A Japanese man without a camera vacated his place on the ledge. Springer was fast to claim it. On either side of him were young out-of-town lovers hanging on as though the city might steal them from each other. Springer fixed his attention on the buildings across the way. First, on the comer of 55th, was the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, constructed of brownstone and with a steeple and a half where two must have been originally planned. Adjacent to the church was an attractive six-story building and next to it another of three stories. The kind of tum-of-the-century European-influenced structures that the New York City Landmarks Commission was trying to save.
Next came Townsend's building. It, also, was turn-of-the-century but simpler in line: five stories with a flush, almost unomamented natural limestone facade. Its twelve upper windows (three to each floor) had identical shades, decoratively scalloped and tasseled. At street level the arched entrance was flanked by two display windows only about three feet high and half as wide. These were strategically lighted in much the same manner as Winston's windows three doors away. Even from across the wide avenue, Springer could see the scintillations of the diamonds they displayed.
Second floor front was Townsend's private office. Perhaps, Springer thought, the prick was up there that very moment, sitting at his desk with stone 588 the only thing on the surface before him. Gloating over it. Springer focused intensely on those second-floor windows, as though he were capable of transmitting some sort of lethal hate beam.
Buses.
Six of them lumbered down the stream of the avenue like behemoths in single file. Their advertisement-bearing hulks intermpted Springer's point of view.
More likely, he told himself, stone 588 was tucked securely away in Townsend's vault and the man himself was gone to some country place such as Libby's.
Springer tilted his head back and sighted up the grouped black shafts of Trump Tower, evil and powerful looking and so tall they threatened to topple over on him. He estimated just about where up there Audrey was. She would throw gold pieces into wishing pools, he thought. He leaned forward, forearms to knees, glanced down the avenue.
At first he didn't recognize Strand.
Strand looked so different in a short-sleeved cotton-knit sport shirt and casual slacks. He also had on wraparound wire-framed sunglasses. But there was no mistaking the cowlick. Strand was about thirty feet away in front of the Coca Cola/Columbia Pictures Building, using a brass Siamese automatic sprinkler outlet for a seat. How long had Strand been there? Springer wondered. More important, why was he there? Strand's gaze seemed to be fixed upon Townsend's across the way. Possibly he hadn't even noticed Springer.
Springer got up, went across the wide sidewalk to the curb. Stood diagonally facing Strand. He did everything but dance trying to get Strand's attention, even took a couple of quarters from his pocket and pretended to drop them accidentally. After about five minutes of such antics, when there was no way Strand could have possibly not seen him, Springer walked away.
He didn't look back. Either Strand was following him or he wasn't. He crossed over and went east on 56th to the atrium of the IBM Building. In there he sat at one of the small stationary marble-topped tables.
Strand came and sat across from him.
"Nice place," Strand commented, glancing around and above. "I remember when they were putting it up."
The atrium, courtesy of IBM and certain city building codes, was spacious and public. Clusters of bamboo grew thirty to forty feet tall. Bowl-like containers five feet in diameter held thriving ranunculus. High-ceilinged and open, with no music and only muted conversations, the place had the atmospheric quality of a public library.
Springer told Strand, "I was about to give up on you."
"I had things to do."
After three years who wouldn't. Springer thought.
"A guy I knew in the joint ... his wife was having a problem with her Jody. I promised I'd see if I could straighten it out."
"A problem with her what?"
"Her Jody. It's what they call the guy a woman is with while her man does time."
"Must be frustrating as hell, being jealous and unable to do anything about it."
Strand smiled at Springer's normal assumption. He thought he'd let it go at that but then, merely for the talk of it, decided to explain. "It's not a matter of infidelity," he said, "it's an accepted arrangement. And quite practical, all things considered."
"Oh?"
"Not many guys have the wherewithal to support a woman while they do time. Also, it's self-deceiving to believe she's not going to have to be taken care of sexually."
"So a Jody provides, huh?"
"Yeah."
Springer tried to imagine himself in prison and Audrey with some Jody. He'd be chewing the bars.
"Have you spoken to Danny?" Strand asked.
"Not for a couple of days."
"I had a few words with him this morning."
"What have you decided?"
"Nothing."
"Okay then, which way are you leaning?"
"I like the project. Not enough yet to say I'll get involved, only that it has its attractions."
"Why do you like it?"
"Someday maybe we'll discuss that."
"Danny told me the shit Townsend pulled on you."
"That's one reason."
Strand got up. So abruptly Springer thought he was offended and leaving. Without a word Strand went to the refreshment bar at the other end of the atrium. He returned with a tray bearing wedges of cream-cheese poppy-seed cake, chocolate mousse cake, and chocolate walnut pie and two glasses of fresh orange juice. He placed the tray in the center of the table and told Springer, "Help yourself."
Springer thanked him for one of the orange juices.
