McNally's caper

CASING

There were so many things I had written in those Chuck-Mike-Buck-Pat-Brick books of mine that I really knew nothing about. Like casing. I’d have my villains walk around the target twice, time the nightwatchman’s schedule, and maybe discover when the payroll was to be delivered.

But now, trying seriously to determine how Brandenberg amp; Sons might be robbed with profit and minimal risk required a laborious, minute-by-minute study, conducted with a stopwatch, that was gradually extended for almost a month. I filled two notebooks of observations, and from my jottings. Dick Fleming designed beautifully neat time charts of personnel flow, using a variety of colored inks.

By consulting these records, we could pinpoint the location of any one of the employees at any moment during the working day. Since we didn’t know their names, they were designated Manager, Salesmen 1, 2, and 3, and Repairmen 1 and 2. Each was described physically so we could tell them apart. In addition I discovered the presence of a seventh employee: an aged black man who apparently doubled as porter and messenger.

Most of my casing was done from the window of the luncheonette across the street. I varied the tables at which I sat and the times I was present. Fortunately, the place was usually crowded and seemed to have a heavy personnel turnover.

I changed the luncheonette routine occasionally by driving from my apartment to East 55th Street and doubleparking my XKE as long as I could, using it as an observation post. But the car was too noticeable to use frequently, so I borrowed Dick Fleming’s VW several times.

I noted several things of interest:

The store did not open for business until 10:00 A.M., but all the employees arrived between 8:45 and 9:00. In the hour before the public was admitted, the store was dusted and vacuumed by commercial cleaners who arrived at 9:00 each morning. Also, during this preparatory hour, the interior steel shutters protecting the window displays were raised. I was bemused to note that despite this protection most of the valuable items were removed from the street windows at night and presumably placed in the vault, to be returned to the window displays in the morning.

The two commercial cleaning men were admitted by the manager, who unlocked the front door to let them in and locked it again after their entrance. They rarely spent more than forty-five minutes giving Brandenberg amp; Sons its spic-and-span appearance. When they departed with their vacuum cleaner, mops, brooms, etc., the manager unlocked the door, let them out, then locked the door after them. At precisely 10:00 the door was unlocked once again to signal the start of the business day. This routine never varied.

The employees were apparently on a rigid lunch-hour schedule: never more than two absent at the same time. I think the repairmen brought sandwiches. At least, both carried small black cases, like doctor’s bags, when they arrived in the morning, and I never saw either of them go out to lunch.

Brandenberg amp; Sons closed promptly at 5:00 P.M. A few minutes later, the interior steel shutters were lowered, and I was unable to observe the routine of closing. I presumed the valuable items were put in the vault, and interior burglar alarms set. Whatever was done didn’t take long, because all the employees had exited by 5:30. The manager was always the last to leave, and he not only turned a key in a conventional lock, but reached high to turn a key in another lock, which, I assumed, activated another burglar alarm attached to the door. When he opened up in the morning, he reversed this process, first turning off the alarm, then opening the door.

When the manager locked up and departed at 5:30, he was always accompanied by clerk Number 3, who kept his hands in his topcoat pockets and was, I suspected, armed. They always followed the same procedure. They walked over to Park Avenue, then one block south. There at a corner bank, the manager took out a manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it into the bank’s night deposit vault. I supposed the envelope contained the day’s receipts, cash and checks. The two men then went their separate ways.

During the weeks I was observing Brandenberg amp; Sons as closely as possible, I also tried to form a clearer idea of their clientele. For the most part they seemed middle-aged or older, and very few were window-shoppers. That is, they were not interested in the outside display windows, but came down the street and turned purposefully into the store. They knew exactly where they were going. Many of them arrived by taxi or private car, and not a few by chauffeured limousine.

I also became aware of a special type of visitor to Brandenberg amp; Sons. These were invariably youngish men, most of them well built, conservatively dressed, and all carrying black attache cases handcuffed to their left wrist. There were three of four such men entering Brandenberg amp; Sons every week. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally Dick decided they were jewelry salesmen or couriers from wholesale jewelry merchants delivering purchases made by Brandenberg amp; Sons.

Dick and 1 had several discussions about who actually owned our target store. Neither of us believed it was that rubicund manager. Dick said we could probably find out, if we wanted to go to the trouble, by looking up city records, leases, reports of property sales, bank references, membership lists of jewelers’ associations, etc. But did we really want to attract attention to ourselves by such enquiries? Besides, what difference did it make to professional thieves whom they were robbing? Inevitably, it would be the insurance company, wouldn’t it? So we made no effort to identify the actual owner of Brandenberg amp; Sons.

