Invitation to Violence

CHAPTER ONE

Ignoring the legal aspects of the matter, the question still remains. Is Gerald Hanna a rogue and a criminal? Is he, in fact, a cold-blooded murderer; a man who callously permitted another man to be killed so that he could profit to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars?

Or, as some believe who were intimate with him and thoroughly conversant with the details of the situation, is Gerald Hanna merely a fearless, public-spirited citizen who did his duty as he saw it?

There are a number of opinions on the matter and it is significant that these opinions vary widely. Certainly Sue Dunne, herself deeply involved in the incidents surrounding the case, has her opinion. And so does Miss Maryjane Swiftwater, who, although she really knows nothing of what went on, has been Gerald’s fiancee for more years than she cares to remember and certainly knows him well.

It is a coincidence that Fred Slaughter should have shared the opinion held by Detective Lieutenant Hopper, as each man was vitally concerned, but from completely different sides of the fence.

Young Vince Dunne himself might have formed a very firm attitude about the thing, but unfortunately Vince didn’t live long enough really to know Gerald Hanna. He met Gerald only once in his life and then but for a few moments. Although the contact was very brief, it was extremely intimate. The thing is that Vince was really in no condition to form any opinions about anything, at the time of their encounter.

One thing is sure. When Vince sneaked away from the small apartment he shared with his sister Sue on that fatal Saturday evening to keep his rendezvous with Dommie and Jake, he had no idea that such a person as Gerald existed, let alone that he would ever meet him.

It is more than probable that any conjecture concerning the matter of Gerald’s character would be more or less pointless and without value, unless one were to sit back and, calmly and with dispassion, review the events which actually took place and learn at firsthand exactly what did and what did not happen.

These, then, are the facts.

Vince Dunne was the first one to show up at the tavern where they agreed to meet shortly after ten o’clock. He carried the black leather jacket, the gas mask and the peaked cap in a small zipper bag, along with the .38 and the half box of cartridges.

There was something vaguely furtive about his manner as he pushed through the wide, half-curtained door and entered the place. He was aware of this characteristic and it annoyed him. He was nineteen years old, old enough to walk up to any bar and order a drink. But he felt the shyness and the hesitancy he always felt when he went into a barroom, or in fact, any public establishment.

He looked his age, but no more, and he always worried that a bartender would turn him down when he walked to the mahogany counter and ordered a drink. The idea of having to prove his age, in front of a lot of strangers, embarrassed him and as a result, his manner was not only furtive but a little defiant as well. He walked as though he carried a chip on his shoulder and being rather slight and of no more than medium height, this tended to give him a somewhat tough and arrogant manner.

He didn’t want to be mistaken for a kid, but if it had to be that way, he wanted people to know that at least he was a tough kid. It was a little unfortunate as actually he was normally a pleasant-looking boy with wide-spaced eyes in an overly sensitive face. He had a slightly snubbed nose, a generous mouth, but a rather weak chin. It may be said that these identical facial characteristics in his sister made her an extremely attractive girl.

Vince didn’t look at all like a boy who would be carrying a .38 revolver.

He had left the house a little before he had to, knowing it might be tough getting out. Sue was home and she would, quite naturally, want to know where he was going and why.

Any other night but this particular Friday would have been fine. Sue worked evenings, but this was her night off and she was home. She was home, and as always, she was suspicious. She’d been suspicious about everything he did since they’d let him out on probation.

Sue was nineteen also; his twin sister. Her attitude really burned him up, but Vince was in no position to complain. He was fresh out of the can and Sue was paying the bills.

Vince was the man in the family, but it was Sue who’d been holding things together since the death of their mother. He rebelled against her, but it was a silent sort of rebellion and never flared into open resentment. In his heart Vince knew that Sue really cared for him; really wanted to keep him out of trouble.

So Vince had told her that he wanted to hit a late movie and although she hadn’t believed him, she’d let him go and now he was here and waiting. Waiting for Dommie and Jake.

He could count on Dommie being punctual. Dommie was twenty-one and he still lived with his mother and father and he, too, would have trouble getting away from his house. Like Vince, he’d foresee the trouble and make his alibi early. Dommie was a lot more afraid of his father and his mother than he was of the police.

Only Jake would be able to stroll in at exactly the moment he was expected to arrive. Jake was in charge of the job, had even helped plan it with the big wheel who was backing them and who was the real brain; the one who would take the stuff off their hands and dispose of it.

