No one paid any attention to them. They went into the corner building and took the self-service elevator. They were alone in it, and on the way up they put on the moustaches and plain-lensed horn-rim glasses they’d been carrying in their pockets. Those were the minor parts of their disguises, the uniforms being the main part; nobody looks past a uniform. The people outside looking at the parade were watching uniforms go by, not faces, and wouldn’t be able later on to identify one single musician who’d walked past.
With his glasses and moustache on, Tom said, “You do the talking when we get up there, okay?”
Joe gave him a grin. “Why? You got stage-fright?”
Tom didn’t let himself be aggravated. “No,” he said. “I’m just out of practice, is all.”
Joe shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”
At that point, the elevator stopped, the door opened, and they both stepped out. Tom had been here before, of course, and had described it all to Joe and drawn him rough sketches of what the guarded reception area looked like, but this was Joe’s first actual sight of the place, and he gave it a fast onceover, orienting the reality to his previous mental picture.
There was none of the activity around the counter now that there’d been when Tom had come here the last time; that would be because everybody was watching the parade. And now there was only one guard on duty. He was leaning on the counter, looking over toward the six television screens that showed the different parts of the brokerage. On three or four of the screens windows showed, and people could be seen looking out at the parade. From the expression on the guard’s face, he was wishing he could be at a window, too.
That was one of the extra advantages of pulling this job during the parade; the route to the money would be much less populated than usual. It wasn’t the main reason for doing it now, but it was an extra little bonus, and they were glad to have it.
The guard looked over when they came out of the elevator, and they could see his face relax when he saw the uniforms. He’d been resting his elbows on the counter, but now he straightened up and said, “Yes, officers?”
Walking forward to the counter, Joe said, “We had a complaint about items ejected from the windows.”
The guard blinked, not understanding. “You what?”
“Objectionable articles,” Joe said. “Ejected from windows near the northeast corner of the building.”
Tom had to admire the toneless neutrality of Joe’s voice, he sounded just like a patrolman on the beat. That only came with practice, as Tom had said in the elevator.
The guard had finally figured out what Joe was talking about, but he still couldn’t believe it. He said, “From this floor?”
“We got to check it out,” Joe said.
The guard glanced at the television screens, but of course none of them showed anybody throwing objectionable articles out the windows. A little later they’d be throwing paper, confetti, ticker tape, but those aren’t objectionable articles, except to the Sanitation Department. That’s the trademark of a parade in the Wall Street area; a snowstorm of paper when the hero goes by that the parade is in honor of. Or this time, the heroes, in the plural; a group of astronauts who’d been on the moon.
The guard said, “I’ll call Mr. Eastpoole.”
“Go ahead,” Joe said.
The phone was on a table by the rear wall, near the pegboard with the ID tags on it. The guard made his phone call with his back turned, and Tom and Joe took the opportunity to relieve the tension a little; yawning, moving their shoulders around, shifting their feet, hitching their gunbelts, scratching their necks.
He talked low-voiced, the guard did, but they could hear what he was saying. First he had to explain things to a secretary, and then he had to explain things all over again to somebody named Eastpoole. That was the third name in the company’s brand-name, so Eastpoole had to be one of the major bosses, and you could tell it by how respectful and soft-pedaled the guard’s voice became as he described the problem.
Finally, he hung up the phone and turned back, saying, “He’ll be right out.”
“We’ll go in to meet him,” Joe said.
The guard shook his head. He was apologetic, but firm. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t let you in without an escort.”
They’d already suspected that, but Tom made his voice sound incredulous when he broke in, saying, “You can’t let us in?”
The guard looked more apologetic than ever, but still just as firm. “I’m sorry, officer,” he said, “but that’s my instructions.”
Movement on one of the TV screens down at the end of the counter attracted everybody’s attention then, and they all turned their heads and watched a man crossing a room from left to right. He looked to be in his middle fifties, slightly heavy-set, thick gray hair, jowly face, very expensive well-tailored suit, narrow dark tie, white shirt. He had a long stride, moving as though he was a man who got annoyed easily and was used to getting his own way. He’d get waiters fired in restaurants.
“He’s coming now,” the guard said. You could see he didn’t like the position he was in; cops in front of him, and a tough boss behind him. He said, “Mr. Eastpoole’s one of the partners here. He’ll take care of you.”
Tom always had a habit of empathizing with the working stiff. Now, trying to make conversation and put the guard at his ease a little, he said, “Not much doing around here today.”
“Not with the parade,” the guard said. He grinned and shrugged, saying, “They might as well close up, days like this.”
Joe was suddenly feeling cute. “Good time for a robbery,” he said.
Tom gave him a fast angry look, but the thing had already been said. The guard didn’t see the look, and apparently Joe didn’t either.
The guard was shaking his head. “They’d never get away,” he said, “not with that crowd out there.”
Joe nodded, as though he was thinking it over. “That’s right, too,” he said.
The guard glanced at the TV screens, and Eastpoole was just crossing another of them. Apparently feeling he had the time to relax, the guard leaned on his elbows on the counter again and said, “Biggest robbery they ever had in the world was right down here in the financial section.”
Tom, really interested, said, “Is that right?”
The guard nodded, for emphasis, and said, “That’s right. It was in the World Series. Remember the year the Mets won the pennant?”
Joe laughed and said, “Who’ll ever forget?”
“That’s right,” the guard said. “It was in the last game, the ninth inning, everybody in New York City was at their radio. Somebody walked into a vault at one of the firms on the Street, and walked out with thirteen million dollars in bearer bonds.”
They looked at one another. Joe turned back to the guard and said, “They ever get him?”
“Nope,” said the guard.
At that point, Eastpoole came in from the door on the right. He was being brisk, impatient, slightly hostile. He probably didn’t like his employees gawking out of windows instead of getting their work done, and he surely didn’t like a couple of cops coming around and telling him there’s something wrong going on in his shop. He strode over, efficient, in a hurry to give them the brush-off, and said, “Yes, officer?”