Caper

by Lawrence Sanders

“Jannie, there may be danger. Real-life danger, not pretend.”

  “Of course there will be danger! There has to be danger. How else can my Big Caper be realistic? How can it ring true? I want to learn about the danger. I want to be afraid. That’s what the whole idea is about. Where are you going? Back to bed?”

  He had uncoiled his naked length from the armchair and was starting for the door.

  “Be right back,” he said.

  He returned in a moment with the brandy bottle and our two glasses. He set the snifters on my desk blotter and poured us hefty shots.

  “Jannie,” he said, “I want in.”

  “What?”

  “I want in. I want to be the first member of Jannie’s gang.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No crazier than you. How about it?”

  I stared at him, trying to understand.

  “Dick, this has nothing to do with misguided chivalry, does it? The macho male joining up to protect the weak, defenseless woman from the big, bad men?”

  “Do I look like a macho male?” he asked reasonably. “Use your brain, Jannie; what do I know about guns, knives, or physical combat?”

  “Then why?”

  “The adventure,” he said. “The risk.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  HOT ICE

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, DICK came over after dinner. I had dined with Laura and my brother-in-law, and had to endure a two-hour replay of the great tit-raising. It was recited in excruciating detail while their live-in housekeeper served us quivering hemispheres of salmon in aspic.

  I got home before Dick arrived and prepared for our conference by setting out scratchpads and ballpoints, glasses, a bucket of ice, and a chilled bottle of vodka.

  Despite what Aldo Binder thought, I did read the tabloids, and like most writers in my field, I clipped everything relating to crime—specific cases, statistics, new developments in police procedures, etc. I kept all these snippets in a series of bulging file folders, and the one I pulled out that evening was labeled Current Crimes.

  What I was after was the type of crime that offered maximum gain and minimum risk. After Dick was ensconced in the armchair in my office, we divided Current Crimes into two roughly equal stacks of clippings and began breaking them down into classifications: homicides, robberies, burglaries, kidnappings, extortions, blackmail, hijacking, etc. Then we combined similar piles and started eliminating. Homicides went first, of course. Small potatoes. We also discarded blackmail and extortion. Both required a special knowledge, or leverage, we simply didn’t possess. We eliminated kidnapping because it was distasteful and hijacking because we wouldn’t know what to do with a 747 or a trailer-load of cigarettes if we stole one.

  That left burglaries and armed robberies. We mixed another drink and divided the two stacks of newspaper stories by target: individuals, offices, stores, banks, armored trucks, hotels, etc. Some of these, such as banks and armored trucks, were thrown out because of the expertise involved.

  Individuals, offices, stores, or hotels seemed to both of us to offer the best opportunities. But robbing an individual or burglarizing an individual apartment or house scarcely qualified as a Big Caper. It would require one criminal, two at most. We were looking for a crime demanding a gang.

  We considered a luxury hotel as a possible target.

  “The trouble with looting a hotel,” Dick said, skimming the clippings, “is that that too requires inside information. The crooks obviously know when the safe deposit boxes are loaded. That hints of some hotel employee being in cahoots, doesn’t it?”

  “Also,” I said, “there have been at least five big hotel heists in Manhattan in the past few years. Security has been beefed up. I think there’s a special squad in the NYPD just to keep an eye on hotels, and for all we know there may be permanent stakeouts of hotel desks at night.”

  “Then let’s put hotels aside for the time being. Ditto offices. Offices sound small time, especially since most payrolls are paid by check. That leaves stores. Jannie, you take half these store robberies and I’ll take half. See if we can come up with something.”

  We divided the clippings and began flipping through them.

  After a while Dick said:

  “Jannie, how far back to these stories go?”

  “About three years. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  We read along in silence for a few more minutes. Then Dick said:

  “That’s interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “Do me a favor: Put aside any clippings you find about jewel robberies. Just stores. Not couriers, cutters, messengers, and so forth; just stores. Anything to do with jewels. Mostly diamonds.”

  He poured us each more vodka and we went on with our task. A half-hour later, we had a fat little stack of reports on jewelry store robberies all over the country. Dick started going through this specialized pile.

  “What are you doing now?” I asked him.

  “Eliminating all those where the reported loss was less than a hundred thousand dollars.”

  It didn’t take him long. When he finished, he had a fistful of newspaper stories, some consisting of several clippings on the same case stapled together. Dick counted the individual cases.

  “Fourteen,” he announced. “Fourteen jewelry store thefts in the past three years in which the take was more than a hundred thousand.”

  “That’s wild,” I said. “And there may have been more; I can’t guarantee that my newspaper clipping is one-hundred percent efficient.”

  “But the number of robberies isn’t the most unusual factor,” he went on. “You’d think most of those fourteen thefts would be in New York, in the diamond district on West 47th Street. That’s diamond headquarters for the whole country. But only two of the robberies took place there. The other twelve were all over: Chicago, Beverly Hills, Dallas, Atlanta, Miami, Denver, and so forth. And here’s something just as odd: most of the fourteen took place in the past year, and only one bundle of clippings shows the crooks were caught.”

