by David Goodis
Chapter I
AT THREE in the morning it was dead around here and the windows of the mansion were black, the mansion dark purple and solemn against the moonlit velvet green of gently sloping lawn. The dark purple was a target and the missile was Nathaniel Harbin who sat behind the wheel of a car parked on a wide clean street going north from the mansion. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and in his lap there was a sheet of paper containing a diagram of burglary. The plan gave the route aiming at the mansion, moving inside and across the wide library to the wall-safe where there were emeralds.
In the parked car Harbin sat with his three companions. Two of them were men and the third was a blonde skinny girl in her early twenties. They sat there and looked at the mansion. They had nothing to express and very little to think about, because the mansion had been thoroughly cased, the plan had been worked and re-worked with every move scheduled on a split-second basis, the thing discussed and debated and rehearsed until it was a fine, precise plan that looked to be foolproof. Harbin told himself it was foolproof, allowed that to simmer for a while, then bit hard on the cigarette and told himself nothing was foolproof. The haul was going to be risky and as a matter of fact it might prove to be more risky than any they had ever attempted. It was certainly the biggest haul they had ever attempted and it was these big hauls that offered the most danger. Harbin’s thinking went that far and no further. He was inclined to pull the brakes on thinking when his mind began looking at risk.
Harbin was thirty-four and for the past eighteen years he had been a burglar. He had never been caught and despite the constant jeopardy he had never been forced into a really tight corner. The way he operated was quiet and slow, very slow, always unarmed, always artistic without knowing or interested in knowing that it was artistic, always accurate with it and always extremely unhappy with it.
The lack of happiness showed in his eyes. He had grey eyes that were almost never bright, subdued eyes that made him look as though he was quietly suffering. He was a rather good-looking man of medium height and medium weight and he had hair the color of ripe wheat, parted far on one side and brushed flat across his head. His mode of attire was neat and quiet and he had a soft quiet voice, subdued like the eyes. He very seldom raised his voice, even when he laughed, and he rarely laughed. He rarely smiled.
In that respect he was on the order of Baylock, who sat next to him on the front seat of the car. Baylock was a short, very thin man in his middle forties, getting bald, getting old fast with pessimism and worry, getting sick with liver trouble and a tendency to skip meals and sleep. Baylock had bad eyes that blinked a lot and small, bony hands constantly rubbing together with the worry and the memory of several years ago when there was prison. Baylock had been in prison for what he considered a very long time and on certain occasions he would talk about prison and say what an awful thing it was and claim that he would rather be dead and buried than be in prison. Most of the time Baylock was a bore and sometimes he could really get on one’s nerves and at certain times he was truly intolerable.
Harbin could remember specific occasions when he had been fed up with Baylock, finally weary of Baylock’s continual whining and nagging, the sound of complaining and pessimism that was like a dripping faucet, going into the nerves and going in again and again until the only thing to do was walk away from Baylock and keep on walking to keep away from him until he got tired of hearing himself talk. Baylock always took a long time to get tired of that, and yet Baylock was completely dependable during a haul, valuable after a haul because of his ability to appraise loot, and valuable mainly because all his motives and all his moves were always displayed out in the open.
Harbin recognized and appreciated that rare trait in Baylock, and so did the others, the two in the back seat, the girl and Dohmer. Although Dohmer at times showed active hostility toward Baylock, it was a temporary hostility that always bubbled and climbed and blew up and died. Dohmer was a tall, heavy Dutchman, touching forty, with a wide, thick nose and a thick neck and a thick brain. The brain never tried to accomplish what it knew it couldn’t accomplish and for that reason Dohmer was just as valuable to Harbin as Baylock was. Dohmer was quite clumsy on his feet and he was never allowed to work the inside of houses, but from the outside he functioned well in the capacity of lookout and during emergencies he was more or less automatic, reacting like a network of gears and wires.
Harbin took the cigarette from his mouth, looked at it and put it back in again. He turned his head to look at Baylock, then went on turning his head to look at Dohmer and the girl. The girl, Gladden, looked back at Harbin and as their eyes met and held there was a moment of strain and difficult waiting, as though this was as far as it could go, this thing of just looking at each other and knowing it couldn’t go any farther than just this. Glow from a streetlamp far back came through the rear window, came floating in to settle on Gladden’s yellow hair and part of her face. The glow showed the skinny lines of her face, the yellow of her eyes, the thin line of her throat. She sat there and looked at Harbin and he saw her skinniness, this tangible proof of her lack of weight, and in his mind he told himself she weighed tons and tons and it all hung as from a rope around his neck. He looked at this burden that was Gladden, tried to smile at her but couldn’t smile because he saw her in that moment as a burden and nothing more than a burden, then drew himself up and away from that moment and saw her only as Gladden.