Vince had heard a lot about this man-this big heel. He didn’t know him by name because Jake was a lot too smart to throw names around, but Vince had a pretty good idea who he was. He’d met several of Jake’s friends and knew that Jake had important connections. Jake usually introduced them as “Mr. Smith” and there was one particular “Mr. Smith” who’d been taking a lot of interest in Vince lately. He had his own ideas all right, but he’d been much too smart to get nosy. It was one thing he’d learned while doing his stretch-don’t get nosy. It didn’t pay, not if a guy wanted to get places.

When Dommie came into the place, some fifteen minutes after Vince himself showed, he didn’t as much as acknowledge Vince’s presence with a nod. He just walked right past him and went up to the bar and ordered a shot, although Jake had warned him against it.

“A beer, nothing else, while you’re waiting,” Jake had said.

It was no problem as far as Vince was concerned. He didn’t like whisky and only took a beer now and then to show that he was grown up. But Dommie liked his booze. Not that he was a lush or anything like that; he just liked a quick shot now and then to give him a lift. Vince couldn’t blame him for disobeying Jake’s orders. He would very likely need that lift before the night was over.

Dommie had the tricky job. He was the one who would handle the chopper and he had to be on his toes, had to be keen.

As Jake explained it while they’d been making the plans, “You have to have perfect coordination; a submachine gun is a lot different than a sawed-off shotgun or an automatic.”

“Not that there’s much chance you’ll have to use it,” Jake said. “But if you do, you gotta be right. There’s just twenty shots in each clip and there won’t be any chance to change clips once you get into action. With perfect timing, you can limit a burst to five or six shots. That means you get three bursts. Four at the most. Then you are through.

“You gotta remember that and you gotta be absolutely calm and cool. If you do have to use the thing, it’s going to mean we’re in a jam and that’s the one time it isn’t easy to be calm. So you have to remember. Three rounds, four at the most. No time to reload if anything goes wrong. If you blow up and hold your finger on the trigger and let all twenty shots go at once, the last ten of them are going to be up in the air because that’s the way a chopper works. And you won’t be getting any second chances.”

Later on they’d driven up to the place in the Catskills, the farm that belonged to one of Jake’s “Mr. Smiths,” and Jake had taken the machine gun out of the case and had let Dommie get familiar with it. Dommie had shot off one clip, and right away he knew what Jake had been talking about. He’d had to be satisfied with the single clip as Jake didn’t want to take any chances on creating curiosity and attracting attention.

Dommie was finishing his drink when Jake walked into the tavern. Jake didn’t look at either of them, but went at once to the men’s room. Vince turned away from the juke box and went out and climbed into the rear of the Ford sedan standing at the curb a couple of doors down the street. The parking lights were on and the engine was idling.

Dommie got in a moment later, sitting in the front, and then Jake was back behind the steering wheel and they were pulling away from the curb.

“Any trouble about the car?” Vince asked, leaning forward as Jake swung into Northern Boulevard and headed east down the island and away from Corona.

“None. Don’t talk.”

He’s touchy, Vince thought. Edgy. Well, he couldn’t blame him. They were all edgy. Hell, who wouldn’t be, starting out on a caper like this?

It is an ironic coincidence that at this very moment, the moment Jake Riddle, driving east on Long Island, ordered Vince not to talk, Gerald Hanna should have pushed his hand into the discard, yawned widely and said, “There’s too much talk.”

Gerald leaned back in his chair and looking a little bored and a little amused, shrugged his shoulders and continued.

“I think I’ll just call it quits for the night and take off,” he said. “Have to be up early, you know. I’m about even and I should be getting…”

They didn’t give him a chance to finish.

“It’s early, kid,” Herb Potter said. “You can’t quit now. We need you. Stick it out for another hour. You’ll bust up the game if you leave now. Come on boy, just another hour.”

Gerald sighed as the others joined in with Potter, urging him to stay.

Well, what the hell. He might just as well hang on for a little longer. It really didn’t matter too much. The game bored him, but so did everything else. Even the idea of leaving and going home and getting the sleep which he wanted and needed, bored him.

“O.K,” he said. “O.K, deal ’em out, boy. If you insist on making me a rich man, what can I do about it?” Gerald laughed and pushed his ante toward the center of the table.

“I guess you’re right. It really doesn’t make any difference if I leave now or I leave later.”

He couldn’t, of course, have been more wrong. It made all the difference in the world and to a great many persons, none of whom, with the exception of Maryjane Swiftwater, Gerald’s fiancee, he had ever met or even suspected existed.

Jake drove at a reasonable speed, careful about stoplights and signs. He tried to concentrate on his driving and think of nothing else, but it was impossible to devote his entire attention to the road, methodically unfolding in front of his headlights. His mind kept going back to Sammy.

My God, Jake thought, in another few years Sammy would be as old as that punk in the back seat. In less than six months the boy would be having his bar mizvah, and then, if time went as fast as it had been going these last few years, before he knew it, the boy would be a man. A man in body and in heart and in mind.

