McNally's caper

ALARMING NEWS

The city was girding up for Christmas. Scrawny Santa Clauses on every corner, ringing bells and tugging at false beards. Wet weather, snappish, with freezing rain and dirty slush hinting at worse to come.

Still, it was Christmas. You remember that, don’t you? Peace on earth, goodwill toward men, and all that jazz? Suddenly midtown Manhattan was invaded by a determined army of shoppers, all with a fistful of cash in one hand and a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag slung in the other. They had buying mania in their eyes, and seemed determined to strip every store bare of everything that could be wrapped in cutesy paper, tied with a red ribbon, and stamped ‘Do Not Open Until Xmas.’

That was all okay with me. Mobs on the street as early as 8:00 A.M. Hustle and bustle, shoving and confusion. In all that scurrying throng, who would have time to notice a bunch of guys in cleaners’ coveralls doing their own brand of Christmas shopping in one of the city’s prestigious jewelry stores? ‘Tis the season to be jolly, ho-ho-ho, and so forth. It would make a great novel.

I slept until late Friday afternoon at the Hotel Harding. Then, Blanche coming in to clean, I had a quick vodka, then got out of there and drove through heavy Christmas traffic over to my East 71st Street pad. It was a relief to peel off the sponge rubber, soak in a hot tub, enjoy a few more vodkas in the rough and forget everything. For a while.

But work habits die hard. So there I was, early in the evening, slaving away at the typewriter in my cluttered office, working on my private manuscript, Project X. I wrote down everything that had been happening to me, including my very, very secret musings on the character of one Black Jack Donohue. I must admit, he didn’t come across on paper. I mean, I couldn’t figure him, couldn’t pin him down, couldn’t fit him into any neat personality slot. Sometimes I thought him a shallow, two-dimensional cutout, a cartoon of the cheap, criminal hustler. Other times I thought I glimpsed something deeper and more complicated there, a man who was nervy and frightened, brave and scared, laughing and peevish. In short, human.

That night I wanted to be alone. I have a highly developed taste for solitude, and had had few recent opportunities to enjoy that pleasure. So that Friday night, locked safely in my East Side burrow, I devoted all my time to what I call ‘schlumpfing.’ Men might not understand it, but women will.

I washed my hair. Did a few stretching exercises. Cut and painted my toenails. Tried a new moisturizer I had bought. Ate some odds and ends I found in the refrigerator. Mixed a few crazy drinks, like a grasshopper and a black Russian. Wrote a letter of progress to Aldo Binder and tore it up. Put some Cole Porter on the turntable and danced naked around my living room, Ginger Rogers without Fred Astaire. In other words, I just schlumpfed around, spending time as though it would never run out.

I was half-listening to the midnight news on an FM radio station when I became aware of what the announcer was saying. I dropped what I was doing and listened to every word.

The newscaster was reporting a jewel robbery in San Francisco. A well-known, exclusive shop called Devolte Bros. Five or six masked gunmen. In broad daylight. Held up clerks and customers. Ransacked the store, taking only the most expensive items. In and out before police could respond to the alarms. Loot was estimated at more than two million dollars.

I turned off the radio. Two million dollars. Six masked gunmen. In and out so fast that the silent alarms were worthless.

As they say in novels, it gave one pause. The whole caper sounded like a rehearsal for our Brandenberg and Sons hit. And apparently it had gone down as planned: no one hurt, a clean getaway. I was sure Jack Donohue would hear of it, or read of it, and now I wasn’t so certain of what I had told Fleming — that the gang wouldn’t dare pull it without us.

Suppose they did? And suppose they got caught and warbled like canaries? I could see the headlines now: ‘Thieves Blame Blonde Boss. Cops Seek Femme Brain of Gem Heist. Bea Flanders Sought by FBI. Where Is the Sexy Crime Czar?’ And so on. Nice thoughts. Two hours later I got out of bed and popped a sleeping pill.