Only as Gladden she was quiet and kind and it was pleasant to have her around. When it came to the hauls she was completely mechanical and went through her maneuvers as though she was knitting. On all the hauls she did all the casing and she did it in a relaxed, somewhat detached manner that made it look almost easy although it was really very difficult, sometimes more difficult than the haul itself. On this haul, aiming at something around a hundred thousand dollars worth of emeralds in a wall safe, Gladden had worked for six weeks to get in good with certain servants who worked in the house, to get into the house on the pretext of visiting with the servants when the family was away for a weekend, to line up the information and take it back to Harbin and Baylock and Dohmer. She did all that with each move carried out according to plan, getting her directions from Harbin, asking no questions and going through with the directions exactly as specified, coming back with all the facts she was told to obtain, and just standing there quietly when Baylock began to whine and nag and complain. Baylock said she should have come back with more, there were undoubtedly more burglar alarms than the ones she had listed. Baylock said it was an unsatisfactory job of casing. But then Baylock was always getting his digs in at Gladden.
There was nothing personal in the digs. Baylock was really fond of Gladden and when they weren’t working on a haul he was amiable toward her and he showed her a kindness now and then. But the hauls were the big things in Baylock’s life and he saw Gladden as a drag, her femininity a negative force working against the success of the hauls, and even if the hauls were successful, Gladden was a woman and sooner or later a woman causes grief and Baylock was constantly taking Harbin aside and drilling away at this issue. Gladden was Baylock’s major complaint though he never made the complaint bluntly in her presence. He would wait until she wasn’t around, and then he would start on it, this favorite complaint of his, telling Harbin that they didn’t need Gladden, they ought to give her some money and send her away, and she would be better off and most certainly they would be better off.
Harbin always did his best to change the subject, because this subject was something he not only didn’t want to talk about, it was something he didn’t want to think about. He knew he couldn’t convey to Baylock the reasons why they had to retain Gladden. The reasons were deep and there were times when he tried to study them and could not figure them out himself, could only see these reasons as vague elements floating in sinister depth, his contact and relationship with Gladden a really weird state of affairs, something about it that was unnatural, and it was like a puzzle that threw itself in
front of one’s eyes and stayed there, wouldn’t go away, persisted there and grew there. He had gone through countless nights when there was no sleep, only the black ceiling of a room above his eyes, the thought of Gladden a hammer that dangled from the ceiling and clanged against his brain. It was as though he could see the hammer, its metal shining against the darkness of the room, the force of it swinging toward him, coming hard, coming into him. And it was as though he was tied there hand and foot and there was no getting away. The thing was planted. It was set. There was no getting away from Gladden.
Looking at her now, seeing her face there in the rear of the car, he made another attempt to smile at her. He couldn’t smile at her. But she was smiling at him. There was sweetness in her smile, soft and gentle and yet it was a blade going through him and he had to turn his head away. He bit into the cigarette and wished he could light it, but they had their own rules about lighting matches during a haul. He shifted the cigarette across his mouth and glanced at his wristwatch.
Then he turned to Baylock and said, “I guess we’re ready.”
“Check your tools?”
“I’ll check them now,” Harbin said, and from his coat pocket he took a small metal sliver that could have been a fountain pen, and pressed the edge of it and tested the light it stabbed to the floorboards. From another pocket he took a flannel case tied with a shoelace, undid the shoelace, took out the little tools one by one and held them close to one eye, the other eye closed, studying the fine tips and edges of the tools, touching the smooth metal with a forefinger, closing both eyes to concentrate on the feel of the cold, accurate metal against his flesh. It was wise to always check each tool just before the beginning of a haul. Harbin had learned long ago that metal is an unpredictable element and sometimes it chooses embarrassing moments to give way.
The tools seemed to be all right and he had them back in the case and put the case in his pocket. He glanced again at his wristwatch and said, “All right, get your eyes wide open.”
“You going now?” Dohmer said.
Harbin nodded and opened the door and stepped out of the car. He crossed the wide smooth black street, came onto the curving pavement bordering the flowers of the lawn of the mansion. Coming onto the lawn he moved toward the window that had been selected. Again the flannel case came out of his pocket and from the case he took an instrument designed to cut glass. The glass-cutter did its work quietly as Harbin turned the little lever putting the little blade in motion. Finally the glass-cutter sliced a small rectangle permitting Harbin to get his fingers inside to open the window lock. He had the window going up slowly and quietly. He told himself that just about now Gladden ought to arrive. There was a sound near him, and he turned and looked at Gladden. She smiled at him, then a quick gesture with her right hand, something like brushing a fly away from her nose, signified that Dohmer and Baylock were now in their specified placements. Dohmer was at the rear of the house, watching the rear upstairs windows, to see if and when a light would go on. Baylock was on the lawn up toward the front, where he could watch the front and side windows, and where he could get a good view of the street and their parked car. It was very important to keep an eye on their parked car. The police along Philadelphia’s Main Line knew most of the cars in this section of mansions, and would be inclined to check any cars that looked like strangers.
Harbin lifted a finger toward the window, and Gladden climbed in. Light from Harbin’s small flashlight streaked under her arm as he followed her in. She took the flashlight from him and he followed her across the room toward the wall-safe. No attempt had been made to camouflage the safe and the flashlight displayed it as a square of hammered brass, centered with an ornamented combination dial. Harbin nodded slowly and Gladden went back to the window to stand there where she could watch for flashlight signals from Dohmer and Baylock.