Well, there was one thing for sure. Sammy wasn’t going to turn out like young Dunne, or like Dommie, sitting here beside him. Sammy was going to keep on going to school. To high school and then to college and after that, by God, if he wanted to be a doctor or something, he could still go on learning. Jake was going to make sure of that, if it was the last thing he ever did. Sammy wasn’t going to end up like these other kids. He was going to learn something, going to be a gentleman.

Sammy was his and Belle’s son, their only child. But it wasn’t even that which mattered. If they’d have had ten kids, he’d have felt the same way about it. They would all have the same opportunities, all be brought up right. To have respect for their parents and to be good, decent members of society.

Yeah, if he, Jake Riddle, had to knock off a hundred jewelry stores, if he had to rob and murder or anything else, his kid was going to have the best. Sammy deserved the best. He was a fine boy; a good boy. Smart. A damned sight smarter than his old man, sitting here driving a hot car on a hotter job.

They arrived in Manhasset in just under thirty minutes. The movie theater was in the center of the block, on the right-hand side of the street and someone had just cut out the marquee lights as the last show was already underway and the box office had been closed for the night.

The theater was a segment in a series of buildings recently constructed and the builder, fully conversant with both modern design and modern necessity, had arranged so that a large area in back of the structures could be devoted to a parking area. An alley leading into this parking lot lay between the theater itself and the block of stores next to it on the eastern side. Jake held out his hand and signaled before making the turn and swinging the car down the long ramp.

The lot was still pretty well filled with cars of theater patrons and they found a place to park near the back fence, between a Caddie and a Pontiac station wagon.

Jake cut out the lights and the three of them got out. They left everything in the car. Jake checked to be sure that the right key was on the ring, and then locked the doors after winding up the windows.

A man and a woman were getting into a car in the next aisle and they waited a moment or two, until the man had started his motor and pulled away. Then they walked quickly to the rear of the theater.

Candy was there, where he’d promised to be, next to the door with the dim, red-lighted EXIT sign over it. He was in his uniform and he looked like a frail, black ghost. He was looking down at the luminous dial of his wrist watch and his voice was a thin, nervous whisper.

“O.K,” he said. “O.K, snap it up. I been here too long already. They’ll be wondering up front.”

He stepped aside and they quickly entered. Candy closed the door after them and locked it and then brushed past them, leading the way down the long hall and to the stairs. He went down first, muttering a whispered warning that they watch their step.

He didn’t wait once they were in the tiny, unused dressing room, a throwback to the mistaken idea of the ex-manager who had hoped to put on amateur nights.

“No noise,” he said, “an’ don’t smoke. No lights.”

He flicked on a cigarette lighter giving them time to find the folding chairs and seat themselves and then stole out of the room like a soft breath of wind.

None of them spoke. They sat there, each silent and buried in his own thoughts.

At least I’ve told the truth up to this point, was the thought going through Vince Dunne’s mind. He smiled secretly to himself. He’d told” Sue he was going to the movies and he was in the movies. It would be a little tricky, later on, after he got his cut, but he’d figure out something. Give her a song and dance about a job and so be able to account for the money he’d have. But he’d have to be awfully damned careful about it. He was still on parole; a ward of the state until his twenty-first birthday. So-he’d just be careful, that was all.

He began then to think about the next couple of hours and in spite of himself, he could feel the sweat coming out on his forehead. It was going to be big time all right.

Dommie was thinking about girls. He didn’t want to think about what they were going to do. He’d been in on other jobs before, but nothing quite like this. Nothing in the real money. It was new to him and he wasn’t at all sure of himself, but he didn’t have any real worries about it. He knew that everything was planned down to the last detail. Knew that Jake, and that other one, the real big guy, had everything laid out.

The stuff was up there, in the store next door, and all they had to do was go in and get it. The only thing which bothered him at all was the knowledge that the Pinkerton man was up there also. It wasn’t as though he was a real cop, but Dommie knew that he carried a gun and had a license to use it. Dommie just hoped that the business with the gas would work out all right.

He shook his head and muttered an oath under his breath. The hell with it; it wouldn’t get him anywhere worrying about things. He went back to thinking about girls. Man, this little deal was going to make it a lot simpler. Money, plenty of money, could solve any problem. Especially the girl problem.

Jake, on the other hand, made a conscientious effort to keep his mind off anything but the immediate work in front of them. He didn’t want to think about young Sammy or young Sammy’s mother. Somehow, sitting here waiting to pull the job, it just didn’t seem right to think of your wife and your son.