On Saturday morning I went out for the papers and read everything I could find on the robbery in San Francisco. Details were scant, but apparently six masked and armed robbers suddenly invaded the jewelry store during the lunch hour. Two of the crooks cowed clerks and customers at gunpoint while the other four did a quick and efficient job of cleaning out the display cases and the back room safe, taking the loot away in what appeared to be pillowcases.

One lovely touch was noted. When the last crook ran out of the front door, he paused long enough to insert a rubber wedge-shaped stopper under the door, which opened outward. It effectively delayed pursuit long enough for the thieves to escape unscathed in two cars, one of which had been identified as a stolen taxi.

That rubber doorstopper was a neat gimmick. The front door of Brandenberg amp; Sons also opened outward. I would have bet my bottom buck that right then, at that moment, Black Jack Donohue was out shopping for wedge-shaped rubber doorstoppers.

I spent the next night at the Hotel Harding, but there was no sign of Donohue. I was disappointed. I had had enough solitude the night before. How many nights in a row can one schlumpf? I stopped in at Fangio’s for a drink at the bar, but didn’t see Black Jack, Hymie Gore, or the Holy Ghost.

On Sunday, Donohue was still absent, I went back to East 71st Street. I called Dick Fleming at home. No answer. I called my sister. No answer. I called Sol Faber. No answer. It was that kind of day. Where was everyone? So I went to a lousy French movie and had dinner alone at Chez Morris. That didn’t improve my disposition. Or my digestion either.

Went back to my apartment to put on my doxy’s costume, preparing to return to the Hotel Harding. Then my phone rang. At last! I was beginning to think Manhattan had become a desert island.

It was Noel Jarvis, and he said he had been trying to reach me for three or four days. I mumbled something about being busy with Christmas shopping, and he said he had been busy too; the store was doing an ‘absolutely fabulous’ trade. I told him how happy I was to hear it, and what else was new?

What was new, he said, was that he hoped I might be free the following night, Monday, to have dinner at his apartment. I told him I’d be delighted. He said to show up around ‘eightish,’ very informal, wear jeans if I liked. He promised a special banquet, and he was going to get started on the sauce the moment I hung up.

So I hung up.

Monday. A lonely day mooning around the Hotel Hard-On and environs. I had heard Jack Donohue come in about 2:00 A.M. But he hadn’t knocked on my door, and when I awoke, he was gone again. I know; I knocked on his door.

Back to the East 71st Street apartment to prepare for my dinner with Noel Jarvis. The phone rang a little after 6.00. He couldn’t have been more apologetic. He had to ask me to postpone our dinner date. He was tied up at the store. They were taking inventory and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get away in time to do the dinner justice. Would I ever forgive him? Would I give him another chance? Would I come to dinner the following night, Tuesday?

Yes, yes, and yes.

So I called Dick Fleming. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to tell him how uneasy I felt. How, after three days with no contact with Jack Donohue, I was beginning to wonder if something was going on I didn’t know about — and should. I wanted to tell him about the Devolte Bros, robbery in San Francisco, if he hadn’t heard about it. Tell him about the doorstopper. Tell him to rush over to my place for a quick roll in the hay.

His phone rang and rang. No answer. Where was everyone? What was going on?

Finally, on Tuesday, I reentered the land of the living. Had a hamburger lunch with Jack Donohue at a nausea noshery on Broadway. As I had guessed, he had read all the newspaper stories on the Devolte heist and thought the doorstopper gimmick was pure genius. He had already bought two of them. He had also slipped the lock of the Hotel Harding linen closet and had waltzed away with a dozen reasonably clean pillowcases. To carry off the Brandenberg loot. He was full of piss and vinegar, looking forward to our dress rehearsal on Thursday night. We had made plans for the five of us — me, him, Fleming, Gore, and the Ghost — to meet at the West 47th Street garage at 12:30.

