It was like a bay, sort of, and you could park up on the bluff along this sideroad, and then walk down to the sand and see way out across the water.
Only that's not why George picked it. He wasn't interested in looking at water. First thing he did was to spread out this big beach blanket, and the second thing he did was open up his pint, and the third thing he did was to start monkeying around.
Nothing serious, you understand, just monkeying around, kind of. Well, he's not so bad-looking even with that busted nose of his, and we kept working on that pint, and it was kind of romantic. I mean, the moon and all.
It wasn't until he really began messing that I made him stop. And even then, I practically had to sock him one before he figured out I wasn't kidding.
"Cut it out," I said. "Now see what you've done! You tore my halter."
"Hell, I'll buy you a new one," he said. "Come on, baby." He tried to grab me again, and I gave him a good one, right on the side of his head. For a minute I thought he'd — you know—get tough about it. But he was pretty canned up, I guess. Anyhow, he just started blubbering about how sorry he was, and that he knew I wasn't that kind, but it was just that he was so crazy about me.
I almost had to laugh, they're so funny when they get that way. But I figured it was smarter to put on an act, so I made out like I was real sore, like I'd never been so insulted in all my life.
Then he said we should have another drink and forget about it, only the pint was empty. So he said how about him taking a run up to the road and getting some more? Or we could both go to a tavern if I liked.
"With all these marks on my neck?" I told him. "I certainly will not! If you want more, you get it."
So he said he would, and he'd be back in five minutes. And he went.
Anyhow, that's how I was alone, when it happened. I was just sitting there on the blanket, looking out at the water, when I saw this thing sort of moving. At first it looked sort of like a log or something. But it kept coming closer and then I could see it as somebody swimming, real fast.
So I kept on watching, and pretty soon I made out it was a man, and he was heading right for shore. Then he got close enough so's I could see him stand up and start wading in. He was real tall, real tall, like one of those basketball players, only not skinny or anything. And so help me he didn't have any trunks on or anything. Not a stitch!
Well, I mean, what could I do? I figured he didn't see me, and besides, you can't go running around screaming your head off. Not that there was anyone to hear me. I was all alone there. So I just sat and waited for him to come out of the water and go away up the beach or someplace.
Only he didn't go away. He came out and he walked right over to me. You can imagine — there I was, sitting and there he was, all dripping wet and with no clothes. But he gave me a big hello, just like nothing was wrong. He looked real dreamy when he smiled.
"Good evening," he said. "Might I inquire my whereabouts, Miss?"
Dig that "whereabouts" talk!
So I told him where he was, and he nodded, and then he saw how I was staring and he said, "Might I trouble you for the loan of that blanket?"
Well, what else could I do? I got up and gave it to him and he wrapped it around his waist. That's the first I noticed he was carrying this bag in his hand. It was some kind of plastic, and you couldn't tell what was inside of it.
"What happened to your trunks?" I asked him.
"Trunks?" You'd of thought he never heard of such things the way he said it. Then he smiled again and said, "I'm sorry. They must have slipped off."
"Where'd you start from?" I asked. "You got a boat out there?" He was real tan, he looked like one of these guys that hang around the Yacht Basin all the time.
"Yes. How did you know?" he said.
"Well, where else would you come from?" I told him. "It just stands to reason."
"It does, at that," he said.
I looked at the bag. "What you got in there?" I asked.
He opened his mouth to answer me, but he never got a chance. Because all of a sudden George came running down from the bluff. I never even seen his lights or heard the car stop. But there he was, just tearing down, with a bottle in his hand, all ready to swing. Character!
"What the hell's going on here?" he yelled.
"Nothing," I told him.
"Who the hell is this guy? Where'd he come from?" George shouted. "Permit me to introduce myself," the guy said. "My name is John Smith and — "
"John Smith, my foot!" yelled George, only he didn't say "foot," He was real mad. "All right, let's have it. What's the big idea, you two?"
