McNally's caper

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 cases, a well-balanced revolver offers more accuracy than a pistol of approximately the same caliber. However, I do not believe long-range accuracy is a necessity in your case since, if you should ever make use of the weapon against an attacker, the range would probably be quite short.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Point-blank.’

‘Precisely,’ he said with some enthusiasm. ‘So I have no trepidation in recommending an automatic pistol to you. Now I will show you a small, private catalogue of various weapons of this type that are available …’

The spiral notebook he put before me had an illustration Scotch-taped to each page. The pictures appeared to have been clipped from manufacturers’ catalogues. In addition to a photograph or line drawing of the weapon, there was a paragraph of descriptive material that included weight, barrel length, number of rounds capacity, muzzle velocity, range, etc. In all cases, a price had been inked on the border in an elegant, Spencerian hand.

I folded the catalogue open at a particular page and handed the notebook across the table to him.

‘This one?’ I suggested.

‘Ah … no,’ he said regretfully. ‘I would not recommend that particular model to a lady of your sensibility, reasonable though the price may seem to you. A German design originally, it was a splendid, combat-proved officers’ pistol. Unfortunately, it has been copied in several countries with inferior technology. My last shipment was not up to par. Definitely not up to par. No, dear lady, I cannot honestly recommend that weapon.’

I retrieved the notebook and scanned the remaining pages. Then I turned back to an illustration that had caught my eye. Again, I folded the notebook open and returned it to him.

‘It’s a little more than I wanted to spend,’ I said, ‘but it seems to be a well-designed, compact weapon. In fact, it’s rather sweet.’

‘Ah-ha!’ he said delightedly, slapping the tabletop with his palm. ‘It is sweet indeed! The Pistola Automatica Beretta Modello 1951 nine-millimeter Parabellum. Magazine of eight. Weighing one pound, fifteen ounces. Muzzle velocity: more than thirteen hundred feet per second. Dear lady, an excellent choice. Excellent! In addition, I am happy to tell you that I can supply this particular model in a factory-sealed carton, complete with extra magazine, cleaning tools, instruction booklet, and so forth. A pirated model, I must admit, but of excellent quality and workmanship. I have test-fired this particular shipment personally, and I do assure you the firearm is equal to the original design and well worth the stated price.’

‘I’ll need some, uh, bullets,’ I said faintly.

‘But of course. Understood. At a very small additional cost. I suggest a box of fifty.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘Then you are quite satisfied with this particular gun, dear lady?’

‘Oh yes. As long as you recommend it.’

‘I do indeed. But you will be happy to know that should it prove unsatisfactory, for whatever reason, I stand ready to buy it back within a year of purchase at a mere twenty-five percent reduction of your cost. That is my personal guarantee to you. Now just let me do a little quick arithmetic here to arrive at the total cost of weapon and ammunition.’

‘Plus tax?’ I said lightly.

‘Pardon?’ he said absently. ‘Oh no, dear lady, no tax.’

He tucked the the catalogue back into his attache case and removed a small scratchpad. He figured rapidly with a gold ballpoint pen.

‘One nine-millimeter Parabellum automatic pistol in factory-sealed carton, plus fifty rounds of standard ammunition for same … one hundred and … carry the six … and we arrive at one fifty-three, seventy-two. Oh, let’s round it out to an even one hundred and fifty dollars. How does that strike you, dear lady? Is it within your budget?’

‘I–I think so,’ I said hesitantly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the cash with me,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose that you would take a check?’

‘Well, ah, no, dear lady, I do not think that would be wise. Over the years I have evolved a system of payment and delivery that I think you’ll find satisfactory. However, it usually involves a third person — in this case, Mr Morris Lapidus, our estimable host. You trust Mr Lapidus?’ ¹ ‘Morrie?’ I said. ‘Of course. All the way.’

‘Excellent.’ He nodded, beaming. ‘My sentiments exactly. When can you deliver the total cash payment to Mr Lapidus?’

I thought for a moment. Then I said:

‘The restaurant opens at noon tomorrow. I can have it here by then.’

‘Most satisfactory,’ Uncle Sam purred.

‘And I’ll pick up my gun from Morrie?’

‘Oh no!’ he said, shocked. ‘No, no, no, dear lady. I wouldn’t think of involving Mr Lapidus to that extent. You leave the purchase price with Mr Lapidus at 12:00 noon. Return at approximately 2:00 P.M., and Mr Lapidus will deliver to you an envelope. Within the envelope you will find a key to a parcel locker in Grand Central Station, along with a brief note giving you the number and precise location of the locker. Only one warning: Your purchase must be taken from the locker within twenty-four hours. Lockers closed longer than that may be opened by the authorities and their contents removed.’

‘I’ll go as soon as I get the key,’ I said. I paused, looking at him thoughtfully.

‘Ah, yes, dear lady,’ he said with a particularly gentle smile. ‘You were wondering if, after you have paid the sum required, I will actually leave a locker key with Mr Lapidus. Or if it will be the right key for the locker designated. Or if the weapon will, indeed, be in the locker. Or if the cupboard will be bare.’

‘Well … yes. Uncle Sam,’ I confessed. ‘I was thinking along those lines.’

‘Trust,’ he said solemnly. ‘I can urge you to nothing but trust. One of the noblest emotions of which human beings are capable. You must trust in my honor and in my honesty.’

I stared at the clear, guileless eyes and lips curved in a perpetual smile.

‘I trust you. Uncle Sam,’ I said.

‘God bless you, dear lady!’ he cried joyfully. He caught up my hand and pressed the knuckles to his lips.

That next night, Dick Fleming and I sat at the desk in my office and tried to follow the instructions in the leaflet: ‘To load the 9-mm. Parabellum, it is necessary to depress the magazine release button (marked 3 in Diagram A), allowing the magazine to eject freely.’ And so on.

The gun, magazine, and bullets gleamed dully in the light of the desk lamp. They seemed very heavy, very solid. We were both surprised by their physical presence. They were — well, they were very real.

I picked up the empty pistol, gripped it in the approved manner, pointed it at the far wall.

‘Not ka-chow,’ I said. ‘Pow/’

‘Pow/’ Dick Fleming said. ‘Now where’s part 6 in Diagram C?’