‘What about the stolen car?’ I asked sharply.

‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘Our two heavies have a good one spotted. Parked in the same place every night. They’ve got the right keys for it. A seventy-six Chevy four-door. They’ll bring it to the garage on Thursday. We’ve done time trials in traffic from East 55th to the garage. Not over fifteen minutes.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now what about the two other guys, the pickup help?’

‘On standby,’ he assured me. ‘They agreed to the five grand each. They don’t know what or where or when we’re going to hit, but they’re ready for anything. You and Fleming will bring your cars to the garage at 7:00 on Friday morning. Leave them there. The three of us will take the stolen Chevy to Madison Avenue, with the masks, rope, tape, stoppers, coveralls, pillowcases and so forth. Meanwhile, Hymie Gore, the Holy Ghost, and the two standby muscles will get over to 54th any way they can. Don’t worry; they’ll make it. They’ll come into the Chevy, one at a time to pull on the Bonomo coveralls. We wait for the cleaning truck to show up at that antique shop. Then all the men, including me and Fleming, will take the van. You follow us up to Brandenberg’s in the Chevy. And that’s it. We’ll go over all this in more detail on Thursday night so everyone knows his job and the timing.’

‘You’ve got it all figured out,’ I said.

‘You better believe it,’ he said, smiling at me.

I went back to East 71st Street. I took along some personal belongings from the Hotel Harding, preparing for the final break on Thursday night. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the final split. Half-relief, half-disappointment. Dichotomous. There’s a word for you. I had never used it in a novel. I made a mental note to use it in my novel about the Brandenberg ripoff.

I took Noel Jarvis at his word and dressed informally. When I bopped into his museum-apartment, it was apparent he had spent much time building the appearance of casual elegance. Hound’s-tooth jacket, gray-flannel slacks, fringe-tongued black moccasins, a paisley ascot around his neck — and a rubicund complexion that signaled two double martinis. He was bubbling.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, taking my mink and dropping it on the floor. ‘You and me, the dinner. Everything. Listen, hon, I mixed this shaker to keep me company while I’ve been cooking. How about-’

He held up a crystal shaker and peered at a few inches of liquid and chips of ice in the bottom.

‘Dregs,’ he said sadly. ‘I better stir up another batch.’

I followed him into that stainless steel workshop. He had a zillion dishes, bowls, pots, and pans going. And if he was weaving slightly, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing: beat this, whisk that, stir here, chop there, cans opened, jars stirred. He was busy as hell, pausing only occasionally to take a delicate sip from his martini. I perched on a kitchen stool and watched the nut work.

‘Inventory all finished?’ I asked casually.

‘What?’

‘The inventory. Last night. At the store.’

‘Oh,’ he said, not looking at me. ‘Oh yes. All finished. Perfect. Everything checked out.’

‘It’s unusual, isn’t it? Taking inventory two weeks before Christmas?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No, no, no. Take them all the time. Once a month, at least.’

‘Shoplifting?’ I guessed.

‘My God, no!’ he said, busy at the stove. ‘Our losses are minimal. We do have a foolproof system of showing the merchandise, you know. One item at a time. You don’t see item two until item one is stowed safely away. No, the inventory is for us, internal security.’

‘Internal?’ I said, figuring that out. ‘You mean you don’t trust your help?’

He laughed. A hard, toneless laugh.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Trust ‘em. Have to. What? But still … temptation, you know. A lot of small, very valuable items.’

What he said made sense. But I had the oddest impression that he was conning me, an eerie feeling that he was reciting a prepared speech.

That dinner was something. Blue point oysters on a bed of shaved ice. Each succulent blob topped with a spoonful of Beluga caviar. Don’t knock it. A salad of tiny cherry tomatoes on romaine leaves with an anchovy dressing. A pasta dish that was a mixture of noodles, elbows, gnocchi, and God knows what else, all in a sort of Alfredo sauce, rich enough to put two inches on your hips instantaneously.