"There isn't any big idea," I said. "This man was swimming and he lost his trunks, so he borrowed the blanket. He's got a boat out there and — "
"Where? Where's the boat? I don't see any boat." Neither did I, come to think of it. George wasn't waiting for any answers, though. "You there, gimme back that blanket and get the hell out of here."
"He can't," I told him. "He hasn't got any trunks on."
George stood there with his mouth open. Then he waved the bottle. "All right, then, fella. You're coming with us." He gave me a wise look. "Know what I think? I think this guy's a phony. He could even be one of those spies the Russians are sending over in submarines."
That's George for you. Ever since the papers got full of this war scare, he's been seeing Communists all over the place.
"Start talking," he said. "What's in that bag?"
The guy just looked at him and smiled.
"OK, so you want to do it the hard way, it's OK by me. Get up that bluff, fella. We're gonna take a ride over to the police. Come on, before I let you have it." And he waved the bottle.
The guy sort of shrugged and then he looked at George. "You have an automobile?" he asked.
"Of course, what do I look like, Paul Revere or something?" George said.
"Paul Revere? Is he alive?" The guy was kidding, but George didn't know it.
"Shut up and get moving," he said. "The car's right up there." The guy looked up at the car. Then he nodded to himself and he looked at George.
That's all he did. So help me. He just looked at him.
He didn't make any of those funny passes with his hands, and he didn't say anything. He just looked, and he kept right on smiling. His face didn't change a bit.
But George — his face changed. It just sort of set, like it was frozen stiff. And so did everything. I mean, his hands got numb and the bottle fell and busted. George was like he couldn't move.
I opened my mouth but the guy kind of glanced over at me and I thought maybe I'd better not say anything. All of a sudden I felt cold all over, and I didn't know what would happen if he looked at me.
So I stood there, and then this guy went up to George and undressed him. Only it wasn't exactly undressing him, because George was just like one of those window dummies you see in the stores. Then the guy put all of George's clothes on himself, and he put the blanket around George. I could see he had this plastic bag in one hand and George's car keys in the other.
I was going to scream, only the guy looked at me again and I couldn't. I didn't feel stiff like George, or paralyzed, or anything like that. But I couldn't scream to save my neck. And what good would it of done anyhow?
Because this guy just walked right up the side of the bluff and climbed in George's car and drove away. He never said a word, he never looked back. He just went.
Then I could scream, but good. I was still screaming when George came out of it, and I thought he'd have a hemorrhage or something.
Well, we had to walk back all the way. It was over three miles to the highway patrol, and they made me tell the whole thing over and over again a dozen times. They got George's license number and they're still looking for the car. And this sergeant, he thinks George is maybe right about the Communists.
Only he didn't see the way the guy looked at George. Every time I think about it, I could just die!
Statement of Milo Fabian
<
br /> I scarcely got the drapes pulled when he walked in. Of course, at first I thought he was delivering something. He wore a pair of those atrocious olive-drab slacks and a ready-made sports jacket, and he had on one of those caps that look a little like those worn by jockeys.
"Well, what is it?" I said. I'm afraid I was just a wee bit rude about it — truth to tell, I'd been in a perfectly filthy mood ever since Jerry told me he was running up to Cape Cod for the exhibit. You'd think he might at least have considered my feelings and invited me to go along. But no, I had to stay behind and keep the gallery open.
But I actually had no excuse for being spiteful to this stranger. I mean, he was rather an attractive sort of person when he took that idiotic cap off. He had black, curly hair and he was quite tall, really immense; I was almost afraid of him until he smiled.
"Mr. Warlock?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"This is the Warlock Gallery, isn't it?"
"Yes. But Mr. Warlock is out of the city. I'm Mr. Fabian. Can I help you?"
"It's rather a delicate matter."
"If you have something to sell, you can show me. I do all the buying for the gallery."
"I've nothing to sell. I want to purchase some paintings."