A bad mistake.

During my second week of casing, I dug out my grandfather’s pocket watch from a bottom bureau drawer, slipped it into my purse, and made my second actual visit to the store.

I was approached by the salesman we had labeled Number 1, but I told him I wanted to speak to the manager.

‘Mr Jarvis?’ he said. ‘He’s busy at the moment. Would you mind waiting?’

He brought up one of the brocaded armchairs and seated me with all the deference of a headwaiter giving a duchess the best table in the house. Then, another customer entering, I was left alone: a marvelous opportunity to look around.

The door to the back room, where the vault was located and where the repairmen worked, was closed. I presumed the manager was in there. I estimated the interior of the store as approximately 60 feet long and 30 feet wide. The three clerks were all occupied with customers. Once again I was conscious of the hushed opulence of the place. No one, it seemed, spoke over a murmur. You couldn’t hear footfalls on the thick carpeting. Showcase doors slid noiselessly, and merchandise was always exhibited to customers on squares of padded velvet.

I watched the three clerks at work. Although they had dissimilar features, they were all of the same physical type: tall, slender, with a whippy grace. Curiously, I fancied there was something almost sinister in their appearance: they had expressionless features but very sharp, alert eyes, with a kind of brooding intensity. 1 suspected 1 was looking for novelistic characters in quite ordinary salesmen.

The manager finally entered from the back room, leaving the door open. He was accompanying one of the conservatively clad, attache-case-bearing visitors. The manager escorted him to the front door, they shook hands, the salesman departed, the manager came back into the shop. Some signal I missed must have been passed, because he came directly to me. He bowed and said, ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting. You’ve brought the watch and chain you mentioned on your last visit?’

That last visit had been almost a month earlier. I was surprised he remembered me, and told him so.

‘I never forget a face,’ he said, with what seemed to me a cold smile. Then he added, with more warmth. ‘Especially such a charming face!’

I handed him the watch, and he asked if he might take it into the back room for a few moments to have one of his technicians examine it.

And off he went with Grandfather’s watch and chain, closing the door of the vault room behind him. I spent the four or five minutes he was gone making a surreptitious examination of the ceiling and walls. Brandenberg amp; Sons was located on the ground floor of what had once been a five-story town house, and I suspected the store occupied the original drawing room. The ceiling and walls were wonderfully rococo, but unfortunately all that fanciful carving and ornamentation could easily conceal a small peephole or even the lens of a TV camera. In addition, there was a full-length pier glass set into one wall. If that was a one-way window, there could easily be an armed guard concealed behind it, keeping an eye on the shop.

Mr Jarvis returned, thrusting his paunch confidently ahead of him. He told me he was happy to be able to offer me two hundred dollars for watch and chain. If that was not acceptable, Brandenberg amp; Sons would be willing to take the item on consignment, in which case I would receive 65 percent of whatever they were able to obtain for it.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Thank you, but the two hundred is satisfactory.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘If you’ll just step this way, I’ll get your money and prepare a receipt for you to sign.’

I accompanied him to a discreet cashier’s desk where the money was kept in a small drawer. Nothing so vulgar as a cash register. Mr Jarvis paid me in crisp fifties, and I signed a receipt he prepared describing the watch and chain in some detail. I had intended to use a phony name and address, but at the last minute I feared he might ask for identification. So I signed Jannie Shean and scrawled my real address. He didn’t ask for identification.

Mr Jarvis then escorted me to the front door. He seemed a genial, voluble type. I was conscious of his fruity cologne. We shook hands when we parted. I thought he held my hand a little longer than necessary.

When I described this visit to Dick Fleming that night, he looked at me queerly.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him.

‘Two things,’ he said. ‘One: He didn’t ask for identification. How did he know you didn’t steal the watch?’

‘Oh, come on, Dick! I was wearing my mink.’

‘You could have stolen that, too. But what bothers me most is why a place like Brandenberg’s is fooling around with secondhand watches. It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘Maybe it’s a valuable antique.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Matty had it appraised when Father died. It’s worth about what Jarvis paid me.’

‘All right, then, we’re back to my question: Why is Brandenberg and Sons interested in stuff like that?’

‘I don’t know.’

He looked at me thoughtfully.