His mind went to the place next door and what he knew was in that place. And it was there all right. He’d seen the stuff only that morning, soon after the store had opened.

God, a quarter of a million in jewels! And out here in the sticks. It just hadn’t seemed possible. But of course it was possible and the stuff was there, just where the newspapers had said it would be. It certainly made an impressive display. And for a lousy little local jewelry store in the center of a shopping center.

Of course it was true that the store was a branch of a big important Fifth Avenue store and the stuff was only there as a sort of publicity stunt during opening week, but still and all. It was really something. No wonder they kept the private cop on duty day and night.

That certainly wasn’t a part of the publicity stunt. After all, neighborhood jewelry shops aren’t exactly equipped to carry a quarter of a million in ice in their tin safes. And it was a lucky thing they weren’t, too. Otherwise he and these punks wouldn’t be sitting here waiting around to take it away.

Dommie suddenly spoke, his voice sounding hollow in the confines of the small room.

“Must be at least an hour by now,” he said.

“Shut up,” Jake quickly growled. “No talking. Hasn’t been more’n about fifteen, twenty minutes. Just sit tight and shut up.”

Vince coughed and quickly covered his mouth. He knew Jake would be only too well aware of exactly what time it was, watch or no watch. He himself knew that the picture upstairs would be off at around eleven-fifteen; that the place would be cleared out within another ten to fifteen minutes. Candy was the one who would close up. He was the last man out. Candy could be counted on. He’d be down to get them a couple of minutes before he was ready to lock up for the night. And then they’d have exactly five minutes to get out and get the stuff from the car and get back inside again.

Candy returned at exactly twenty minutes to twelve. He knocked very softly on the door and a second later opened it and entered. He waited until he was inside before he switched on the flashlight. He’d changed from his usher’s uniform to his street clothes.

“O.K,” he said. “Let’s go. I wanna get out of here and get home as soon as possible and get my alibi set. I’m the one they’re goin’ to be questioning an’ I gotta be ready.”

He used a small pencil flash and they followed him upstairs. Back at the exit door, Vince stayed behind with Candy as Dommie and Jake returned to the car.

Jake was careful to make sure that the parking lot was empty and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the Ford sedan sitting alone against the fence.

Quickly they went to the car and Jake unlocked the door and reached in for the suitcase, handing it to Dommie.

“Take this and the guns,” he said, “and be careful. Give ’em to Vince and get right back. I can handle the tank alone, but I’ll need help with the hose and the tools.”

As Dommie left, Jake closed the door and then went around to the front of the car and lifted the hood. He put the brace under it and returned to the rear of the sedan, opening the trunk. By the time Dommie had returned, he’d removed the steel tank and was taking out the coiled-up hose.

He closed the trunk and turned and followed Dommie back to the EXIT door of the theater, carrying the tank carefully in both arms. Dommie had the hose draped over his shoulder.

“You left the hood up,” Dommie whispered.

“Sure I left it up,” Jake said in a low, irritated voice. “The cops check this lot two or three times a night. Looking for kids who come in here for little parties. They see the car with the hood up, they won’t bother it. They’ll figure some guy had trouble. Anyway, don’t worry. Just get moving.”

Back in the theater, Jake waited until Candy had once again closed and locked the doors.

“Grab one of the bags,” he said.

“Not me, boy,” he said. “I ain’t got no gloves on an’ I ain’t leaving no prints on nothing.”

He led the way once more, this time turning halfway down the hall and entering the theater proper from a side door. The others followed him with their burdens. They went up the aisle and just before coming to the end of the long rows of seats, Candy stopped for a second.

“I’m turning off the light now,” he said. “We’re going into the lobby and anyone going by can see the reflection. You have to work it in the dark.”

He went on and they passed through the double doors.

Two red lights over exit doors leading off the lobby, kept burning twenty-four hours a day, cast a dim, eerie light and they could just barely make out each other’s shadowy figures.

“You all are on your own,” Candy said. Once more he moved off like a disembodied ghost, and a second later they heard the slam of the outside door and then the sharp click of the lock as Candy pulled it tight.

Jake gently put the tank on the floor and took a small spot flashlight from his pocket.

“No talking now,” he said. As he spoke he switched on the light aiming it up on the wall to his left where he knew the vent would be. The fight was on for only a split second but in that brief moment they all saw it. The grilled vent which led outside, but which they knew was only a few inches from a similar vent leading into the building next door.

“Get the hose attached and then hand me the end of it,” Jake said. “Vince, you find a damned chair or something I can stand on. And both of you be careful not to hit the valve on that tank. One mistake and they’ll find us all laying here when they open up for the matinee tomorrow afternoon.”

Five minutes later Jake stepped down from the leather seat of the chair.