  “I may have missed the solution of the crime,” I confessed. “The original theft usually gets a big play in the papers, with a headline and long story on page one. If the case is broken a year later, it usually rates a few inches of type on page fifty. I could have missed it.”

  “Maybe,” he said doubtfully, “but according to your file, most of these recent jewelry store capers are still unsolved.”

  “Let me see,” I said, and he handed over the clippings.

  I went through them swiftly. Then I reported to Dick:

  “Practically all were armed robberies during the daylight hours when the stores were open for business. Only three of them were breaking-and-entering at night. That makes sense; jewelry stores have good nighttime security, with electronic alarms to the local precinct house or to a private security agency. But the daylight robberies seem to have been practically all successful.”

  We looked at each other. Dick Fleming has a short upper lip. Now it lifted in a half-smile.

  “They wore masks, of course?” he asked me.

  “Usually,” I said. “Ski masks or stockings pulled over their heads. Or maybe just disguises, like fake beards and mustaches. Wigs and crazy clothes. Things like that to confuse the witnesses.”

  Again we looked at each other. I added ice to our glasses and poured in more vodka.

  “How does it sound to you?” Dick asked.

  “Sounds good. Sounds like our best bet. You?”

  “Sounds good to me, too. Jannie, if we did rip off a jewelry store, how would we cash in?”

  “Two ways,” I said. “One, we can sell the jewelry to a fence. Making sure he’s not an undercover cop. If a fence gives you twenty to thirty percent of the retail value of the stuff you steal, you’re lucky. The other way of cashing in is to sell the stuff back to the insurance company that carries the policy on the store. You understand? They’d rather pay thirty thousand to recover the jewels than
shell out a hundred thousand if they were never found. In effect, in cases like that, the crooks are holding the jewels for ransom. The cops hate those deals between crooks and insurance companies, but there’s not much they can do about them. But we don’t have to worry about that. After all, we’re not actually going to pull the job.”

  “That’s right,” Dick Fleming said, his pale eyes staring somewhere over my head. “We’re not, are we?”

  Having decided on the robbery of a jewelry store, we went on to a discussion of the type of store that would best fit the Big Caper concept. Not something as large as Tiffany or Cartier. It would take an army to pull off a successful daylight heist of those emporiums. But not a little mom-and-pop shop either; the take wouldn’t pay for the expense of planning and the splitting of the profits among several gang members.

  “A medium-sized store,” I said.

  “About four or five employees,” Dick said. “Certainly not more than ten.”

  “A store on one level. With a single entrance.”

  “But an expensive place, specializing in high-quality gems. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires.”

  “A place with an alarm system that can be cut or put out of order.”

  “With no more than one armed guard on the premises.”

  “Right,” I nodded, making fast notes on my scratch pad. “A place like that. How many do you think we’ll need?”

  “Maybe three men,” Dick said. “In addition to you and me. More than that begins to get unwieldy. We’d be running up each other’s heels.”

  “We’ll need someone outside in the car,” I reminded him. “A driver for a quick getaway and to serve as a lookout.”

  “A fourth, then. Or perhaps one of the three I mentioned. It depends on the size of the store. Jannie, that’ll have to be your job—locating a suitable target. I can help out on weekends, and maybe during lunch hours, but you’ll have to do most of the scouting.”

  “Where should I start?” I asked.

  “Try Fifth Avenue first,” he said. “The crowds could be a help during the getaway.”

  “Or a hindrance,” I said. “If we get hung up in traffic. Some nice shops on Madison, too. And 57th Street. I’ll just have to cover the whole midtown section.”

  “A lot of walking.”

  “A lot of fun. Besides, I need the exercise.”

  After he left, I cleaned up the office, carried glasses, ice bucket, vodka to the kitchen, restored clippings to the folder, tucked folders back into the file cabinet. Then I sat down in the swivel chair again, read over the brief notes I had jotted down.

  It occurred to me then that I would be foolish not to keep a complete record of everything Dick Fleming and I did, said, thought. Such a journal would be an invaluable reference when it came time to start a new book.

  “Here’s looking at you, Aldo Binder,” I said out loud. Then I threaded a yellow second sheet into my IBM electric, typed in yesterday’s date at the top, gave it a working title:

  “Project X.” I started writing. I subtitled the first section: “How It All Began.”

  I decided not to tell Dick Fleming that I was keeping a precise record of our activities. It would only make the poor dear nervous.

  LEARNING THE TRADE

  I WISH I HAD been wearing a pedometer during the following two weeks; I would have loved to know how many miles I covered. Back and forth on the cross streets from 34th to 59th. Up and down on the avenues from First to Sixth.

  The weather was sharp enough to justify wearing my mink, for which I was truly thankful. What cop or jewelry store owner would suspect a tall, elegant lady in a full-length mink coat and a wide-brimmed black fedora with a band of pheasant feathers? With an alligator shoulder bag? I was a walking illustration of why the Endangered Species Act was passed. For instance, I began to look upon policemen, guards, and even the public as my natural enemies. Jewelry stores and their contents became challenges. Traffic flow was noted only as it might impede or assist my plans. Even the weather took on a new dimension; a bright, sunny sky might not be desirable, while a dark, rain-soaked day might prove advantageous.