Strand drew the tray to himself and began on the desserts. He favored the cream-cheese poppy-seed cake but didn't slight the others.
"You and Audrey should really hit it off," Springer remarked.
"I want to ask you about her. Is she in this all the way or just around for you before and after?"
It was by no means a mere loose end. When Springer had told Audrey he didn't want her taking part in the actual robbery because it was too dangerous, she scoffed and told him to skip the movie hero obligatory speech to his girlfriend, when both knew, according to plot, she was going to be with him up to her ass in danger throughout. When Springer again mentioned he'd feel better if she wasn't so deeply mixed up in it, she didn't argue, didn't put it to him in the form of an unequivocal, eternal ultimatum. She just silently stood her ground, and from her stance and the look in her eyes. Springer knew if he insisted on holding his line she was going to be miserable, and therefore he was going to be miserable for a long time to come. "Audrey is in it all the way," Springer told Strand.
Strand grunted rather disagreeably with his mouth full of chocolate walnut pie. He pushed his sunglasses up so they were atop his head. "If this move is made it's going to take quite a few people, figure six to ten."
"That many?"
"They won't all be shareholders, of course, but there'll be things that will have to be done. Danny said he had some guys who would do without wanting to know why."
"I'm sure I can count on Danny."
"In return Danny wants first on all the goods."
Springer was disappointed that Danny's offer to help wasn't unqualified, but then he was trespassing Danny's livelihood, and no doubt Danny had to answer to others. "I wouldn't have any problem with that, would you?"
Strand shook his head no. He finished off the last of the chocolate mousse cake. It sure beat the hell out of raspberry Jell-0, or jail-o, as the guys in the joint called it. He scraped the plate with the side of his fork, got every last crumb. From the rear pocket of his trousers he brought out a once-folded legal-sized envelope. He held it open, offering its contents to Springer. Several folded pages. "Those aren't in my handwriting, nor are my prints on them anywhere," Strand said. He tore the envelope into small squares
and dropped them onto one of the chocolate-smeared plates. "Even if I don't make it a joint venture—shit, that's an unfortunate choice of words, isn't it— anyway, I'm sure you'll find those helpful."
Springer thanked him with his eyes. He put the pages in his pocket. "Let me ask you just one thing."
"No harm asking."
"You know the place. Can it be done?"
"Depends."
"On the people?"
"And on what some call luck and others call perfect timing." Strand slipped his sunglasses down into place. "C'mon, let's take a walk."
They went west on 56th, down Avenue of the Americas, east on 55th, and up Fifth. Around the block counterclockwise. Three times around. The first time they said nothing, walked slowly and took things in. Second time around they called one another's attention to possibilities. The third time they culled.
On the comer of 56th and Fifth outside Winston's, Strand had had enough, was anxious to be elsewhere. "I'll give you a call," he said.
"That's what you told me last time."
"Call me if you want. I'm at the Helmsley Palace."
"Really?" Dubious Springer.
"Room service loves me." Strand grinned, turned, and hurried to make the light.
Chapter 29
Springer unfolded the material Strand had given him: eleven neatly handprinted pages, including drawings of floor plans, overhead and side views.
He and Audrey read slowly and passed the pages to one another while sprawled head-to-foot and foot-to-head in the deep lap of an obese sofa.
It was obvious that Strand had spent a lot of time preparing the information, hadn't given it just a half-interested lick. He was very thorough in describing Townsend's as he remembered it, the particulars of the building and all the security measures that protected it. The drawings, though freehand and not in proportion, made it easier to visualize. Even approximate measurements were indicated where they might be helpful.
Now Springer and Audrey were brought to realize what they were up against.
Townsend's building.
Twenty-seven feet wide and from its front on Fifth Avenue about one hundred twenty feet deep. Its main structure was beam and brick, circa 1906.
The rear of the building and its roof were thought to be most vulnerable, so those areas were intensively protected. The rear shared an enclosed space, a littered and unkempt sort of inner courtyard, with the backs of other buildings of the block. Access to that space could be gained through any of those other buildings, and someone wanting to break in would be able to work undetected there for hours. For that reason, disregarding the city fire laws that require at least a second unimpeded exit, the rear door and windows of Townsend's had been sealed, filled in with brick to present a sheer wall five stories high. For additional security a downward-aimed television camera was mounted a third of the way up.
The roof of Townsend's was flat. It was on a level with the flat roof of the building next door to the north. To prevent merely stepping from one roof to the other, two steel mesh fences were spaced three feet apart. Not ordinary steel mesh fences. The first fence was woven with sharp barbs and topped with spikes curved well outward. The second fence was electrically charged. It was not known exactly how much voltage ran through it; however, it was said and believed that merely placing a hand to it would knock a man down.
A pressure-sensitive alarm was integrated throughout the surface of the roof. Weight in excess of fifty pounds anywhere upon it would activate the alarm.