At the safe, Harbin took another look at his wristwatch. He gazed at the safe, ignoring the combination dial and concentrating on the edges of the brass square. He glanced again at his wristwatch and gave himself five minutes at the outside. He began chewing on the unlit cigarette as he removed the important tool from the flannel case.
The important tool was a tiny circular saw revolved by a pumping process, on the order of a hypodermic syringe. The teeth of the saw bit through oak that panelled the brass square. Harbin had his face close to the oak, but every now and then he took it away to see if there was any green light on the wall near him. The green light would be from Gladden’s flashlight, in case she needed to use it. The chances were he would see the signal anyway, if it came, but he had to be sure, because here her flashlight threw a wire of green glow, and if it wasn’t aimed just right, he would miss it. But if the green light did come, it would mean that Gladden had received an alarm from either Dohmer or Baylock, or both of them. It would mean that Dohmer would come running to the window, to climb in and intercept anyone coming down from upstairs, to use the special brand of Dohmer technique to silently yet firmly quiet the intercepting party. Or possibly it could mean interception coming from the outside and Dohmer and Baylock would be forced into a decoy set-up. It could mean a great many things and Harbin had all the potentials carefully listed in his brain.
The saw finished one side of the square. The rhythm of the saw made a sound something like that of a man groaning deep in his throat. It was a night sound and it could be an insect out there in the springtime air. Or it could be the distant sound of an automobile. It was a sound that Harbin had tested many times at the Spot, and Gladden had used the saw downstairs while Harbin, his head against the pillow, strained his hearing, and threw aside all rationalization, and finally decided the sound was passable. At the Spot they were always going through this sort of testing, and they practiced constantly. They all hated the practicing, especially Harbin, but it was Harbin who quickly stifled all arguments against the practicing.
Three sides of the square were sawed and he was on the final side when grass-on-fire came into his eyes. He turned and saw the bright green flame from Gladden’s flashlight. It went on and off, on again, stayed on, then three bursts from it and he knew there was disturbance on the outside and Baylock had given the signal and it was police and they were at the parked car. He opened his mouth just a little, the chewed cigarette fell out from between his teeth, bounced off his elbow and hit the floor. He leaned over and picked it up, his eyes seeking Gladden at the window, waiting for more from her flashlight. He saw her standing there at the window, giving him her profile in what was almost silhouette. For such a skinny girl, he told himself, she had reasonable height, somewhere around five feet three. She really ought to put on some weight, he told himself. She had an appetite like a wren. The police, he imagined, were now walking around the parked car. He imagined their bandit chaser was parked beside the car and now they were walking around it and looking at it and not saying anything. Now they were inside it. They would see the interior of the automobile. They were tremendous, these police, because the next thing they would do was to look at each other. Then they would look around at the night air. They would just stand there. The police, he told himself, were marvelous when it came to just standing there. Sometimes they elaborated on it a little and pushed their caps back and forth on their heads. Nobody could push a cap back and forth on his head like a policeman. He went on looking at Gladden and waiting for more from her flashlight. Her flashlight stayed dark. Harbin looked at his wristwatch. The next time he looked at his wristwatch it was eight minutes later and he knew he must do something about the policemen, because the lack of further news from Gladden meant the police were still out there.
He moved across the room, came toward Gladden.
He stood beside her profiled face and said close to her ear, “I’ll go out.”
Her only movement was breathing. She kept her eyes on a garden wall where lights from the other flashlights would show. She said, “Tell them what?”
“Car broke down,” he said. “I went to look for a mechanic.”
For some moments she had no reply. He waited to hear something. It was a real emergency, yet whatever she said wouldn’t mean anything to him in a practical sense, because he was going out anyway. But he liked to know his ideas were solid, and he wanted her to say this was solid. He handed her the tools and his flashlight. He waited.
She said, “You always underestimate the cops.”
It wasn’t the first time she had said that. It didn’t annoy him. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps it was actually a serious weakness in his campaigning, and some night it would truly backfire. But it remained a perhaps and he was never affected strongly by the possible or even probable. The only merchandise he ever bought was the definite.
He said, “Watch your diet,” just to say something before he climbed out. Then he was through the window and out on the lawn, working close to the house, getting toward the rear. Shrubbery came up in front of his face and he circled it and saw Dohmer crouching near the stone steps leading to the kitchen door. He made a little sound through the corner of his mouth. Dohmer turned and looked at him. He gave Dohmer a small smile, then moved on, passing Dohmer, working his way around to the other side of the house, cutting across the lawn and seeing Baylock pressed hard against a wall of the garage on the far side of the lawn. He came up behind the garage, edged his way in toward Baylock, making just enough noise so Baylock could hear him coming. Baylock moved a little, stared at him. He nodded and Baylock returned the nod. He faced around, retraced his steps to bring himself on the other side of the garage. Then there was more shrubbery. He went through it. Another line of shrubbery brought him down near the end of the driveway, toward a curving street lowering its way around the north side of the mansion. He came out and onto the street, took off his coat, opened his shirt collar, put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match.
Puffing at the cigarette, he walked up the street, holding his coat over one arm, then made the turn at the summit of the climbing street. It brought him in view of the parked black car and the parked red car and the two policemen.
