Lawrence Sanders - McNally's caper

I also became aware of a special type of visitor to Brandenberg amp; Sons. These were invariably youngish men, most of them well built, conservatively dressed, and all carrying black attache cases handcuffed to their left wrist. There were three of four such men entering Brandenberg amp; Sons every week. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally Dick decided they were jewelry salesmen or couriers from wholesale jewelry merchants delivering purchases made by Brandenberg amp; Sons.

Dick and 1 had several discussions about who actually owned our target store. Neither of us believed it was that rubicund manager. Dick said we could probably find out, if we wanted to go to the trouble, by looking up city records, leases, reports of property sales, bank references, membership lists of jewelers’ associations, etc. But did we really want to attract attention to ourselves by such enquiries? Besides, what difference did it make to professional thieves whom they were robbing? Inevitably, it would be the insurance company, wouldn’t it? So we made no effort to identify the actual owner of Brandenberg amp; Sons.

A bad mistake.

During my second week of casing, I dug out my grandfather’s pocket watch from a bottom bureau drawer, slipped it into my purse, and made my second actual visit to the store.

I was approached by the salesman we had labeled Number 1, but I told him I wanted to speak to the manager.

‘Mr Jarvis?’ he said. ‘He’s busy at the moment. Would you mind waiting?’

He brought up one of the brocaded armchairs and seated me with all the deference of a headwaiter giving a duchess the best table in the house. Then, another customer entering, I was left alone: a marvelous opportunity to look around.

The door to the back room, where the vault was located and where the repairmen worked, was closed. I presumed the manager was in there. I estimated the interior of the store as approximately 60 feet long and 30 feet wide. The three clerks were all occupied with customers. Once again I was conscious of the hushed opulence of the place. No one, it seemed, spoke over a murmur. You couldn’t hear footfalls on the thick carpeting. Showcase doors slid noiselessly, and merchandise was always exhibited to customers on squares of padded velvet.

I watched the three clerks at work. Although they had dissimilar features, they were all of the same physical type: tall, slender, with a whippy grace. Curiously, I fancied there was something almost sinister in their appearance: they had expressionless features but very sharp, alert eyes, with a kind of brooding intensity. 1 suspected 1 was looking for novelistic characters in quite ordinary salesmen.

The manager finally entered from the back room, leaving the door open. He was accompanying one of the conservatively clad, attache-case-bearing visitors. The manager escorted him to the front door, they shook hands, the salesman departed, the manager came back into the shop. Some signal I missed must have been passed, because he came directly to me. He bowed and said, ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting. You’ve brought the watch and chain you mentioned on your last visit?’

That last visit had been almost a month earlier. I was surprised he remembered me, and told him so.

‘I never forget a face,’ he said, with what seemed to me a cold smile. Then he added, with more warmth. ‘Especially such a charming face!’

I handed him the watch, and he asked if he might take it into the back room for a few moments to have one of his technicians examine it.

And off he went with Grandfather’s watch and chain, closing the door of the vault room behind him. I spent the four or five minutes he was gone making a surreptitious examination of the ceiling and walls. Brandenberg amp; Sons was located on the ground floor of what had once been a five-story town house, and I suspected the store occupied the original drawing room. The ceiling and walls were wonderfully rococo, but unfortunately all that fanciful carving and ornamentation could easily conceal a small peephole or even the lens of a TV camera. In addition, there was a full-length pier glass set into one wall. If that was a one-way window, there could easily be an armed guard concealed behind it, keeping an eye on the shop.

Mr Jarvis returned, thrusting his paunch confidently ahead of him. He told me he was happy to be able to offer me two hundred dollars for watch and chain. If that was not acceptable, Brandenberg amp; Sons would be willing to take the item on consignment, in which case I would receive 65 percent of whatever they were able to obtain for it.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Thank you, but the two hundred is satisfactory.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘If you’ll just step this way, I’ll get your money and prepare a receipt for you to sign.’

I accompanied him to a discreet cashier’s desk where the money was kept in a small drawer. Nothing so vulgar as a cash register. Mr Jarvis paid me in crisp fifties, and I signed a receipt he prepared describing the watch and chain in some detail. I had intended to use a phony name and address, but at the last minute I feared he might ask for identification. So I signed Jannie Shean and scrawled my real address. He didn’t ask for identification.

Mr Jarvis then escorted me to the front door. He seemed a genial, voluble type. I was conscious of his fruity cologne. We shook hands when we parted. I thought he held my hand a little longer than necessary.

When I described this visit to Dick Fleming that night, he looked at me queerly.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him.

‘Two things,’ he said. ‘One: He didn’t ask for identification. How did he know you didn’t steal the watch?’

‘Oh, come on, Dick! I was wearing my mink.’

‘You could have stolen that, too. But what bothers me most is why a place like Brandenberg’s is fooling around with secondhand watches. It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘Maybe it’s a valuable antique.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Matty had it appraised when Father died. It’s worth about what Jarvis paid me.’

‘All right, then, we’re back to my question: Why is Brandenberg and Sons interested in stuff like that?’

‘I don’t know.’

He looked at me thoughtfully.

I was relaxing in Dick Fleming’s apartment, wearing my tart’s duds, hooker’s heels parked up on his cobbler’s bench.

For some reason 1 really didn’t understand, Dick was turned on by my floozy costume. He liked the spiked heels, the net stockings, the padded bra. I wondered if I had suggested fun-and-games while wearing that getup, if he would, finally, be able to cut the mustard. I decided I didn’t want to find out.

‘Problem,’ I said, my nose in my glass of white wine.

‘What’s that?’

‘When I come out at night in this Sadie Thompson disguise, I try to sail past the doorman as fast as 1 can. No problem there — so far. I think he thinks I’m a call girl balling one of those rich bachelors on the sixth floor. But tonight, as I was coming out of my apartment, my next-door neighbour was leaving at the same moment. I ducked back inside just in time. But if I keep coming out dressed like this, someone on my floor is going to see me sooner or later, and I’ll have a lot of questions to answer.’

‘But after you get your new place, won’t you be living there?’

‘Sure, but not all the time. I’ll want to come back occasionally to pick up my mail, write some checks, maybe change to have dinner with my sister. But I can’t keep popping in and out in this clown’s suit, particularly during the day.’

We were silent a few moments, pondering. Dick topped off our glasses.

‘I don’t really think it’s a problem,’ he said finally. ‘You’ll drive back to your permanent apartment, and in the car, you take off the wig and false eyelashes and wipe off some of the guck. Then you button the trenchcoat up to your chin. You could even keep a pair of loafers in the car so you don’t have to parade through the lobby on your stilts.’