Four television cameras were installed up there. Two covered the roof itself with wide-angle views. The other two overlooked the roof of the adjacent building to the south. Because that building was two and a half stories lower, it did not pose a threat as a way of access. Anyone on the roof of that building looking toward Townsend's would be facing an uninterrupted brick wall thirty feet straight up.
Although it was unimaginable that an attempt might be made to break into Townsend's from Fifth Avenue, all twelve of its sash-type front windows were permanently closed and equipped with both contact and vibration-sensitive alarms. The archway entrance was closed off after business hours by a roll-down steel gate. The front door had two heavy-duty deadbolt locks as well as a contact alarm.
So much for Townsend's from the outside.
Intermission.
Audrey went to the kitchen for a heap of pistachios in a proper silver bowl.
Springer got on the phone, dialed the Helmsley Palace, and asked for Mr. Strand. He expected to be told no one by that name was registered, but he was put through and on the second ring a woman picked up. She said hello three times and then Springer heard Strand's voice in the background asking her who it was. Springer hung up feeling slightly encouraged.
He and Audrey resumed their reading positions at opposite ends of the sofa, the bowl of pistachios within equitable reach. Springer used his thumbnail to split apart the pistachio shells and get at the kernels. Audrey, valuing her nails, popped the pistachios into her mouth shells and all, three or four at a time. She stored them in a cheek while using her tongue to maneuver one into position for her front teeth to find the crack on the seam of its shell and force it open. She kept the empty shell halves in her other cheek until it was bulging, handicapping her oral dexterity. Springer, afraid that Audrey might get her storing and cracking and chewing and swallowing and breathing out of sync, was always ready to apply the Heimlich maneuver.
Back to Strand's pages.
The inside of Townsend's.
The three top floors were partitioned into workrooms of varying size. Up there was where goods, rough and finished, were graded, and where the phases of jewelry making, the polishing, setting, and finishing, were performed. Two faceting machines were on the fifth floor, a couple of designer studios on the third. Nothing extraordinary.
Townsend's office, second floor front, was separate from the vault but adjacent to it. The vault was actually a walk-in armored strong room that measured eight by ten feet with a seven-foot ceiling. It was installed in 1975. Purportedly out of nostalgia, actually as a matter of thrift, the interior of the prior vault was kept intact. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of steel-reinforced concrete with a solid steel skin two inches thick. A copper alloy lining was sandwiched in the steel to keep anyone from cutting through it with a torch. Heat, dispersed by the conductivity of the copper, could not be concentrated to a high enough degree in any one spot.
The door of the vault was four-inch-thick case-hardened steel. It had eight solid cylindrical bolts one and a half inches in diameter. When the vault door was locked, the bolts extended five inches into the seamless steel jambs left and right of the door.
A computerized timing device controlled the bolts. At the end of a business day, once the vault was locked, the bolts would not retract and allow opening under any circumstances until 9 a.m. the following morning. The timer was also programmed for weekends and holidays.
The vault had a ten-digit electronic combination. It was Townsend's secret, set by him. He was so cautious about it he didn't seem to even trust himself, changed the combination frequently.
Another television camera was concealed in paneling opposite the vault, and there were pressure alarm pads underneath the wall-to-wall carpeting right up to the vault door.
The interior of the vault was about five feet by seven. The floor was covered with black vinyl; on the ceiling, two fluorescent lighting fixtures and a circular air vent that was nine, maybe ten inches in diameter. In case anyone got locked in.
On the wall opposite the door was a black velour-covered table.
On the walls left and right were the drawers that contained Townsend's goods.
The drawers were steel-faced, had knob pulls, and were etched with numbers, 1 through 100, so there must have been about fifty on each wall. They were arranged in vertical courses, much like the card catalogue in a library, starting a foot from the floor and going up to five feet or so. The drawers were identical in size: s
ay, six inches wide, five inches deep, and twelve inches long. A few were wider, about ten inches, to accommodate larger pieces such as tiaras and partures.
When a Townsend employee removed something from the vault he was to pull out the drawer entirely, place it on the velour-covered table, and go into it there. He would note the number of the lot, sign the Goods-Out sheet, and return the drawer to its proper slot. Townsend wouldn't stand for having drawers protruding from the wall where they might be accidentally knocked out, their contents scattered. A stone or two had been lost by such carelessness, Townsend claimed. He had a remarkable memory when it came to his stock.
The alarm systems at Townsend's were connected to Reliance Security Services, Inc., which was as close as any business could get to being hooked up directly to the Midtown North police precinct on West 54th Street. Other security outfits such as Wells Fargo, Pinkerton's, and Holmes were larger and better known; however. Reliance offered the advantage that it was owned and run by a group of retired Midtown North detectives who were wiser to the ways of city swifts. Reliance had connections at the precinct that it could count on for more than plain old cooperation. Quite a few guys still on the force moonlighted at Reliance. In fact, some daylighted, so to speak.
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