"Well, in that case, won't you come right back with me, Mr. —" "Smith," he said.
We started down the aisle together. "Could you tell me just what you had in mind?" I asked. "As you probably know, we tend to specialize in moderns. We have a very good Kandinsky now, and an early Mondrian — "
"You don't have the pictures I want here," he said. "I'm sure of it." We were already in the gallery. I stopped. 'Then what was it you wished?"
He stood there, swinging this perfectly enormous plastic pouch. "You mean what kind of painting? Well, I want one or two good Rembrandts, a Vermeer, a Raphael, something by Titian, a Van Gogh, a Tintoretto. Also a Goya, an El Greco, a Breughel, a Hals, a Holbein, a Gauguin. I don't suppose there's a way of getting The Last Supper' — that was done as a fresco, wasn't it?"
It was positively weird to hear the man. I'm afraid I was definitely piqued, and I showed it. "Please!" I said. "I happen to be busy this morning. I have no time to — "
"You don't understand," he answered. "You buy pictures, don't you? Well, I want you to buy me some. As my—my agent, that's the word, isn't it?"
"That's the word," I told him. "But surely you can't be serious. Have you any idea of the cost involved in acquiring such a collection? It would be simply fabulous."
"I've got money," he said. We were standing next to the deal table at the entrance, and he walked over to it and put his pouch down. Then he zipped it open.
I have never, but simply never, seen such a fantastic sight in my life. The pouch was full of bills, stack after stack of bills, and every single one was either a five- or ten-thousand dollar bill. Why, I'd never even seen one before!
If he'd been carrying twenties or hundreds, I might have suspected counterfeits, but nobody would have the audacity to dream of getting away with a stunt like this. They looked genuine, and they were. I know, because — but, that's for later.
So there I stood, looking at this utterly mad heap of money lying there, and this Mr. Smith, as he called himself, said, "Well, do you think I have enough?"
I could have just passed out, thinking about it.
Imagine, a perfect stranger, walking in off the street with ten million dollars to buy paintings. And my share of the commission is five percent!
"I don't know," I said. "You're really serious about all this?"
"Here's the money. How soon can you get me what I want?"
"Please," I said. "This is all so unusual, I hardly know where to begin. Do you have a definite list of what you wish to acquire?"
"I can write the names down for you," he told me. "I remember most of them."
He knew what he wanted, I must say. Velasquez, Gorgione, Cezanne, Degas, Utrillo, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Delacroix, Ryder, Pissarro —
Then he began writing titles. I'm afraid I gasped. "Really," I said. "You can't actually expect to buy the 'Mona Lisa'!"
"Why not?" He looked perfectly serious. "It's not for sale at any price, you know." "I didn't know. Who owns it?" 'The Louvre. In Paris."
"I didn't know." He was serious, I'd swear he was. "But what about the rest?"
"I'm afraid many of these paintings are in the same category. They're not for sale. Most of them are in public galleries and museums here and abroad. And a number of the particular works you request are in the hands of private collectors who could never be persuaded to sell."
He stood up and began scooping the money back into his pouch. I took his arm.
"But, we can certainly do our best," I said. "We have our sources, our connections. I'm sure we can at least procure some of the lesser, representative pieces by every one of the masters you list. It's merely a matter of time."
He shook his head. "Won't do. This is Tuesday, isn't it? I've got to have everything by Sunday night."
Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous in all your life? The man was stark staring.
"Look," he said. "I'm beginning to understand how things are, now. These paintings I want, they're scattered all over the world. Owned by public museums and private parties who won't sell. And I suppose the same thing is true of manuscripts. Things like the Gutenberg Bible, Shakespeare first folios, the Declaration of Independence — "
Stark staring. I didn't trust myself to do anything but nod at him.
"How many of the things I want are here?" he asked. "Here, in this country?"
"A fair percentage, well over half."