“She’s in,” he said, “in and I got her plugged up around the hose as well as I can. But you better get the gas masks ready, just in case.”

He leaned down and fumbled around for a minute and then found the valve on the gas tank. Quickly he turned it on full.

“O.K,” he said, “back into the theater now. Get the tools out and have everything set. We got time, but we want everything ready. We’ll give it another twenty-five minutes, just to be on the safe side. If that Pinkerton hasn’t passed out by then, nothing will ever knock him over.”

He turned the flash on his wrist watch.

“At exactly a quarter to one we start breaking through the wall. I figure twenty minutes for that at the most. And be damned sure to keep the masks on.”

Once again he flicked on the light and quickly looked at the others.

“Dommie,” he said, “get the chopper out. Get out into the lobby and stay right there. Stay where you can watch the street. Anything suspicious, just the two short whistles. If anything happens once we get into the jewelry store, I expect you to stay right there and cover us until we get a chance to get out. Remember one thing, it’ll only take us five minutes once we get through the wall.”

“A lot can happen in five minutes,” Dommie said.

“A hellofa lot can happen,” Jake said. “But that’s just why you are going to be out there with the chopper. The chopper is the difference. All you have to do is remember that. The difference.”

“You think it would be safe to light a butt?” Vince asked. “They can’t see nothing in here.”

“No,” Jake said. “No cigarettes. And keep your voice low. Now Vince, just to review it. Once we get our hands on the stuff, I come back through the wall and pick up Dommie. We go out the way we came in, through the back door. We pick up the heap and drive around in front. You, Vince, come out through the front door of the jewelry store with the stuff. It’s a simple snap lock, opening from the inside.”

Vince cleared his throat.

“Only thing I don’t like is my coming out through that front door,” he said. “I still can’t see why…”

“I told you a thousand times,” Jake said, irritation in his voice. “I told you. The one really dangerous moment is when we start to drive out of the parking lot. A police cruiser comes along then and stops us and they’d stop us for sure. We’d be blocked in and wouldn’t have a hope. They check that parking lot two or three times a night. Looking for kids laying up. If by any chance they happen to hit us as Dommie and I are getting in, we got a chance to make a breakout. If we get caught, at least we ain’t got the loot and we can ditch the guns when we see ’em coming.

“But you’ll be in the clear and you’ll have the stuff. If everything goes all right, all you gotta do is walk out the front door. It’s a snap lock and closes behind you. We’ll be in front ready to pick you up and then, if the cops should happen by, at least we’re not trapped. We’re in the open and we got a chance.”

Dommie scratched a match to light a cigarette and Jake quickly cursed him and told him to put it out. And so they just sat there then, waiting.

The second time Jake flicked on the light and checked his watch, he grunted and got up from where he was squatting on his heels.

“All right, Dommie,” he said. “Out front. This is it. Vince, let me have the sledge. Hold the light and keep it on the wall. This stuff is nothing but plaster and lathe and it should go like cheese.”

Dommie walked into the lobby, carrying the machine gun under his arm as the first dull blow reverberated throughout the empty theater.

Vince suddenly stopped worrying. Now that they were in action, there was no longer time to worry. Anyway, he felt a quick surge of confidence. It was going to work. It was bound to work.

It was odd, odd and just a bit ironic, that he should have been reflecting upon the utter mediocrity of his life when the incident occurred.

The seven of clubs was responsible. That is to say, the seven of clubs which Gerald Hanna had drawn to fill an inside straight during the last hand of the evening had started him thinking about himself and about his life.

Gerald Hanna was not a man to draw to an inside straight. He wouldn’t, normally, gamble on any kind of straight, even if it was the last hand. As he pushed the money into the pot and asked for the card, he was subconsciously amazed at his audacity.

The fact that he filled, that he drew a seven to make a ten high run, so completely surprised him that for a moment or two he sat there thoroughly stunned.

Bill Baxter had to ask him twice what he wanted to do after he himself checked the bet.

It was the usual Friday night game, which was always held in Bill’s place, Bill being the only one of the regulars who was unmarried, or didn’t live with his family, or who had a suitable apartment. Bill worked down at Seaboard Life with Gerald and several of the other players.

Dr. Harry Kline, an examiner for the insurance company, and four or five other men who were regulars, were playing that evening.

It was a friendly kind of game, the sort of thing which happens in a thousand towns and cities where several men get together once a week for a night out. The limits were modest, usually a ten cent ante and a quarter raise with only two consecutive raises allowed, in keeping with the incomes, and the responsibilities, of the players. They were men in the six to ten thousand dollar a year bracket.