What else … let me remember. The main dish was braciole — slices of rare steak spread with a paste of parsley, cheese, garlic, salt, pepper, oil. Thin slices of salami and bacon atop that. Crowned with a tomato sauce. Your gastric juices flowing? You should have tasted it. I wanted to put a dab behind my ears and, possibly, just a touch in the armpits.

And then minor things like french-fried zucchini, balls of rice molded with ground steak and Parmesan cheese. And Key lime pie made from grated lime peel. Espresso. Some kind of liqueur that tasted of burnt almonds and burst into flame when Noel Jarvis carefully put a match to the surface of each glass.

And, of course, wine during the meal. A dry white to begin. A rich, heavy chianti classico to finish.

‘Marry me,’ I said to him.

‘Dee-lighted,’ he said, giggling. And I wondered how long it would be before he was once again prone in the master bedroom. In all honesty, I was feeling no pain myself. But it was obvious he had a head start on me. And was keeping ahead. With no urging on my part.

By this time we had wandered back into the lush living room, carrying our coffee and brandies, belching gently.

‘Help you clean up?’ I offered halfheartedly.

‘Nonsense,’ he said stoutly. ‘Someone will come in tomorrow morning. Go through the place.’

‘Who?’ I said idly. ‘The FBI?’

It was a joke; that’s all it was: a silly joke. It made no sense whatsoever — I admit it. But I was bombed enough so that I had a good excuse for not making sense. I admit that ‘Who? The FBI?’ was just nonsensical, just something to say. No reason for it. But Noel Jarvis’ reaction was incredible.

He jerked to his feet, spilling most of his drink down his shirtfront. I didn’t like the look in his eyes.

‘ Why did you say that?’

‘My God, Noel,’ I said. ‘Take it easy, it was just a joke. A lousy joke, I admit. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just something to say.’

He collapsed as quickly as he had pounced on me.

‘Of course, my dear,’ he said, lolling back. ‘A joke. No, no, not the FBI. Just the cleaning lady. Take care of everything, she will. Enjoy the dinner?’

‘I told you,’ I said. ‘The best. The very best. You don’t eat like that every night, do you?’

He was sitting in a velvet armchair. Suddenly he slid down until he was hung on the end of his spine, legs stretched out in front of him. All of him was limp, beamy, and relaxed. Another inch down and he’d have crumpled onto the floor.

‘You know,’ he mumbled, ‘let me tell you something, luv.’

‘Tell me something.’

I don’t apologize for this drunken conversation. I’m just trying to report it as accurately as I can.

‘What I’d really like to do,’ he said slowly. ‘What I’d really, really like to do. All my life. Is run a restaurant. That’s what I’d really like to do. Yes. But who of us can do what we …’

He left the sentence unfinished. I knew what he meant. It was sad; he would have made a hell of a chef.

‘Hey,’ I said brightly. ‘Noel, did you read about that robbery? In San Francisco? Last Saturday, I think it was.’

‘Friday,’ he said, looking at me blearily. ‘Afternoon. Heard. About it. Devolte Brothers. San Fran.’

I realized he wouldn’t be with me much longer.

‘How about a nightcap?’ I suggested. ‘A brandy? Settle all that marvy food. I’ll get it for you.’. He grinned at me.

I went into the kitchen, found a bottle of Remy Martin. 1 didn’t slug nim, honest I didn’t. I poured him exactly as much as I poured for myself. An ounce each, being very drunkenly exact with a little measured jigger he had.

He was still conscious when I came back into the living room. He took the brandy snifter from me with a glassy smile. I pressed his fingers around it.

‘Cheers,’ he said, missing his mouth on the first try. But he finally made it.

‘You bet,’ I said, standing near him so maybe I could catch him when he collapsed. ‘Listen, Noel, aren’t you afraid that your place could be ripped off like Devolte? In San Francisco?’