"All right. Here's what you do. Sit down over there and make me up a list. I want you to write me down the names of the paintings I've noted, and just where they are. I'll give you $10,000 for the list."
Ten thousand dollars for a list he could have acquired free of charge at the public library! Ten thousand dollars for less than an hour's work!
I gave him his list. And he gave me the money and walked out.
By this time, I was just about frantic. I mean, it was all so shattering. He came and he went, and there I stood — not knowing his real name, or anything. Talk about your eccentric millionaires! He went, and there I stood with $10,000 in my hand.
Well, I'm not one to do anything rash. He hadn't been gone three minutes before I locked up and stepped over to the bank. I simply hopped all the way back to the gallery.
Then I said to myself, "What for?"
I didn't have to go back now, really. This was my money, not Jerry's. I'd earned it all by my little self. And as for him, he could stay up at the Cape and rot. I didn't need his precious job.
I went right down and bought a ticket to Paris. All this war scare talk is simply a lot of fluff, if you ask me. Sheer fluff.
Of course, Jerry is going to be utterly furious when he hears about it. Well, let him. All I have to say is, he can get himself another boy.
Statement of Nick Krauss
I was dead on my feet. I'd been on the job ever since Tuesday night and here it was Saturday. Talk about living on your nerves!
But I wasn't missing out on this deal, not me. Because this was the payoff. The payoff to the biggest caper that was ever rigged.
Sure, I heard of the Brink's job. I even got a pretty good idea who was in on it. But that was peanuts, and it took better'n a year to set up.
This deal topped 'em all. Figure it for yourself, once. Six million bucks, cash. In four days. Get that, now. I said six million bucks in four days. That's all, brother!
And who did it? Me, that's who.
Let me tell you one thing: I earned that dough. Every lousy cent of it. And don't think I didn't have to shell out plenty in splits. Right now I can't even remember just how many was in on it from the beginning to end. But what with splits and expenses — like hiring all them planes to fly the stuff down — I guess it cost pretty near a million and a half, just to swing it.
> That left four and a half million. Four and a half million — and me going down to the yacht to collect.
I had the whole damn haul right in the truck. A hundred and forty pieces, some of em plenty heavy, too. But I wasn't letting nobody else horse around with unloading. This was dynamite. Only two miles from the warehouse where I got everything assembled. Longest two miles I ever drove.
Sure, I had a warehouse. What the hell, I bought the thing! Bought the yacht for him, too. Paid cash. When you got six million in cash to play with, you don't take no chances on something you can just as well buy without no trouble.
Plenty of chances the way it was. Had to take chances, working that fast. Beat me how I managed to get through the deal without a dozen leaks.
But the dough helped. You take a guy, he'll rat on you for two-three grand. Give him twenty or thirty, and he's yours. I'm not just talking syndicate, either. Because there was plenty guys in on it that weren't even in no mob — guys that never been mugged except maybe for these here college annual books where they show pictures of all the professors. I paid off guards and I paid off coppers and I paid off a bunch of curators, too. Not characters, curators. Guys that run museums.
I still don't know what this joker wanted with all that stuff. Only thing I can figure is maybe he was one of these here Indian rajahs or something. But he didn't look like no Hindu — he was a big, tall, youngish guy. Didn't talk like one, either. But who else wants to lay out all that lettuce for a bunch of dizzy paintings and stuff?
Anyways, he showed up Tuesday night with this pouch of his. How he got to me, how he ever got by Lefty downstairs I never figured out.
But there he was. He asked me if it was true, what he heard about me, and he asked me if I wanted to do a job. Said his name was Smith. You know the kind of con you get when they want to stay dummied up on you.
I didn't care if he dummied up or not. Because, like the fella says, money talks. And it sure hollered Tuesday night. He opens this pouch of his and spills two million bucks on the table.
So help me, two million bucks! Cash!
"I've brought this along for expenses," he said. "There's four million more in it if you can cooperate."