McNally's Caper

by Lawrence Sanders

  ‘Hi there!’ Jack Donohue said brightly.

  IT ALL GOES DOWN

  Talk about instant sobriety!

  Being a professional writer, I am familiar with, and have used, the entire lexicon of literary cliches. Like: ‘He grew red with rage.’ ‘She turned green with envy.’ ‘Their jaws dropped in shock and disbelief.’ I have always thought they were just motheaten expressions, exaggerated descriptions of ordinary emotions. But I discovered they were cliches because they were true. At least that last one was, because when I looked at Dick Fleming, his mouth was wide open, and I suddenly became conscious of my own unhinged jaw. Shock and disbelief? You know it! I was fish-mouthed.

  ‘Come on in,’ Donohue said genially. ‘Take a seat. Sample a bite of this nice brandy. Smiley, why don’t you pour the folks a shot? Looks like they could use it.’

  I watched in silence as the smiling man poured my Courvoisier into my brandy snifters and handed them to Dick and me. I took a jolt, then looked around at all those grinning faces: Donohue, Smiley, Hymie Gore, the Holy Ghost, Clement, and a small, tight-faced woman I had never seen before. All lounging in my chairs and sofa, drinking my booze.

  Donohue saw me staring at the dark woman.

  ‘Angela,’ he told me. ‘A special friend of the Holy Ghost. Right, Angela?’

  She shrugged. There was plenty of heat in the apartment, but Angela was wearing a ratty sweatercoat that came to her ankles, plus another cardigan under that, plus a knitted cloche that came down over her ears, plus a woolen scarf that went around her neck three times. That woman was all yarn.

  ‘Angela has special talents,’ Black Jack said, still low-voiced, still pleasant. ‘Show them, Angela.’

  I don’t know how she did it, I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly her wrist flicked and there was an open knife in her hand. Either a gravity knife, the blade sliding out of the handle and locking, or a flick knife, the blade swinging out and locking. Whatever it was, the four-inch steel was suddenly there, sharp and gleaming.

  ‘Wasn’t that beautiful?’ Donohue asked me. ‘Never saw where it came from, did you? A real artist, our Angela is.’

  I took my eyes away from the shiny blade with a conscious effort of will. What I saw next wasn’t any better. The black man, Clement, was holding my beautiful little Beretta automatic pistol. Not pointing it at anyone. It was just dangling casually, his forefinger through the trigger guard.

  But what was even worse was what I saw on the floor, stacked neatly at Donohue’s feet. Project X. My secret manuscript. The complete record of my Big Caper.

  He saw me staring.

  ‘Black Jack?’ he said, laughing. ‘What a name! Jannie, you could have done me better than that.’

  Dick Fleming recovered before I did. ‘What do you want?’ he said hoarsely.

  Donohue turned his head slowly to look at him.

  ‘What do we want?’ he said. ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? We want you. Both of you. But before we get into the whys and wherefores, let’s get some ground rules straight. Either of you get any ideas of suddenly shouting, screaming, making a fuss - don’t. You saw how fast Angela is with her sticker. Clement can be even faster with that nice piece of yours, Jannie. Make a peep, you’re dead; it’s that simple. No joke. No threat. Just the truth. You try to fuck us up, you’re dead and gone.’

  As he said this, his face seemed to grow thinner. It certainly became bleaker. I had no doubt he meant what he said. I don’t think Dick Fleming had any doubts either.

  ‘How long have you known?’ I asked Donohue.

  Everyone had a merry laugh.

  ‘From the start,’ Donohue said. ‘From the very start. Never try to hustle a hustler, Jannie. You know, you’re one lousy actress.’

  .That hurt.

  ‘What did I do wrong?’ I asked angrily.

  ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘No way could you hide that finishing school accent of yours. And the words you used. Crook slang from the nineteen-twenties. You kept flipping back and forth, Beatrice Flanders to Jannie Shean. And where would a cocktail waitress from Chicago get a bikini suntan like you got? Mannerisms. Even the way you walked. I spotted you for a phony the first time I saw you. You didn’t wiggle right. So I asked myself, why? What was your game? Undercover cop? No way. You were too clumsy. And you,’ he said, turning to Fleming, ‘you were no’better. A couple of fucking amateurs. I suggested we throw Hymie Gore and the Holy Ghost to the cops, and the blues would stop looking for anyone else. You went right along with it. As if the cops would be satisfied with Hymie and the Ghost. They’d know a couple of dummies like them couldn’t plan and pull a first-class heist like this.’

