
Paulus set his suitcase down near the doors and waited for Wycza to let him in. Wycza got his revolver from its shoulder holster, and used the butt to break the door glass. There were quieter, more scientific ways to do it, but they weren’t worried about noise here, and the scientific ways were all slower. Wycza reached through, unlocked the doors from the inside, and pushed them open.
Paulus followed him inside. Wycza had put his revolver away now and taken out a flashlight. The narrow beam showed wood-paneled counters with marble tops, and cream composition flooring, and a free form copper bas relief sprawled out on one wall. The vault door was in plain sight on the rear wall, huge and round and complex, looking like an escape hatch on a spaceship or the entrance to a torpedo tube in a submarine.
After the front door, there were no more obstacles to the vault, no doors to unlock or gates to jimmy. They lifted a flap at the end of the counter, walked through the loan department, took a left around a railing, and there was the vault door in front of them. Desks and railings and countertops hid them almost completely from the street.
While Wycza held the flashlight, Paulus studied the vault door. He nodded in recognition of the type, walked back and forth to consider it from various angles, and rubbed the knuckles of his hands together as he thought it out. Drill four holes, load, blast. He pursed his lips, and nodded. Now he was absorbed, completely absorbed.
Wycza said, “Any problems?”
“I don’t think so. Shine the light here a minute.”
He knelt and opened the suitcase, got the drill, selected a bit, changed his mind and selected another. He looked around and said, “Find me an outlet.”
“Over here.”
“Am I going to need the extension?”
“No.” Wycza laughed. “Handy, huh? The architect had you in mind.”
“Good of him.” Paulus carried the drill over to the vault, went down on one knee. “Hold the light steady, now.”
The drill began to whine.
6
