Lawrence Sanders - McNally's caper

Finally I bought two berets and a lined trenchcoat in red poplin. The salesgirl said the ‘in’ way to wear it was with the belt casually knotted and the collar up in back. When I came out of the store, I passed a hooker wearing a T-shirt that said: ‘The customer always comes first.’

I gave her a friendly nod. Sisters.

The only things left to buy were makeup and perfumes, and for these I went to Woolworth’s, where the prices were reasonable, the selections enormous, and where I let an enthusiastic salesman show me how to apply false eyelashes that looked like a picket fence, paint on green shadow, and apply a small black beauty mark. You just licked it and stuck it on your chin.

‘Makes me look like a skinny Madame Du Barry,’ I told the clerk.

‘Precisely,’ he beamed.

This shopping spree lasted a week. At home, at night, with the door locked and chained, and the shades drawn, I practiced walking my three-inch heels, stuffing the cotton pancakes in my bra, and applying just enough eyeshadow so I wouldn’t look like a victim of malnutrition. I started out giggling, but after a while I really worked at it, and rehearsed a voice change too, striving for a husky, sex-inflicted Marilyn Monroe whisper.

I was fascinated by what I saw in my cheval glass. Not only was my appearance utterly different, but I fell different. I looked like a floozy. I was a floozy. The falsies gave me a pair of knockers that came into the room three seconds before I did. My padded behind bulged provocatively. The ersatz eyelashes batted, the carmined lips moued, the long, long legs wobbled suggestively on the spike heels. When I added a cocked beret and tightly cinched trenchcoat, I could have seduced the United Nations. More than that, I felt seductive. Also, cheap, hard, available, and willing, willing, willing.

After a week of practice that included going out at night to learn how to negotiate steps and curbs in those hookers’ heels (I received four propositions during those trial runs), I decided it was time for the final test.

I called Dick and asked him to come right over to discuss something important. I then went downstairs and sailed by the doorman, who knew me but didn’t give me a second glance, being too busy with the first. I figured he didn’t recognize me.

I took up station in the dim doorway of a Third Avenue store I knew Dick would pass. I lighted a cigarette, let it dangle from my lips. I stuck my hands deep in the trenchcoat pockets. I tried to jut my fake chest.

Along came Dick, walking fast. I blew out a plume of smoke from the corner of my mouth just before he came abreast of me. I stepped out into the illumination of a street lamp.

‘Wanna have a little fun?’

He looked at me. I mean, he didn’t just glance, he looked.

‘Not tonight, thank you,’ he said primly and continued walking.

He took about three more steps, then stopped so suddenly he almost fell on his face. A classic double-take. He turned and came back. He stood in front of me, staring.

‘Change your mind, buster?’ I murmured.

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘All right, Jannie,’ he said. ‘You win.’

There were so many things I had written in those Chuck-Mike-Buck-Pat-Brick books of mine that I really knew nothing about. Like casing. I’d have my villains walk around the target twice, time the nightwatchman’s schedule, and maybe discover when the payroll was to be delivered.

But now, trying seriously to determine how Brandenberg amp; Sons might be robbed with profit and minimal risk required a laborious, minute-by-minute study, conducted with a stopwatch, that was gradually extended for almost a month. I filled two notebooks of observations, and from my jottings. Dick Fleming designed beautifully neat time charts of personnel flow, using a variety of colored inks.

By consulting these records, we could pinpoint the location of any one of the employees at any moment during the working day. Since we didn’t know their names, they were designated Manager, Salesmen 1, 2, and 3, and Repairmen 1 and 2. Each was described physically so we could tell them apart. In addition I discovered the presence of a seventh employee: an aged black man who apparently doubled as porter and messenger.

Most of my casing was done from the window of the luncheonette across the street. I varied the tables at which I sat and the times I was present. Fortunately, the place was usually crowded and seemed to have a heavy personnel turnover.

I changed the luncheonette routine occasionally by driving from my apartment to East 55th Street and doubleparking my XKE as long as I could, using it as an observation post. But the car was too noticeable to use frequently, so I borrowed Dick Fleming’s VW several times.

I noted several things of interest:

The store did not open for business until 10:00 A.M., but all the employees arrived between 8:45 and 9:00. In the hour before the public was admitted, the store was dusted and vacuumed by commercial cleaners who arrived at 9:00 each morning. Also, during this preparatory hour, the interior steel shutters protecting the window displays were raised. I was bemused to note that despite this protection most of the valuable items were removed from the street windows at night and presumably placed in the vault, to be returned to the window displays in the morning.

The two commercial cleaning men were admitted by the manager, who unlocked the front door to let them in and locked it again after their entrance. They rarely spent more than forty-five minutes giving Brandenberg amp; Sons its spic-and-span appearance. When they departed with their vacuum cleaner, mops, brooms, etc., the manager unlocked the door, let them out, then locked the door after them. At precisely 10:00 the door was unlocked once again to signal the start of the business day. This routine never varied.

The employees were apparently on a rigid lunch-hour schedule: never more than two absent at the same time. I think the repairmen brought sandwiches. At least, both carried small black cases, like doctor’s bags, when they arrived in the morning, and I never saw either of them go out to lunch.

Brandenberg amp; Sons closed promptly at 5:00 P.M. A few minutes later, the interior steel shutters were lowered, and I was unable to observe the routine of closing. I presumed the valuable items were put in the vault, and interior burglar alarms set. Whatever was done didn’t take long, because all the employees had exited by 5:30. The manager was always the last to leave, and he not only turned a key in a conventional lock, but reached high to turn a key in another lock, which, I assumed, activated another burglar alarm attached to the door. When he opened up in the morning, he reversed this process, first turning off the alarm, then opening the door.

When the manager locked up and departed at 5:30, he was always accompanied by clerk Number 3, who kept his hands in his topcoat pockets and was, I suspected, armed. They always followed the same procedure. They walked over to Park Avenue, then one block south. There at a corner bank, the manager took out a manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it into the bank’s night deposit vault. I supposed the envelope contained the day’s receipts, cash and checks. The two men then went their separate ways.

During the weeks I was observing Brandenberg amp; Sons as closely as possible, I also tried to form a clearer idea of their clientele. For the most part they seemed middle-aged or older, and very few were window-shoppers. That is, they were not interested in the outside display windows, but came down the street and turned purposefully into the store. They knew exactly where they were going. Many of them arrived by taxi or private car, and not a few by chauffeured limousine.