  I looked at the two men he was talking about. His description hadn’t bothered them in the least. They were grinning and nodding like idiots.

  ‘So why did you play us for suckers?’ I said furiously. ‘Why did you agree to go along? You could have just walked away.’

  ‘Ahh, Jannie, Jannie,’ he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘You know the answer to that. You and Fleming are a pair of lousy crooks, true, but you’ve got imagination, babe, and you’ve got a knack. Between the two of you, you came up with a perfect campaign. You cased Brandenberg and Sons just right. You did all the work for us. Walk away from it? Are you kidding? It’s too good.’

  ‘You’re going through with it?’ Fleming said incredulously.

  ‘We’re going through with it,’ Donohue said. ‘You and Jannie. All of us. As planned. With a few minor changes.’

  ‘The hell you say!’ Dick said hotly.

  ‘Angela,’ Black Jack said sighing. ‘Clement.’

  The knife was there again, blade shining, the point aimed at me, moving gently back and forth, a snake’s head. And suddenly Clement was gripping the automatic hard, holding it at arm’s length, the muzzle not far from Dick’s temple.

  ‘All of us,’ Donohue repeated, nodding. ‘You’re in this as deep as we are. You’ll come along. Try to run, try to yell, and - blotto! Think I’m not serious? Go ahead - yell. Scream the place down. Call my bluff.’

  Looking at those cold eyes, that drawn face, thinned lips and jutted jaw, I had no desire to call his bluff. And apparently Dick Fleming didn’t either. But he did try a way out.

  ‘Keep me,’ he told Donohue. ‘I’ll do everything you want. No trouble. But let Jannie go. She won’t talk. Not while you’ve got me. You don’t need both of us.’

  Black Jack flashed a brilliant grin around the circle of his mob.

  ‘How about this guy?’ he said. ‘The last of the red-hot lovers. Noble, Fleming, noble as hell - but no cigar. We’ll take both of you. Safer that way. What if we took only you, and you get burned in the heist? Then she spills. Can’t have that.’

  I moved to take Dick’s hand and press it. Thank you,’ I whispered to him.

  ‘All right,’ Donohue said, bending to pick up my manuscript, ‘enough of this lovey-dovey bullshit; let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. We haven’t got all that much time.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Before you start, answer a few questions. Like how did you know I lived here?’

  He looked at me.

  ‘How did I know?’ he said. ‘Come on, Jannie. Easiest thing in the world. I followed you. All those trips back and forth; it wasn’t hard. The Holy Ghost got into your rented Ford and found your license under the seat. That gave me your name. And Blanche told me all your clothes were brand new, no cleaners’ tags or marks. Everything fitted: You were a phonusbalonus.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, gritting my teeth with shame, frustration, rage. ‘But how did you get into this apartment?’

  ‘Made copies of your keys,’ he said blithely. ‘Came up through the garage.’

  ‘Copies of my keys?’ I said furiously. ‘When? When did you ever have my keys?’ .He looked at me, smiling gently. Then I knew. The nights I had slept over in his room. While I slept, he had taken my keys, slipped them to Hymie Gore or the Holy Ghost waiting outside
in the corridor. Those gonifs could have had copies made at three in the morning and the originals passed back to Donohue before I awoke.

  ‘You really want me to tell you when I got your keys, Jannie?’ Donohue asked.

  ‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘I can guess.’

  ‘I’ll bet you can. Anyway, I’ve been dropping up here almost every day. Bet you never noticed a thing out of place, did you?’

  ‘No,’ I said honestly, i never did.’

  ‘Didn’t cop a thing,’ he assured me. ‘Didn’t even sample your booze. I just wanted to keep track of the latest developments. In this …’ He tapped my manuscript.

  I hated him. God, how I hated him. Not so much for making a fool of me; I guess I deserved that. But I couldn’t stand the thought of his getting into my apartment, my secret place, my home, and rummaging around. Looking through all the drawers in my dressers and desk. Probably fingering my lingerie. It was rape.

  But then he said something that dissolved my hate.