Mostly they would drink a few beers during the evening and the money for this was taken out of the pot a week in advance, although now and then Doc Kline would bring along a bottle of Scotch which he would share with anyone who cared for a drink.

The game started at eight o’clock and broke up sometime after midnight. No one ever got hurt very badly and there was never any ill feeling or anger. The nearest they ever came to it was the time Herb Potter got drunk and insisted on raising the limits after he’d gone for three hours without a hand. Even that was understandable and forgiven as it happened only a couple of weeks after Herb’s youngster died of polio and everyone knew that he was still feeling pretty much broken up.

They played a fair brand of poker, considering everything. It was usually straight draw with jacks or better to open, or five card stud and each player pretty much knew every other player’s game. Packy Wilson was inclined to bluff and Doc Kline was overly cagey, never staying unless he had a little the best of it before the draw, but all in all they played very evenly and conservatively.

No one, least of all Gerald Hanna, would have dreamed of drawing to an inside straight. But on this particular night Gerald did. And he filled. He raised twice and won over a pair of aces and jacks held by Doc Kline, taking in around four-eighty on the hand, which put him about six dollars ahead for the evening.

While he was pulling in the pot, Gerald told Doc Kline that he’d filled an inside straight and Doc Kline laughed sourly and, in a good-natured way, called him the world’s biggest liar.

“Don’t kid me,” Doc said. “You draw to an inside straight? Boy that’s one I’ll never believe. I’ll bet you haven’t left your house on a cloudy day in the last ten years without an umbrella and your rubbers.”

The funny thing was that Doc Kline was right. Gerald hadn’t.

Bill Baxter’s apartment was in the East Seventies and when they broke up, Doc Kline offered to drive Hanna home as he also lived on Long Island. Gerald rented a room and bath in Roslyn from a family who had been friends of his mother.

Gerald explained he’d driven his own car in that morning. He didn’t wait around to have the final post-game glass of beer with the others.

“Want to get to bed as soon as I can,” he said. “Got to get an early start in the morning and the traffic will probably be lousy, it being Saturday.”

They all knew what he meant.

Each week end, after the Friday night game, Gerald went to his rooms for a few hours’ sleep and then got up before dawn on Saturday morning to drive up to Connecticut to spend the week end with his girl.

They knew all about Gerald’s girl. He’d been engaged now for five years. Maryjane lived with her invalid father and worked as a librarian, and Gerald and she had agreed that they wouldn’t get married until he was earning enough to continue sending money to his own family and also support her father. It was the sensible thing to do, Gerald would argue, although now and then he began to wonder if he ever was going to get married, or if he actually really wanted to any longer.

In the meantime he saw Maryjane on week ends, and they did simple, inexpensive things together, like swimming and picnicking and going to the movies. Maryjane had become a habit. It was like everything else in his life, he reflected, a trifle bitterly. Dull, safe, respectable and routine.

Gerald left Bill’s apartment at ten to one and drove up the Drive to the Triborough Bridge and out to Long Island, Traffic was light when he reached Northern Boulevard and headed east. He obeyed all stoplights and stayed well within the speed limit. He was still thinking about that seven of clubs when he passed through Great Neck and reached the outskirts of Manhasset.

He was thinking of the seven of clubs and he was thinking of the incredible dullness of his own life. Until he was almost parallel to the Gorden-Frost Jewelry store he was completely oblivious of his surroundings, driving through the all too familiar streets by sheer instinct and with his mind a thousand miles away.

Jake had been optimistic about the time it would take to smash through the partition separating the theater from the jewelry store. It was closer to a half hour than to twenty minutes. Jake himself handled the heavy sledge hammer, not trusting Vince to use it for fear of his making too much noise.

Vince stood behind the older man, holding the pencil flash and wishing there was something he could do. The inactivity intensified nervousness and try as he might, he was unable to control the shaking of his hands.

For the first time since he had embarked on the venture, he began to have serious misgivings. It couldn’t work. They were bound to fail. The wall wouldn’t break down and even if it did, they would enter the jewelry store only to find the private detective waiting for them with his gun drawn. He was suddenly sure, now that it was too late, that the entire thing was impossible. Someone was bound to hear the heavy blows of the sledge and set up an alarm.

Vince strained his ears, trying to catch the wail of the police sirens he was positive must be approaching.

For a moment the flashlight wavered in his hands and in that instant, Vince had an irresistible desire to drop it and turn and flee for the rear exit of the theater. He half turned, prepared to put the thought into action, when Jake’s quick curse penetrated his mind.

“Jeeze, hold that light still,” he said in a husky whisper. “How the hell can I see.”

Vince quickly refocused the light. But he was unable to keep his mind from wandering.