He straightened up, pulling in his legs. His eyes rolled up to me. I could almost hear the rumble.

‘No way,’ he said, shaking his big head. ‘No way.’

‘They had alarms,’ I reminded him. ‘The newspaper stories said so. But by the time the cops got there the place was cleaned out and the crooks were gone. With all the jewelry.’

‘Silent alarms,’ he said drowsily. ‘Bullshit. I beg your pardon, dear lady. The theory is, with silent alarms, you see, the police or a private agency are alerted and come running. No danger to people in the store. Like me. Who sounds the alarm. You see? Right? You press an ordinary button in the store, a bell goes off, a siren, whatever, gas, smoke, and a cheap crook panics and shoots. You understand? Like if Brandenberg got held up, I press a button, bells ring, and they shoot me. Could happen.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Of course. I understand. That’s why they call them silent alarms. You press a button, nothing happens in the store. But the cops in the precinct house or guards in a private security agency, they’re alerted. But no one in the store gets hurt.’

‘Right,’ he said, nodding wisely. ‘No one gets hurt.’

‘I hope you’ve got silent alarms in your place,’ I said, trying to yawn. ‘I wouldn’t want you hurt.’

‘Bless you, my child,’ he said, taking a sip of his brandy. ‘Bless you. Better than that. Much better.’

‘Better?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, bobbing his head up and down like an idiot. ‘Much better. You know our store — the chair rail that runs around the wall? Right around the wall, behind the display cases?’

‘Sure. I’ve seen it.’

‘Seen it,’ he said, smirking. ‘It’s all pressure. We stay away from it. The whole rail. Waist-high. On the wall. It’s pressure. In sections. Back into it, it goes off. You know? We’re held up. Our hands in the air. We back up. Our ass — I beg your pardon, dear lady — our ass presses against the chair rail. It activates the alarm.’

Puzzling. 1 was puzzled.

‘So?’ I said. ‘Noel, you back into that railing, and it activates a silent alarm. Then? In another ten or fifteen minutes cops or private security guards could be swarming all over the place. But by then the crooks would be long gone. That’s what happened in Frisco. So what’s the point?’

‘The point,’ he said. ‘What’s the point. Ho-ho!’

The empty brandy snifter slipped from his limp fingers, thumped to that thick, buttery rug. His head began to loll, bobbing on his thick neck. I was still standing alongside him. I should have been kind. After that magnificent dinner, I should have let the cook drift off to a deep, drunken, well-deserved rest. But I had to know.

‘Noel,’ I said loudly, bending down so my lips were near his ear, ‘what’s the point? The point, Noel? If you or any of the clerks back into the railing, the silent alarm goes off. So?’

‘You see,’ he muttered, chin on chest. ‘Silent alarm. They come right away. Five, ten, fifteen minutes.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said desperately, ‘but by then the crooks are gone. With everything in the store.’

He heaved suddenly. I thought he might be about to throw up, to crack his cookies, and I stepped back hurriedly. But no, it was just a spasm of mirth.

‘Nonononono,’ he mumbled, settling back. ‘Not going. Anyplace. The crooks. You back into the railing. It sounds silent alarm. Cops come. But also, it locks the door. Electrical. Front door. Locks. Only way out. Heavy double-glass. Take ‘em an hour to smash through that. See? Silent alarm. Door locks. Can’t get out. No back way. Trapped.’

.’Noel,’ I breathed, ‘that’s beautiful!’

But he didn’t hear me. He was gone. Head tilted to one side. Face flushed and smiling. I went into the kitchen, made some efforts at cleaning up. I mean, I rinsed and stacked the dishes in the sink. Emptied the ashtrays. I figured I owed him all that. I didn’t think I’d be seeing Noel Jarvis again.

