A patrolman, following his beat, paused to study a huge mansion that stood surrounded by a high brick wall. He noted lights from the upper floors; satisfied, he resumed his pace. This old building, relic of a once fashionable neighborhood, was the residence of Montague Reisert, elderly multimillionaire.
The man on the beat was not alone in his careful scrutiny of the large residence. A patrol car, coming up a side street, rolled slowly by while its occupants took front view of the building’s perspective. Observation of the Reisert home was definite routine duty on the part of the police.
As long as all was well outside, the law was satisfied. The millionaire’s home was a veritable fortress, garrisoned by a dozen servants. It would take a healthy mob invasion to make a dent in the portals of that mammoth building.
At the same time, Reisert’s residence was known to contain a mass of wealth. It housed art galleries, curio rooms and furnishings of incredible value. Beneath the buildings were vaults that contained treasures that were neither on display nor in use.
One of old Reisert’s hobbies had been the collection of solid gold tableware. This penchant had cost him a fortune, despite the fact that the millionaire was a shrewd bargain hunter. Some thirty-odd years ago, he had purchased gold table sets that had been carried from a Peking palace during the Boxer insurrection.
A few decades later, he had acquired similar items that had been the property of the Czar of Russia. When kings had abdicated in Europe, when members of the nobility had found themselves in straitened circumstances, Reisert had stepped in with ready cash to buy their plate.
Reisert had acquired most of his treasures at little more than the actual value of their gold content. Some for less, for in certain cases he had made purchases from doubtful owners; in other instances, he had accepted valuable items as pledges for loans that the recipients had been unable to repay.
But except on special occasions, when he gave receptions for wealthy guests, the old millionaire kept his golden possessions buried away in the deepest of the formidable vaults beneath his home.
THE cop kept along his beat. He passed the end of a row of houses, tawdry buildings that fronted on the street in back of Reisert’s mansion. Glancing down this thoroughfare, the patrolman spied a small truck parked at an angle from the curb.
Two men were arguing as they jacked up a rear wheel of the vehicle. The policeman could see them in the light from the tail-lamp. Walking in that direction, he noted that the truck was old and empty; it carried New Jersey license plates.
“What’s the idea?” growled the cop. “Obstructin’ traffic, eh? How long are you goin’ to keep this wagon stalled here?”
“Sorry, officer,” replied one of the truckmen, rising in the darkness. “We’ve got a flat and no spare. We’re yanking off the tire so my helper here can take it over to a garage and have it fixed.”
“Yeah?” queried the patrolman. “And you’re keepin’ this junk of yours halfway in the middle of the street? For an hour or two? Nothin’ doin’, friend. You’re movin’ along!”
“It’s the only tire we’ve got, officer. We can’t afford to cut it up—”
“Maybe not. But you’re not parkin’ here, nor on the aveynoo, either.”
While the truck driver mumbled to himself, a newcomer arrived. The light of a street lamp showed a stocky man who was wearing an oilskin slicker. The arrival had heard the last words of the conversation.
“You don’t have to worry about the tire, you guys,” informed the man in the slicker. “I’ll help you out and all it’ll cost you will be two bits.”
“Who’re you?” quizzed the officer.
“I’m the night man for that parking lot that Bill Morey is running,” was the reply. “He just put me on the job tonight. You’re name’s Henderson, ain’t it?”
“Yeah?”
“Morey told me you’d be on this beat. Said to say hello for him.”
“So Morey’s figurin’ on pickin’ up some night business again, huh? Well, it ain’t a bad idea. Got any other customers yet?”
“Only a couple. But Morey said I ought to be able to tag a bunch of cars along this street.”
“Morey’s a good talker. What’s he doin’ — havin’ you work on a percentage?”
“Yeah. Fifty-fifty.”
“I thought so.”
The patrolman was laughing to himself. Meanwhile, the truck men had decided that it was worth a quarter to use the parking lot. They pulled the jack from under the rear wheel and the parking lot attendant guided them to a space between two buildings, twenty yards ahead.
The patrolman followed. He watched the crippled truck limp crosswise, in order to back into the narrow lot. Then, hearing a motor coming from the avenue, he turned around to see the patrol car.
“What’s up?” came a query.
Henderson strolled over to explain. While he stood with one elbow on the window of the patrol car, the truck limped back into the parking lot. The attendant followed, his figure barely discernible in the feeble light of the truck’s poor lamps.
The patrol car rolled along. Its occupants glanced into the parking lot as they went by. They saw two cars parked at one side; they noticed the dull lights of the truck, with steam rising from the radiator, to mingle with the mist.
WHEN Henderson paced by, the lights of the truck blinked out. Then a flashlight appeared by the crippled rear wheel. The cop continued along his beat. Immediately, whispers began. The chief truck driver was talking.
“All right, Digger” — Matt Theblaw’s voice was no longer disguised — “get the boxes out so we can set up. All clear into the cellar of the old house, Bevo?”
“Bevo” was the man in charge of the parking lot. A member of the gang, he had framed the story that he had given the cop. His voice came in an affirmative grunt.
“When the touring car shows up,” ordered Matt, “flag it in here and chase the boys along. And all the while, Bevo, you stick out by the street, like you were flagging other cars. That will kid the harness bull, if he comes by again.”
Another grunt from Bevo.
“Louis won’t be driving the touring car,” added Matt. “Pike is bringing the bunch. Tell him to stick around, after you park his car alongside those others. Kid the real customers when they come around.
“And another thing. Have Pike ditch those Jersey license plates off this truck. I knew the harness bull would spot them. Pike can stick on the Pennsy plates instead. They’re under the front seat.”
Joining Digger at the rear of the truck, Matt aided with the hoisting of two boxes. Straight behind the truck was the broken entrance to the cellar of an old house. Taking the boxes downward, the two crooks used a flashlight when they reached the cellar.
Together, they produced the shallow, five-foot bowl of Professor Jark’s disintegrating ray machine. Mounting it on a semicircular base, they carried it to the front of the cellar, where a niche past the furnace afforded an excellent starting point.
Matt used a flashlight to find the switch of the house current. He attached a wire to a plug. On came the juice. The bowl of the ray machine began to flicker. Digger pressed its mouth squarely against the wall. Bricks and mortar began to melt away.
“It’s working swell tonight,” growled Matt, as he pushed the sliding base forward. “Look at it take away that first foot. Warming up, too. Say, the prof sure stepped up the power since that last job.”
“I’ll say he did,” chuckled Digger. “Wait’ll we tell his nibs about the way it’s bitin’. I’ll bet he’ll get a kick.”
“Maybe; maybe not. He’s still goofy over that long-range gun of his. He might just as well be, since we’re handling this work. It’s good for us, though.”