Parker was in the prowl car, driving aimlessly this way and that, the walkie-talkie on the seat beside him. At the firehouse, Chambers had commandeered the playing cards and was dealing out hand after hand of solitaire, waiting for George to make a run for the door. At the telephone company, Grofield was playing charades with George’s niece Mary; she was laughing. At police headquarters, in the Command Room, Edgars sat inside his hood and brooded on his own plans.
Pop Phillips was half-asleep, sitting on a tilted-back chair in the guard shack by the east gate. In the main plant building, Littlefield sat in a coil of tension, waiting for the phone to ring and wondering what he would do if it did. At the other end of town, Salsa sat with stolid patience in a brand new Oldsmobile, watching the empty street. There was a car a little ways ahead, parked at the curb, and a streetlight shone on its license plate, a dull tan with the number in dark brown. Below the number was the legend PEACE GARDEN STATE; Salsa wondered idly what that meant.
Two a.m.
Eddie Wheeler was asleep, his face against cold asphalt. In the morning he would have the beginnings of a bad headcold, but he’d be alive. Officer Mason, three firemen, and Mrs Sawyer at the phone company were all also asleep, leaving ten of the prisoners still awake.
Kerwin had finished the plant safe, finally, and loaded the payroll into the station wagon. He had driven down Raymond Avenue to the truck, transferred the payrollin white canvas bank bagsto the truck, and carried his bag of tools to Credit Jewelers, where he was now once again opening a safe. Paulus was walking through Komray’s Department Store with a flashlight, looking for the office. Wiss had just left the five-and-dime and was entering the shoe store next door. Wycza and Elkins were loading the truck.
Pop Phillips was asleep. Littlefield was chain-smoking. Salsa was standing beside the Oldsmobile, stretching his legs. Chambers was cheating at solitaire. Parker was driving around in the prowl car. Edgars was moodily studying the submachine gun, waiting for the time to be right. Grofield knew Mary Deegan wanted him to kiss her, but he couldn’t figure out how to do it without removing the hood.
Three a.m.
Five prisoners remained awake; Officer Nieman, George Deegan and his niece, one other fireman, and the guard from the west gate. All other citizens were asleep, except one insomniac who had two chapters to go in the mystery he was reading.
Wiss and Paulus and Kerwin were opening safes; Wycza and Elkins were emptying them. Salsa was back in the Oldsmobile, thinking of women. Edgars was growing impatient. Grofield’s hood was off; so were Mary Deegan’s panties.
Three forty-five a.m.
Wycza opened the cab door of the truck, stepped up, sat down to rest a minute, and switched on his walkie- talkie. “This is W,” he said, “You there, P?” He felt stupid, using initials; you might know Paulus would dream up something like that.
Parker answered: ‘What’s up?”
“Everything’s open. We’ll be done quicker than we thought. All five of us are loading now.”
“How much longer?”
“Half an hour, maybe less.”
“S, you hear that?”
Salsa picked up the walkie-talkie. “I hear it. That’s very good.” He put the walkie-talkie down on the seat again and lit a new cigarette.
Parker said, “G, you there?”
Grofield had been trying to explain to Mary Deegan why he couldn’t take her along, and she’d begun to get mad, had just pointed out that she could identify him now. He was grateful for the interruption. He went over and picked up the walkie-talkie and said, “Right here.”
“Spread the word. We’ll be ready to clear out in half an hour.”
“Right.”
Grofield went over to the desk and picked up the phone. Mary followed him, saying, “I don’t see why you can’t take me.
“In a minute, all right? Just one minute.” He dialed police headquarters, went through Officer Nieman, got Edgars, told him, “We’ll be moving out in half an hour.”
“So soon? Thanks.” Edgars hung up, picked up the machine gun, and sprayed bullets into Officers Nieman and Mason and Felder. He went down the well-remembered hall to the armory, shot the lock off, went in and opened the metal box in the corner. World War II souvenirs, impounded by the police, including three live hand grenades. He took them, left the building, and went across the street to the firehouse.
Grofield’s second call was to Littlefield, who jumped when the phone rang as though he’d been hit by a live wire. He fumbled the receiver, dropped it, picked it up again, and tried to clear his throat while he was saying hello. Grofield told him about the speed-up, and Littlefield nearly fainted from relief. But after that, he wasn’t tense any more; if the phone rang again, no matter who it was calling, he wouldn’t be nervous or frightened at all.
Grofield called the firehouse, got Chambers, and said, “It’s running faster than we thought. We’ll be going in about half an hour.”
“Boy, you’ll never know how Hey!”
“What?”
It sounded like a machine gun, roaring away there at the other end. Then the line went dead.
Forgetting himself, Grofield shouted, “Chambers! Chambers!” But the line was dead.
Mary was staring at him wide-eyed. “What is it? What’s the matter?” The other two women were stirring, disturbed out of sleep.
Grofield had the walkie-talkie now, was saying, “P. Listen, something’s gone wrong.”
“What?”
“The firehouse. I don’t know what it is. Sounded like machine gun fire, and then we were cut off.”