I got home without being molested, raped, or murdered. The cabdriver told me all about his kidney stones, and I said things like ‘Really?’ and ‘No fooling?’ When I was safe inside my own apartment, the first thing I wanted to do was to call Dick Fleming and tell him about those crazy pressure alarms that locked the front door at Brandenberg amp; Sons.

But then I had just sense enough left to note that it was past midnight. And sense enough to realize that, while not exactly zonked, I was spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about that cabdriver’s kidney stones. So I undressed and fell into bed, laughing like a maniac.

I awoke Wednesday morning with an awful hangover. I did what I could: popped aspirin, drank a quart of water, and rubbed my temples with ice cubes. Then ate the cubes. After a while the shakes stopped and 1 was able to make a cup of instant coffee and toast a frozen bagel. I was getting along all right, recovering slowly, when the phone rang, and I thought that shrill bell would cleave my skull.

‘Noel Jarvis here,’ he said briskly. ‘Just wanted to make sure you arrived home safely.’

‘I hate you,’ I told him. ‘You forced me to eat all that divine food. You practically poured all that beautiful wine down my throat. It’s all your fault.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘we have the whimwhams this morning, do we?’

7 do,’ I said grumpily. ‘You sound in offensively good shape.’

‘Listen, Jannie,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘If you’re really suffering, 1 know exactly what you need. Do you have any cognac in the house? Or any kind of brandy?

‘Do as I say,’ he said sternly. ‘Exactly one ounce. No more, no less. Take it straight. No ice, no water. In twenty minutes you’ll be leaping into the air and clicking your heels.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

I thanked him for a marvelous dinner and he said he’d be in touch. As soon as I hung up, I dug out a half-full bottle of Courvoisier and measured out a precise ounce. I held on to the kitchen counter, closed my eyes, and downed the shot in three determined gulps. Murder. Then I looked at my watch.

You know, he was right? In almost exactly twenty minutes that Mt. Vesuvius in my stomach stopped erupting, and I thought I might live to play the harpsichord again. In fact, I was feeling so chipper, I took a second brandy into my office and set to work on my secret manuscript, describing all the events of the preceding evening, including that business about the pressure alarms in the chair rail at Brandenberg amp; Sons.

That chore completed, I showered, shaved my legs with a steady hand, put on my trollop’s togs, and set out for the Hotel Harding, happy that I wouldn’t have to be making the Beatrice Flanders transformation many more times. It had started as a lark and was becoming a drag.

I knocked on Jack Donohue’s door. He wasn’t in, which was fine with me.

Anyway, I didn’t see him. I carried out the hotplate and some personal junk in a shopping bag, so fatso behind the lobby desk wouldn’t think I was skipping. I reckoned that Fleming and I could handle the suitcases and the rest of my stuff on Thursday night. That was when I figured to split. And even if I had to leave everything behind, it would be no great loss. I had made certain there was nothing in the room to connect Beatrice Flanders with Jannie Shean.

As a matter of fact, the room clerk wasn’t behind the desk when I came downstairs. So I unloaded the shopping bag into the trunk of the rented Ford and went back upstairs for a second load. This time I took Bea’s black wig, extra sets of falsies (front and back), and most of her clothes. Who knows — someday I might be invited to a masquerade party.

I got back to East 71st Street late in the afternoon. One of the things I had brought back with me was my trusty, handy-dandy pistol. That I carefully stowed away in the

bottom drawer of my desk. Then I called Dick Fleming at his office, and suggested we meet for dinner at Chez Morris. He groaned.

‘Jannie,’ he said, ‘can’t we go someplace for a decent meal?’

‘I had a decent meal last night,’ I told him. ‘Tonight I want food 1 can’t eat. I’ve got to drop at least three pounds. Please, Dick, humor me. I’ve got a lot to tell you.’

‘Well … all right,’he said grudgingly.

‘That’s a love,’ I said. ‘Afterwards we can come back to my place for a sweet, rich, wonderful dessert.’

‘Oh?’ he said, interested. ‘What?’

