He liked machinery and he hated to see it destroyed. When it came to safes, he liked to use drill and screwdriver and wrench and his own hands; men who relied on nitro were just bums and amateurs, not professional safemen at all. And when it came to the kind of wreckage Parker and Littlefield and Phillips were doing in the radio station now, Kerwin wanted no part of it. He didn’t approve.
The sounds stopped. A few seconds later, they came out, all wearing their hoods, and Parker said, “Clear?”
Kerwin nodded. “Clear.”
They went out and got into the two cars, Parker and Phillips in the prowl car, Kerwin and Littlefield in the wagon. They drove back up Whittier to Raymond, turned left, and drove down to the end, to the west gate of the plant.
This part had no effect on Kerwin at all. People were just fuses; they had to be deactivated before you could get to work. He and Littlefield waited while the prowl car nosed forward to the gate, and the guard came out of his booth, waving in a friendly way. Then the guard stopped, and raised his hands, and Kerwin saw Phillips get out of the car, walk around it, disarm the guard, and walk him back into his shack.
Littlefield cleared his throat, and said, “Think they need us?”
“If they do, they’ll motion to us.”
“I guess so.”
Parker had gotten out of the car now, too, and had gone into the shack. After a couple of minutes, Phillips came out wearing the guard’s uniform. He attached a metal sign to the already-closed gate, and got into the car just as Parker also came out of the shack.
Littlefield cleared his throat again. “It’s certainly running smooth,” he said.
Kerwin glanced at him and saw how tightly he was holding to the steering wheel. “Nothing to be nervous about,” he said.
“That’s right.” Littlefield coughed, and cleared his throat.
The prowl car had backed away from the gate, and swung to the right. Littlefield put the wagon in gear, and followed the prowl car down Copper Street toward the other gate. Closed luncheonettes and bars and barber shops and tailors were on their right, and the fence on their left. Beyond the fence were the dark bulks of the plant buildings, and beyond them, in total darkness, the sheer wall of the canyon.
Again, the station wagon hung back while the prowl car drove up to the gate. The same actions were repeated, and then Parker waved to them to come forward. Phillips had opened the gate, and was standing there looking natural and easy in the guard uniform. He gave them a mock salute as the wagon passed him, following Parker along the blacktop company street between the buildings.
By the time Littlefield stopped in front of the main building, Kerwin had his bag of tools ready in his lap. They got out of the car, joined Parker, and the three of them went into the building.
As far as Kerwin was concerned, defusing people was Parker’s job. Kerwin’s job was simply to stand there and add numerical strength. He entered the office with Parker and Littlefield, and belatedly drew the revolver from his shoulder holster. Guns were about the only machines he wasn’t interested in; he held this one absent-mindedly, waiting without listening while Parker talked to the frightened man a while, and then Parker and Littlefield tied and gagged him. Once they were done, he put the revolver away again the safety hadn’t been off yet tonight and said, “Where is it?”
“Through here.”
Littlefield was sitting at the desk now, clearing his throat and watching the telephone. Kerwin followed Parker through a doorway, across an office, down a hall, and through another office. He waited while Parker forced a locked door, then went into the room and looked at the safe.
It was dark green, with yellow designs. Approximate exterior dimensions, four feet high, two and a half feet wide, three feet deep. Simple combination lock. Parker had turned on the office lights, because the windows here faced the rear of the building. Kerwin walked over and set his bag on a desk and patted the top of the safe.
Parker said, “You all set?”
“Mmm? Yes, of course.”
5
Paulus sat on the floor in the back of the truck, and fidgeted. It was pitch black in the truck, nothing to see, nothing to do. Paulus liked to be able to observe what was going on, to see symmetry in the motion around him, and to see whether or not things were going right. Sitting here in the truck, in darkness, while actions important to him were going on outside, was torture.
From time to time, Wycza’s walkie-talkie spoke out in Parker’s voice, saying where they were, what they’d done. That they’d ruined the equipment in the radio station. A little later, that they’d captured the guard on the west gate. Just the bare facts, unadorned.
It wasn’t enough. Paulus wanted to be able to see. He wanted to look at the radio station equipment and knowit was no longer workable. He wanted to see the guard, find out his name, watch his reactions, gauge the possible danger he might be during the course of the night. He wanted to know precisely the situation at the telephone company, the firehouse, the police station. He wanted to see exactly where Salsa was stationed near the town line. He wanted to have a clipboard, and a list, and a pencil with which to check off completed items satisfactorily handled. He wanted to see symmetry and balance and precision.
A match flared; Wycza lighting a stub of cigar. In the small light, Paulus again saw the plank floor and metal sides of the truck, saw Wycza and Wiss and Elkins sitting, like himself, on the floor, saw his own sturdy suitcase full of tools and the weatherbeaten black bag like a doctor’s bag in which Wiss kept his equipment. He looked at his watch, but he wasn’t fast enough; Wycza blew out the match.
He shook his head in annoyance. It was important to know the time, know whether or not they were keeping to the schedule. He reached for his own matches.
But a clinging self-consciousness wouldn’t let him light a match just to see his watch; he didn’t want the others to know he felt that strongly about knowing the time. So he got out his cigarettes, too, though he didn’t particular want a cigarette. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, and kept the match aflame till he’d read his watch.
Twelve thirty-five.
Not too bad. He’d be in at the bank vault well before one. He shook the match out, and sat holding the cigarette, not smoking it.
The walkie-talkie spoke again: “Got the east gate. Going into the main office now. You can get started, W.”
They had to use the initials because of Grofield. He was at the telephone company, with one of the walkie-talkies, and the women there could hear everything it said. It was Paulus who’d suggested the initials.
Wycza was saying, “Okay. You gonna prowl now?”
“After we get the main office.”
“Check.”
Paulus clambered to his feet, felt around in the dark, and picked up his suitcase. He moved toward the rear of the truck, and before he got there Elkins pushed the door open and jumped down to the street. Elkins reached up and took the black bag from Wiss, and Wiss clambered down more carefully. Paulus waited for Wycza, and as Wycza passed said, “You go first, I’ll hand you my suitcase.”
“Sure.”
Being the last out, Paulus was careful to close the truck doors again. He took the suitcase back from Wycza and stepped up on the sidewalk. Wiss and Elkins had already started across the street.
Directly ahead of Paulus was the Merchant’s Bank building, with the offices of Nationwide Finance & Loan Corporation on the second floor. The building was modernistic, made mostly of glass and chrome. Even the doors were mainly glass.
Paulus set his suitcase down near the doors and waited for Wycza to let him in. Wycza got his revolver from its shoulder holster, and used the butt to break the door glass. There were quieter, more scientific ways to do it, but they weren’t worried about noise here, and the scientific ways were all slower. Wycza reached through, unlocked the doors from the inside, and pushed them open.