  ‘You know, Jannie,’ he said, flipping the pages of my manuscript, ‘you’re really a very good writer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said faintly.

  I loved him.

  Don’t try to figure writers; we’re all nuts.

  ‘Very good,’ Donohue went on, nodding. ‘Make a hell of a novel. Too bad you can never publish it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said miserably, ‘isn’t it?’

  He turned suddenly to Dick Fleming.

  “Thank God you talked her into dating that manager, Noel Jarvis. How else would we have known about the pressure alarms in that chair rail and the door locking automatically? Weren’t going to tell us about that, were you? But that’s okay; I understand. You figured you were out of it, and we’d never try it on our own after you didn’t show up. Well, here we are, all together, and this Big Caper - Jesus, what a cornball name that is! - your Big Caper is going down right on schedule. Here’s what’s going to happen …’

  The others must have heard it all before, because no one interrupted. And Dick and I were too stunned to object. He had it all worked out, down to the fine details, and I realized where he had been and what he had been doing those afternoons and evenings I couldn’t find him at the Hotel Harding. He had started with the Big Caper that Dick and I had planned. And then, consulting my Project X as I had kept it up to date, he had refined the scheme and made the changes necessary to ensure our unwilling cooperation.

  Here’s how he planned it …

  We would all stay right there in my apartment until 8:00 A.M. Dick and I could sleep if we wished, sitting up in living room chairs or sharing my bed, if that was our inclination. If we wanted to use the toilet, Angela would accompany me, Clement would go along with Dick. The bathroom door would remain open at all times.

  The others might catch a few winks, too. But there would always be three of the six awake, watching us. Angela had her knife; all the men were armed with pistols or revolvers. Smiley also carried a leather-covered, flexible sap, which he proudly displayed, swishing it through the air with great enjoyment.

  In the morning, everyone would be up and about, readying for a busy day. I would prepare a pot of instant coffee. If I refused, Angela would make it. A morning eye-opener (brandy, scotch, whatever) would also be provided to those who requested it. At precisely 8:00, we would all depart. Angela would be directly behind me, knife ready. Clement would be on Fleming’s heels, prodding him along with my spiffy Beretta. We would take the elevator down to the basement and exit through the garage.

  ‘Now here’s how the cars will work,’ Donohue explained. ‘Jannie, Angela, me, Hymie, and the Ghost go in Jannie’s rented Ford. Fleming, Clement, and Smiley go in Fleming’s VW.’

  ‘My car?’ Dick said, astonished. ‘It’s parked five blocks away.’

  ‘The hell it is.’ Black Jack grinned. ‘It’s right around the corner. Jannie isn’t the only one we tailed, you know. We know where you live, where you work, where you stash your Bug.’

  Dick sighed, ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me how you got in with a coat hanger and started it. You jumped it -right?’

  ‘didn’t,’ Donohue said. ‘The Holy Ghost did. A genius with cars, that clod is.’font>

  The Ghost twitched in appreciation.

  ‘All right,’ Jack went on. ‘Now the eight of us are in two cars. Five in the Ford, three in the VW. Over we go to the garage on West 47th Street, where we’ve parked the stolen Chevy. All our gear is in the garage. The men put on the Bonomo coveralls there. Oh, another detail you might be interested in, Jannie. As a writer. That’s where we also put on gloves. Thin cotton gloves. Black. The kind undertakers use.’

  This amused everyone. Don’t ask me why.

  Then the five passengers in my rented Ford would transfer to the stolen Chevy and drive over to Madison Avenue for the rendevous with the Bonomo cleaning van in front of the antique shop. The three passengers in Dick’s VW would also drive over. Black Jack paused and looked at me.

  ‘That seemed to bother you, Jannie,’ he said with real enjoyment. ‘I wasn’t sure I could con you about that. I mean, how the heavies were going to get over to Madison Avenue in time for the hijack of the truck. Now if they leave the VW in the garage, you want to guess how they’ll do it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Another stolen car, 1 suppose.’

  ‘Right,’ Donohue said, nodding approvingly. ‘Another hot car. And guess what it is? A beautful bottle-green Jaguar XKE. Ain’t dot nize?’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘I had your keys,’ he said innocently. ‘Seemed a shame not to use them.’

