“You bet! Suppose they open the packages? And who's this Gil Jones?”
“Easy, son,” Doc said softly. “I haven't the slightest intention of throwing away our million. If you mean by 'they' the postal authorities—they can't open first-class mail, and they don't. When the postal clerk asks what's in the packages, you go for dumb, tell him you're sending your brother some old letters and notebooks he wants. The clerk will then say it has to go first class. You act surprised, raise a fuss at the few dollars extra postage first class will cost. But you pay it. Obviously we couldn't send the baskets first class, without attracting attention. We could send them parcel post, but they might be opened for inspection. Not much of a chance, but the express company doesn't open any packages.”
“You ever see how they throw packages around in the post office?” I yelled, so wound up I couldn't keep my voice down. “Suppose one is busted open? Or a basket is broken? We'll be dead!”
Doc crushed his cigarette on the floor; the space under his cot looked like a giant ash tray. “Take it soft, son. I've considered all that, naturally. It's a hundred-to-one chance we have to take. Actually, all the corny jokes to the contrary, very few packages are broken in transit. We'll pack them well, with cardboard and plenty of gummed tape under the outside wrapper. There isn't anything that can break. Even if the wrapper should be torn, the money won't show. But let's say somehow one is accidentally opened—we can tell if the hotel is staked out. Then we'll have to flee with what we have. But the odds are all in our favor. We surely can't make it if we take the money with us.”
“You still haven't told me who Gil Jones is.”
Doc held out his hand. “Mr. Penn, shake hands with Mr. Gil Jones. If you'll just close your big yap for a few minutes and let me finish, there won't be so many questions. Now, here's the rest of the idea. I figure the baskets will take about a week to reach Syracuse but the first-class mail will only take three or four days, at the most. This means once we ship the packages on their way, we have to start too, and keep going. We each get a hitch to towns about a hundred miles from here, where we each buy a good secondhand car, but nothing too good or flashy, and drive like hell for Syracuse. Or we go by train or bus. We'll stay off planes. The point is, if we leave by, say, Wednesday, mail the packages by then, then we must be at the Syracuse hotel by Saturday. I'll register as Gil Jones, get a fishing license and make up a few other papers for possible identification. You register as Ted Brown. Do you know anything about the produce business?”
“Naw.”
“I do. I used to be on the market detail. I'll fill you in on enough details to get by. Your story is you're a trucker heading for a fishing vacation in Canada. You'll buy some fishing tackle in a secondhand store, or a pawnshop, in Syracuse. Once we reach the hotel all we have to do is act quiet and wait for the packages, then head north. I picked Syracuse because it's a big city, easy to get lost in, and also it's less than a half a day's drive to Canada. Like it?”
“How can we buy a used car without showing a license?”
Doc rubbed his whiskers. “Not too hard—give the dealer a song about leaving your license with a pal and you're in a big rush to meet him. The dealer won't ask too many questions when he sees it's all for cash. Maybe we'll skip the car idea and go by train. Have to give this part more thought. What else?”
“How will we get the money into Canada? Won't they examine our bags at the border?”
“It's a big border and not too tightly watched. We'll get over.”
“Won't the Canadian police be looking for us?”
“Of course, but certainly not as hard as the local police. If Syracuse looks safe, we may hole up there for a few months, then go to Canada. Once in Canada we can lay low in comfort, explore the setup for taking a boat to the West Indies, or any place where we won't need a passport. We can take it very slow, perhaps see what the deal is about buying forged Canadian passports. But we'll cross that bridge once we're safe in Canada. Any more holes in my plan?”
“I still think it's crazy! We'll have a million dollars out of our hands, riding around the country in packages!”
“It's a bold plan, but simple, and it will work. The fact that the money is out of our hands is the smartest move we can make. The only way we could take the money with us would be to first stay in this hole for another five or six months, and that is risky. Who will stop a couple of poorly dressed working slobs, traveling empty-handed, or with a small bag or a shopping bag?”
“But if one of those packages or baskets comes open, we're done!”
“That's right. So we have to wrap them very well. But remember if this Harris made you, or if a gas man comes to check the meter here a few times and doesn't get any answer, we're done, too.”
I thought furiously, was absolutely against letting the money out of our hands. “Suppose the hotel clerk gets interested in the packages?”
“First, he hasn't any reason to. It's our fishing gear and clothes we're waiting for. After all, we're not sending the packages registered mail, or anything that would make the clerk suspicious. And that's exactly why we have to be there before any package arrives. By train we can reach Syracuse in eighteen hours, perhaps a few hours longer by bus, and even less time if we get a car and drive. We can do it easily.”
“Suppose you get picked up, get sick, or hurt—what happens to Gil Jones?”
Doc nodded thoughtfully, started another cigarette working. “Good—that's using your head, kid. I never considered that angle. I didn't want us to be together, thought we'd be safer acting as strangers, but you raise a good point. We'll send the packages to Gil Jones, in care of Ted Brown. That way, whoever gets there first can take the packages and wait for the other. We'll set a deadline: The first one there will hang around for exactly six days. By that time he'll know something has gone wrong, one of us has been bagged, and take off. However, if one of us gets sick or hurt in an accident—long as he's in the clear—he'll wire the other to wait. Buy it now, Bucky boy?”
We argued most of the night. I still saw a lot of holes. If one of us was collared it would be silly for the other to wait a week; in a week's time the cops would have beaten all the details out of the one bagged. But I didn't tell that to Doc. I argued against buying cars without a license; if we were even stopped for passing a light in any town, or for anything in some hick speed trap, we were finished. I didn't like the idea of the money leaving our hands, nor of Doc getting to Syracuse before me. (Although I didn't tell him that.) The more we talked, the more I began to go for the idea. I wanted to get out of this bug-joint, and seeing Shep Harris had given me a bad jolt. Doc was clever; who would bother a couple of stiffs in old clothes, empty-handed? I had to admire Doc's brainwork, and also I had a few ideas of my own.
Toward morning, after we'd gone over and over it, I gave in. We finally decided—at my insistence—that we would each carry a hundred thousand with us, say in a paper package. After all, a hitchhiker would be carrying something, like a paper bag or small canvas bag with his clean shirt. And if anything happened to the packages, we'd at least have getaway money. Doc was against the idea, felt if one of us was in an accident, for example, how could he possibly explain all that money? But he finally gave in.