‘Me,’I said.

The dinner was just as lousy as I hoped it would be. I ate three mouthfuls, and Dick, trying hard, finished only half his fried sole.

One of the reasons I ate so little, aside from the loathsomeness of the food, was that I was talking so much. First of all I told Dick about the final meeting at the West 47th Street garage on Thursday night.

‘Can you make it?’ I asked him.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he promised.

I gave him all the details of Donohue’s plan. Dick put his elbows on the table, began rubbing his eyebrows back and forth.

‘Something wrong?’ I asked him.

‘Too loose, Lautrec,’ he said. ‘How are the other guys going to get to the antique shop on time?’

‘Beats me,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Donohue was vague about it. Maybe they’ll take cabs. Maybe they’ll steal another car. Maybe one of them will use his own car.’

‘Maybe, maybe, maybe,’ he repeated. ‘I just don’t like it. It’s not well planned. Doesn’t sound like Donohue. He’s usually so careful about details. And that business of them coming into the car one at a time to put on the coveralls — that’s crazy.’

I thought about it for a moment.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘you’re right. The rest of the caper took a lot of work, a lot of planning, a lot of thought. I admit the part you mentioned just doesn’t hang together. It’s sloppy. But it’s Donohue’s idea, so I guess he figures it’ll work.’

‘Well … it’s not our worry, is it, Jannie? We take off Thursday night and the whole thing stops dead. Isn’t that right?’

We stared at each other across the table with blank eyes.

‘Sure,’ I said finally. ‘Stops dead. But I did want the whole thing to be foolproof.’

1 told him about the dinner with Noel Jarvis, and he practically slavered when I described the oysters, the beef braciole, the Key lime pie. Then I related Jarvis’ reaction to the Devolte Bros, holdup in San Francisco, and how the chair rail at Brandenberg sounded a silent alarm and locked the front door.

‘So?’ Dick, said, smiling. ‘A great detail for your book. I told you that you should, ah, cultivate his acquaintance. How else would you have found out about that cute gimmick?’

‘That’s not the point. The point is, do I tell Jack Donohue about that chair rail and the locked door?’

Fleming looked at me, blinking a few times, thinking….

‘No,’ he said at last, ‘you can’t tell him. Because then he’d want to know how you found out. Then what would you say?’

‘But if they try the heist without us, Dick, they’ll all be trapped.’

‘So?’ he said coldly. ‘Their problem, not ours.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said slowly. ‘Still …’

He reached across the table, took up my hand.

‘Jannie, I know you feel a kind of — of responsibility for Donohue, Hymie Gore, the Holy Ghost, and the other guys they’re recruiting. But it’s their choice. Don’t you understand? Sure, you gave them a target and a plan. Or we both did. But we’re not forcing them to go through with it at the point of a gun. They can pull out of it anytime they want to. Just as we can, and will. So if they try it by themselves and get caught, it’s their own fault. It has nothing to do with us.’

I shook my head, bewildered.

‘Dick, I can’t figure the morality of this. What you say makes sense. In a way. But if those nuts try it on their own and get picked up or someone gets hurt, I’m going to feel partly to blame. Besides being scared out of my wits that they’ll tell the cops about us.’

‘What’s to tell?’ he argued. ‘They know you as Bea Flanders. Her description and address are nothing like Jannie

Shean, who lives on the East Side. And I look like a million other guys in New York and they don’t even know where live. So we’ve got nothing to worry about, Jannie.’font>

He kept talking like that all the way back to my apartment. Even after we were naked in bed together, he kept reassuring me, telling me it was going to be all right, we’d make a clean split the following night, and Donohue amp; Co wouldn’t be fools enough to try it on their own. It all sounded so logical.

So why did I cling to him so frantically, hug him so tightly, and insist he spend the entire night to help warm my bed? Because I had a chill that wouldn’t end, and I didn’t want to be alone.