He would have given anything, at that moment, to be back home in his own bed. Back home with Sue. Sue had been right. She was always right. If he didn’t behave himself, sooner or later he would end up in real trouble. God, if he’d only listened to her. But it was too late now, too late to do anything but go ahead. He was trapped; there was no turning back.

Jake was through with the sledge now. He’d broken through the plaster and had encountered the tough wire lathing. Jake had hoped that he’d encounter wood lathing, but he’d taken no chances. The heavy tin shears were in the bag and he lowered the gas mask in order to ask Vince to hand them to him.

Jake’s shirt was wet with sweat as he worked and Vince knew that the man’s face must be dripping under the gas mask. He could feel the water running down his own face and the plastic goggles kept clouding up with steam. He had to admire the way Jake handled things, the deliberate, steady pace with which he went about making the hole in the wall. Vince envied the other man his coolness under tension. He was feeling anything but calm and cool himself.

And then, before he realized it, they were through the wall and in the jewelry store.

It was just as Jake had said it would be. The Pinkerton man must have been sitting in a chair in the inner office when gas reached him and he had slipped and fallen to the floor.

Jake took a few seconds out to go over and check on him. He was breathing heavily and the two of them dragged him out into the hallway and Jake opened a window to clear out the air after quickly binding the detective’s wrists with wire. He didn’t bother to gag him; they wouldn’t be there long enough to make it necessary.

The safe itself was as simple as Jake had said it would be. It was only necessary to use the sledge to break it open and within minutes of entering the room, Jake was filling the bag with the jewels.

In less than ten minutes they were through. Jake went with him to the front door and handed him the bag. He pulled the gas mask from his face then, to speak.

“Give us five minutes to get the car and get around in front. If we are not there by then, it will mean something has gone wrong. Wait five minutes; no longer. If we’re not here, you’ll be on your own. Don’t use your flashlight to see your watch. Count. Count to five hundred. You’ll be able to see the car when we pull up in front.”

He slipped the gas mask back over his face and turned and quickly headed back through the store.

Vince began to count, moving his mouth silently.

Sergeant Clarence Dillon was driving, and he would never in the world have seen it if it hadn’t been for young Don Hardy, the probationary cop who was on his first night’s tour of regular duty and had been assigned to Dillon for the evening. The Sergeant, who was happily married and the father of three youngsters but who had a dangerous weakness for women, was thinking of the new carhop down at the all-night soft drink and hamburger stop. He was wondering just what his chances of making a successful pass might be if he should stop by when he got off duty.

She was a pretty kid, probably Italian, and she couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. But she’d given him that certain look a half hour ago when they’d stopped for coffee and he was wondering about her and so his mind wasn’t on his job. He never even noticed the car parked at the curb in front of the new branch of the Gorden-Frost Jewelry Company-the car with its headlights off and its motor softly purring.

Hardy, who did spot the car, knew the motor was running because he could see, in the reflection of their own headlights, the exhaust fumes coming from the tailpipe.

They were almost opposite the car by the time Hardy got his companion’s attention and by then it was too late to do anything but pull up several yards in front of the car.

Hardy hadn’t seen anyone, but the second he swung out of the door and to the pavement and turned back, he realized what must have happened. The occupants, and there were apparently two of them, had ducked down as the squad car passed. Now the doors of the sedan were opening and a man was getting out from each side.

Probationary Patrolman Hardy reached for his police positive.

In spite of his preoccupation with young women, Sergeant Dillon was a good cop and a thoroughly experienced man in his business.

The situation was obvious. There was a car parked with its engine running, its lights extinguished. The car was in front of a jewelry store. It was very late at night and the neighborhood was deserted.

The Sergeant didn’t look back at the car; his eyes went to the front of the store and he was just in time to see the figure leave the shadowy entrance and run toward the curb.

A city cop might have fired first and then yelled. But the Sergeant worked out of Mineola, the county seat, and most of his experience had been with prowlers and petty criminals.

His gun was in his hand as he called out the command.

“Hey, you! Hold it right there!”

In that second, Dommie forgot everything they’d ever rehearsed. He lifted the machine gun and it was pointed directly at Sergeant Dillon. The first finger of his right hand pressed hard on the trigger and stayed that way. Stayed that way while the weapon leaped and chattered and the stream of leaden slugs buried themselves one after another in the Sergeant’s body.

Probationary Patrolman Hardy didn’t lose his head. His eyes had been on the figure leaving the doorway, but the moment Dommie pressed the trigger of the submachine gun, Hardy swung to face him. His first bullet struck the radiator of the sedan, but the second caught Dommie in the stomach as the last of the bullets left the barrel of the tommy gun.