  It was a totally upside-down way of looking at the world and society, a little scary, constantly stressful, but there was exhilaration in it, too. The senses were constantly alert, the mind sharpened and restless. The ordinary concerns of life were of no import. Food lost its flavor, and even sex seemed a second-rate pleasure. Nothing was as important, as meaningful, as the business at hand: the planning of a successful illegal enterprise.

  And what freedom! I glimpsed the anarchic world of the criminal, and it shocked me with its excitement and almost sensual delight. I began to understand why people might deliberately turn to crime without the spur of poverty.

  I started out each morning at about 10:00 A.M., taking a cab to the corner I had left the day before. Once afoot, I walked at a steady, purposeful pace: a shopper out for early-morning bargains or an East Side lady on her way to the dentist or gynecologist.

  I soon developed the ability to judge a jewelry store’s possibilities in seconds, merely by walking past across the street. The hole-in-the-wall shops were out. So were those featuring cheap costume jewelry and watch repairs. So were stores located on upper floors, or ground-floor shops with two interior levels, or those with more than one entrance.

  After the first week I realized how difficult a getaway by car would be in the traffic-clogged cross streets. I decided to concentrate on avenues where traffic moved faster and blocks were shorter.

  I actually entered several shops. I asked to look at a watch, a ring, necklace, whatever I spotted in the nearest showcase. I never bought anything, but the few minutes I was in the store enabled me to make a quick estimate of the size, merchandise, prices, number of employees, presence of guards, and to discover if the safe or vault was in the selling area or in a separate locked room.

  I also tried to form a general impression: prosperity or seediness, a clean, glittering shop with modern fixtures and Muzak, or a grimy, threadbare store with worn carpet, dusty display cases, and the odor of disinfectant. The smartness of the employees’ dress was another tipoff. So was the presence of a doorman. Some expensive shops, which I automatically rejected, kept their front doors locked and apparently admitted only familiar customers or those of prepossessing appearance. I couldn’t see them buzzing the door open for a gang of hoodlums in ski masks.

  I also inspected outside window displays in order to get a rough idea of the price range within. In the better shops, the jewelry on display carried no price tags or the tags were turned facedown. This was a clue to quality merchandise, and I had no hesitation in stalking in and asking the price of the most impressive item in the window.

  I learned things about jewelry stores I hadn’t known. Size was not necessarily an indication of wealth. Some of the most elegant and apparently most prosperous shops were simply one long, well-appointed room with armchairs for customers and no jewelry on display. The customer made known his desires, and the clerk went into an interior locked room to bring forth a velvet tray of rings, bracelets, earrings, or whatever was requested. If nothing on the tray satisfied, it was returned to the vault, and another tray brought out. At no time was the customer left alone with jewelry. Under that system, boosting would have been practically impossible.

  Something else I learned: In several shops in the Forties, the armed guard or one of the clerks was equipped with a miniature radio transmitter, carried on belt or in pocket. I could only assume he had direct contact with the local police precinct or a private security agency.

  And in many stores, the silent alarm buttons were in plain view. In fact, they were so obvious I figured their public placement was deliberate. Would-be thieves would concentrate their attention on the buttons in view, to make certain they weren’t pressed, giving employees the opportunity to use silent alarms more cleverly concealed.

  I already knew that the narrow strip of aluminum foil you see around some street wi
ndows is wired to a burglar alarm. But I also learned that in expensive jewelry stores, individual showcases are frequently equipped with pressure alarms on the lid or door. These must be deactivated before the case is opened.

  As for the main vault or safe in the rear of the store where valuable items were placed at night, the few I glimpsed appeared to be left open during the day. A comforting fact.

  During the second week, Sol Faber called me in the evening.

  “Where have you been, doll?” he inquired anxiously. “I’ve been calling you for the last three days.”

  “I’ve been out, Sol.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Research.”

  “You mean you’re working on something new? That’s my doll! How’s it coming?”

  “Fine. Very realistic.”

  “Music to my ears!” he bubbled. “And remember, neat and tidy. The ending should be neat and tidy.”

  I told him I’d try, and after he hung up, I brought my account of the fake Big Caper up to date.

  A PROBLEM OF VIOLENCE

  ACROSS THE STREET FROM my apartment house, and down the block a few doors, was a French restaurant called Chez Morris.

  Morris was a rough, tubby guy from Brooklyn who looked like a longshoreman, which he once was. There are about 100 authentic French restaurants in Manhattan, and I’d guess the Chez Morris ranked about 101st. You entered through a long, narrow bar where patrons without reservations waited until a table was available. But after 10:00 the bar became the gathering place of regulars from the neighborhood.

  Morris, the owner, knew everything: old baseball scores, sports records, gambling odds, lyrics to ancient songs, casts of forgotten musicals, the vice-president under Coolidge. Morris could settle any argument, and his word was law. He also took bets now and then and handled a few cartons of bootleg cigarettes.

  I timed my arrival for a few minutes after 10:00 in the evening. I figured the regulars wouldn’t yet be clogging the bar, and I’d have a chance for a private conversation with Morris.