He looked speculatively at the house, which was in a neighborhood that had seen better days. "What's to know about this pair that can do us any good?"
"Their habits, especially in the early mornings. Circle the block and park where we can watch the house."
"Are they gonna be a problem?"
"The Schemer doesn't think so. They never go out together, for one thing. They don't seem to have any social life at all. Even when he takes a vacation, Mace shows up at the bank almost every day."
"Sounds like a guy who's afraid someone's gonna find out he's been tiltin' the pinball machine."
"If he is, he's good at it. He's worked at this same bank for twenty-two years. He refused a couple of transfers with advancement. He and his wife have lived in this same house all those years, too."
"Refusin' a chance to move up sounds even more like a man who doesn't care to have anyone lookin' too close at his operation," Dahl said.
"I'm sure the bank took that into consideration."
"Just so there's somethin' left to grab when we make our move. Maybe he's just not makin' it with his war department. But imagine shackin' up with the same broad under the same roof for twenty-two years if you weren't cuttin' it with her?" He was silent for a moment. "Speakin' of there bein' somethin' for us to grab on a job," he resumed, "what we really need is a union, you know. Some outfit that could set up priorities. A good friend of mine is doin' twenty-to-life because he walked into a bank with his gun out when the FBI was standin' right there investigatin' another heist pulled in the same bank forty-five minutes before. It shouldn't happen to a dog."
I made no reply. We sat and watched the neighborhood come to life. Men of all shapes and sizes emerged from their homes, climbed into their cars, and drove to work. The teen-age generation was apparently taking advantage of the last few days of summer vacation to sleep in. There were none visible. A few small children appeared in front of their homes in increasing numbers until the neighborhood took on the appearance of a tricycle headquarters. The wives, like the teenagers, remained invisible at that hour of the morning.
"What time we gonna hit the place?" Dahl wanted to know.
"This house? We'll have to work out a timetable. Early enough in the morning to have this home and the manager's under our thumbs so we can get the two men to the bank before daylight."
"Sounds like an all-night job." Dahl sighed. He fingered the camera suspended from the cord around his neck. "Good, clear shootin' day. Hate to waste it."
I was mentally running through the Schemer's notes again. Shirley and George Mace; no children; seldom any visitors; little social life. Side-door entrance hidden from the street by hedge along the driveway. It was hard to see a problem.
The other house could be a different story. Thomas Barton, the bank manager, had three children. If Dahl and I went to the bank with Barton and Mace-no, after Dahl's antics during the Washington job it had better be Harris and I escorting the bank officials. Dahl could remain behind to keep the families hostage. That meant consolidating the families, and the easiest way would be to shift Shirley and George Mace to the Barton home when the time came.
It could wait until we'd looked over the Barton home.
Some circumstance there might make me want to change it. We wouldn't look it over today, though; we'd already spent enough time in the Mace neighborhood.
When George Mace came out of his side door at 9:10 A.M. and backed down his hedge-bordered driveway in his fender-dented Rambler station wagon, I nudged Dahl. "Back to the motel," I said.
"We're not gonna case the manager's house?"
"Harris and I will do that tomorrow."
"You mean I'm gonna waste the whole day tomorrow?"
"You won't be wasting it. You'll be out buying enough cord to make adequate slip-noose tie-cords for the hands and feet of two wives and three children."
He grunted acquiescence. "What about gags?"
I considered it. Who could tell what might happen? "You'd better have gags ready." I thought of the children again. "Yes, you'd better have them ready."
"Okay."
We left the city limits of Thornton behind us at 9:15 A.M.
If all went well, on Thursday morning we would also leave the city limits of Thornton behind us at 9:15 A.M.
The next morning at six A.M. Preacher Harris and I were sitting in Harris's rented car diagonally across the street from the Thomas Barton residence. The streetlights were still on. In contrast to his Sunday night tenseness, Harris seemed much more relaxed.
I felt reasonably secure about the surveillance. The Schemer's notes had made it clear that the city police had developed a pattern of returning the cruisers to the station at five A.M. while reports were made out. The state police cars never left the state highways unless called. In many communities there is a gap in police coverage during the early morning hours.
At 6:15 a half-ton enclosed van rumbled down the street and parked in front of the Bartons' house. A man ran up the walk with a bundle in his arms, tossed it onto the porch where it landed with a thump, and ran back to the truck, which pulled away.
"Newspapers," Harris deduced although there were no markings on the truck. "Did the Schemer's file say the Barton boy had a paper route?"
"No."
"If he does, I don't like it," Harris said. "People are used to getting their papers at the same time every morning."
I didn't like it myself. It was a complication, but the only thing to do was work around it. The Barton front porch light came on and a boy in T-shirt and shorts came out the front door and bent down over the bundle. He was followed by a girl three or four years older. She had on a shortie nightgown, and even in the weak porch light she was something to see. "Dahl should be here," Harris said dryly. Dahl had insisted upon showing Harris his bank movies the previous afternoon. "That's a good-looking girl."
The boy cut the rope binding the papers and handed one to his sister. He put the papers in a wire basket on a bicycle parked on the porch, wheeled the bike down to the street, and rode away. The girl yawned, looked the neighborhood over, stretched casually, and reentered the house. The porch light went out.
I opened the car door. "Follow the boy," I told Harris. "I'll stay here."
"Follow him? For what?"
"There can't be more than thirty papers in his bundle. If we know his route to make sure he can't make a wrong stop, one of us can go with him Thursday morning." I stepped out onto the sidewalk. "I'll walk up to the next corner where I can still watch the house."
Harris drove off after the fast-pedaling boy. Daylight came shortly after 6:45. It would be a tight fit to wait for the boy to return from his paper delivery and still get his father to the bank while it was dark. No newspapers delivered probably would bring phone calls from subscribers, though, and an unanswered phone call might trigger someone's unhealthy curiosity.
Harris returned in twenty-five minutes, during which there had been no further activity visible at the Barton home. "Not too bad," he reported. "He never gets out of a four-block area. He leaves a paper at almost every house."
"But where is he now?"
Harris shrugged. "He rode off somewhere. I only stayed with him till he got rid of the last paper. I thought I'd better get back to you."
It was all right if his absence didn't mean he was picking up more papers for additional delivery, I thought. I didn't say anything. Harris was staring reflectively at the Barton home. Although not very far in distance from the Mace home, it was a world apart in milieu. "What about that shortie-nightgowned job?" Harris asked.
"What do you mean, what about her?"
"What did the Schemer have to say about her?"