He swung the revolver then, taking the chance that his shot had gone home, and aimed it at Jake, who was running directly toward him. The two fired in the same instant and each shot was effective. Jake staggered, a bullet in his chest just below the heart, and slowly dropped to the pavement.

But the gunman’s shot also found its mark, striking Hardy in the right temple and glancing off without actually penetrating the skull itself. The shock was enough to drop him, and Hardy’s gun fell from his hand as he went down. He was unconscious for several seconds.

Vince Dunne never was quite sure what had happened.

He’d been at the door waiting when the sedan swung around and stopped in front of the place. Jake was in the driver’s seat and Jake had waved to him as he’d cut the lights.

Vince had to fumble to find the catch on the jewelry store’s door and it had taken a second or two and then he had the door open and was starting out when he looked up and saw that Jake was frantically waving him back. It was only then that he spotted the squad car.

It wasn’t that he panicked. It was only that he realized if he went back inside he’d be cooked. Wouldn’t have a chance. He had to get to the car, cops or no cops. Holding the bag which held the jewels tight and close to his chest, he started across the wide sidewalk to reach the sedan. He was climbing into the back when the fireworks started.

The minute Vince looked up and saw Jake slipping to the sidewalk and heard the staccato rattle of the gunfire, he went into action. He reached for his own gun as he climbed over to the front seat and slipped under the wheel. It wasn’t until he shoved his foot down on the pedal and rammed the car into gear that he knew the engine was dead. He never did realize that the first slug from Hardy’s gun had smashed into the distributor, shattering it into a thousand parts. All he knew was that when he pushed the starter button, nothing happened.

Frantically he leaped to the street, still clutching the bag and with his own .38 held tight in his other hand.

He hesitated only long enough to fire twice, aiming directly at the prone body of Patrolman Hardy. The body jerked as the bullets smashed into it. Then Vince looked up.

That’s when he saw the Chevvie convertible drawn up opposite the sedan, a man behind the wheel with his eyes staring and his mouth wide open.

Probationary Patrolman Hardy was unconscious for less than a full minute and once he came to, it took several seconds to orient himself. His outstretched hand found the gun lying next to him on the pavement. He was dying, even then, but of this he wasn’t aware.

He still had time to fire the two remaining shots from his service revolver. He couldn’t be sure about it at all, later on when he was making his deathbed statement to the inspector in the emergency ward at the hospital, but he felt pretty positive that at least nine of the shots had gotten the third gunman who was escaping in the second getaway car. He was also pretty sure the second shot had hit the car.

The shattered windshield glass which they found on the road afterward would seem to bear him out on this.

One thing he was sure about. The second car had been a late model Chevvie, a two-tone convertible, black and yellow, and the license plate was a New York issue. The last number on the plate was a “3.”

It was the sound of the gunfire which brought Gerald Hanna to. He had no idea at all of what was happening, but instinctively pulled to a stop, his eyes wide with shocked surprise and horror as he saw the bodies lying in the street in front of him. He watched as Vince Dunne pumped two shots into the body of the already fallen patrolman.

A moment later the man in the goggles and the cap and black leather jacket jerked open the door of his car and climbed in beside him. Gerald Hanna didn’t have to be told what was being shoved into his ribs.

“Get going! Fast!”

He wasn’t more than normally quick-witted and he didn’t have a great deal of imagination, but for once in his life he didn’t need a lot.

Gerald rammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Chevvie shot forward. As it did, there was a burst of gunfire and the windshield in front of his face cracked and splintered.

Gerald Hanna’s life had ceased being dull.

The man’s voice was a mumbled whisper when he spoke. The pressure of the gun in his side had lessened, but Gerald knew it was still there. He half turned his head.

“Take the next right.”

He slowed the car, surprised that no one was following him. He made the turn, just north of Roslyn.

It was a little used road and Gerald wasn’t familiar with it. They passed a few scattered houses and then there was nothing.

Gerald was about to speak, when he heard the man at his side groan and then a moment later there was no longer any pressure at all from the gun and he heard the thud as it fell to the floor.

He stole a quick glance at his companion as they passed under one of the widely separated street lights. The man’s cap had fallen off and the goggles had dropped down on his thin, white face and his eyes were closed. He was slumped low in the seat.

Gerald took a chance and made a right turn at the next intersection. His passenger said nothing. Five minutes later he pulled to a stop in a lonely place in the road.

The map light illuminated the interior of the car as he reached quickly for the fallen gun. A moment later he knew that he wouldn’t need it.

The man was dead.

It wasn’t, however, the body at his side which held Gerald Hanna in frozen fascination. It was the half-opened bag which lay on the floor of the car. Cascading out of it and lying at his feet was a glittering mass of diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings and one or two watches.