  The two cars would then proceed to Madison Avenue, staying close together. We would not stop, but would circle the block until we saw the Bonomo van doubleparked in front of the antique shop. Then the Chevy would pull up in front of it, the XKE behind it, boxing him in. The cover-ailed men would get into the back of the van, pulling on their stocking masks when they were inside. Including poor Dick Fleming, prodded along at gunpoint.

  But no mask for Donohue. As he said, he’d go naked. Except for a paste-on moustache and a Band-Aid taped across his forehead.

  ‘Sure they’re phony,’ he admitted cheerfully. ‘But they’re what witnesses will remember.’

  When the Bonomo cleaning crew came out of the antique shop and opened the back doors, they’d be yanked into the van at the muzzle of Smiley’s cannon. The helper would be blindfolded, trussed, gagged, pushed to the floor of the van. The driver and Donohue would get into the cab. Black Jack armed, of course.

  ‘It’ll never work,’ I told him. ‘Someone on the street will see. The sidewalks will be crowded.’

  ‘It’ll go like silk,’ he assured me. ‘The boys will be inside the van with their shooters. I won’t pop out of the Chevy until the last minute, until the real Bonomo guys are at the rear doors of the van. Get it? With me behind them, nudging their asses, and the boys inside pulling them in, what are they going to do - except maybe faint? It’ll work; you’ll see.’

  Once the truck was taken, we’d start off for Brandenberg & Sons on East 55th Street. Right about then, Donohue’s friend would be making the diversionary calls to the New York cops and newspapers, reporting bombs planted in Rockefeller Center.

  The van would pull up in front of Brandenberg’s, doubleparking. The driver and Donohue would get out, taking some cleaning gear from the truck to make it look legit. The Chevy, me driving, Angela and knife alongside, would pull up behind the truck.

  Once the door was opened, the rest of the gang (and Dick Fleming) would pile out of the van and into the store. This time the famous rubber doorstopper, inspired by the Devolte Bros, holdup in San Francisco, would be used for a different purpose; it would be wedged between door and jamb so the door couldn’t be electrically locked in case the chair rail alarm was pressed.

  ‘A risk,’ Donohue said. ‘I admit it. I would prefer to keep that door locked while we’re inside, gathering the goodies. But I can’t take the chance
of it being jammed electrically. Then we’d really be in the stew. So we’ll keep it wedged open just an inch or so.’

  When the robbery was completed, they’d come out with their full pillowcases, leaving all the employees of Brandenberg & Sons, plus the Bonomo driver, gagged and tied on the floor. After everyone was out, Donohue would use the rubber stopper to wedge the door tightly closed, just for an added safety factor in case someone got loose in time to start pursuit.

  When they came out, Donohue, the Holy Ghost, and Hymie Gore would race to the stolen Chevy with their share of the loot. I’d push over (closer to Angela’s knife!), and Donohue would get behind the wheel. Smiley, Clement, and Dick Fleming would take their part of the Brandenberg treasure into the van.

  We’d all meet at the West 47th Street garage and transfer to my rented Ford and Fleming’s VW.

  ‘And then we all waltz up to your room at the Hotel Harding?’ Dick asked. ‘And divvy up?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Donohue said, flashing his eighteen-carat grin. ‘I never planned a stupid move like that. We’ve got a better hidey-hole. You’ll find out when the time comes.’

  ‘And what about my XKE?’ I demanded. ‘You’re going to leave it parked in front of that antique shop on Madison Avenue? It’ll take the cops about ten minutes to find out where the Bonomo truck was hijacked, to find the doubleparked Jaguar, and trace it back to me.’

  Smiley spoke for the first time.

  ‘Yeah,’ he rasped, showing his teeth. ‘Ain’t that a shame?’

  There didn’t seem much more to say. I moved closer on the sofa to Dick Fleming. Donohue made no objection. Gore, the Ghost, and Clement stretched out their legs, closed their eyes, determined to sleep. Smiley, Angela, and Black Jack remained awake and alert. Smiley was demolishing what was left in the bottle of Courvoisier, but it didn’t seem to affect him. He just kept smiling. The least he could have done, drinking my cognac, was to take off that ridiculous black leather cap.

  ‘“Oh what a tangled web we weave …,”’ Dick said wryly.

  I nodded.

  ‘Jannie, why in God’s name did you put it all down on paper?’