Don't Get Me Wrong, page 20
It must have hit her right then that this mob are not the sorta boys who are goin’ to carry deadweight—even if the deadweight is a lovely like she is. She musta got the idea inta her head that if they was prepared to bump Pedro Dominguez an’ Yatlin there wasn’t any reason why they shouldn’t bump her too—or get rid of her in one of the not-so-nice ways that gangsters have of ditchin’ dames when nobody sorta wants ’em any more.
Or maybe Scalla had his eye on her. I remember how she looked when I said that he had told me that he was her brother. . . . I reckon that Georgette was wise to Scalla. Maybe she knew that he was thinkin’ that with Jake Istria—who gets himself conveniently shot by me—out of the way, an’ Pinny Yatlin—who I reckon was bumped by Zellara on her sister Fernanda’s instructions—little Tony was sittin’ right on top of the game an’ goin’ to be good an’ rich by cuttin’ the dough they make outa this job only two ways—himself an’ Fernanda—because I reckon the other mugs in the game are not goin’ to get a lot.
Maybe the only thing that Scalla wanted to meet up with Georgette for again, was that he was out to make her, an’ I can understand that because, without fear of contradiction, I am saying that she is the sweetest looker that I have taken a quick look at.
I reckon she come to this conclusion too while she was goin’ out to Neuilly in that cab an’ I bet she was talkin’ very cold turkey to Scalla when the other guy gumshoed up behind her an’ knocked that gun out of her hand.
An’ I bet she ain’t feelin’ quite so good now. I start wonderin’ what she woulda said in that note that she started writin’ if she’d been able to finish it. It might have been very interestin’!
It just shows you that some of these smart dames can sometimes be just a little bit too smart. But at the same time I feel sorta sorry for Georgette because I reckon she is in a bad spot however much she is a double-crosser.
After a bit Cy Hinks comes around. We have lunch an’ Cy tells me that he is gettin’ one hundred per cent support from Varney who has fixed up an appointment to see Juanella Rillwater about gettin’ organised. Cy says that he has taken a short lease on some basements in the Quartier an’ that Larvey Rillwater an’ the boys are gettin’ the machinery an’ stuff put in there right now.
So it looks as if that part of the job is goin’ on all right. Cy says that he never reckoned to live an’ see a member of a U.S. Embassy staff playin’ around an’ doin’ business with a mobster’s baby like Juanella, but that you never know what can happen these days. He don’t know how right he is. Anyhow I reckon that maybe Varney an’ Juanella can both teach each other something, that is if she don’t try to make Varney just to sorta keep her in hand.
After lunch Cy gets the car around an’ we scram. I am lookin’ forward to meetin’ this photographer guy in Dives because I have got an idea way back of my head that if what I think is happenin’ then maybe I can still pull a very fast one an’ get my little girl friend Fernanda Martinas an’ her bunch of thugs just where it’s goin’ to hurt ’em most.
It is five o’clock when we pull inta Dives. This is a pretty sorta place with a funny little quay an’ some odd houses. It looks like one of them week-end spots that you read about in books where everybody is human an’ there ain’t any house-detectives.
We get around to the address of this Raphallo Pierrin as per the advertisement in the Magazine des Arts. The guy is in. He is an old bozo with white hair an’ big blue eyes an’ a blue beret. He also looks as if he has got some brains an’ he talks English better than Cy talks French.
I give him the works. I tell him that I reckon that he is a guy who is not in business for his health, an’ that whatever dough he was goin’ to make outa the job that I think somebody has asked him to do, is nothin’ to what I am prepared to pay him if he plays along with me. I flash a coupla thousand franc notes an’ I watch his eyes glisten.
“M’sieu,” he says, “I am very much at your disposal. I am a photographer and an artist, but I am also, I hope, a good business man.”
I say O.K. an’ that just for that I am slippin’ him five hundred francs. I give him the note an’ I tell him to get busy an’ tell me the whole goddam bag of tricks from the start an’ not to leave anythin’ out. He lights himself a Caporal cigarette an’ gets goin’.
He says that he has had that advertisement in the Magazine des Arts for one week out of every four for the last two years. Four days before he gets a letter from some guy in Trouville. The guy signs the letter in the name of Anselmo Dalada an’ he says that he wants Pierrin to do some very special photography for him—photostats an’ stuff like that—an’ that he will pay plenty if the work is done properly. He says that it will be necessary for Pierrin to take the plates, develop an’ print the photostats an’ finish off all in one go, that he must be prepared to stay right on the job an’ not leave until it is done. He also says that if Pierrin is willin’ to do it he must be ready to get his cameras an’ apparatus packed up in one hour from the time he gets notice an’ leave Dives for the place where the job has got to be done. If Pierrin is agreeable to all this he can name his own price an’ write to this Anselmo Dalada at the poste restante Trouville, which is the next place along the coast.
Pierrin says that it looks good business to him, so he writes an’ says that is O.K. an’ that he is prepared to do the job, but that his cameras an’ equipment are pretty big an’ heavy an’ that some sorta transport will have to be arranged. He says he wants one thousand francs for the job an’ another hundred for each photostat he makes.
Pierrin posts this letter, an’ it is stickin’ out a foot that the Dalada baby is waitin’ right on the doorstep of the post office at Trouville for it, because within a coupla hours after it reaches there this guy Dalada turns up at Pierrin’s studio in Dives an’ introduces himself.
He tells Pierrin that everythin’ is O.K., that he is willin’ to pay the price asked an’ that if Pierrin makes a good job of the photography then he will add on an extra thousand francs for luck. He also says that Pierrin needn’t worry his head about transport because he will send a car along for him an’ a coupla men to handle the cameras an’ stuff. Pierrin then starts askin’ a lotta questions about lightin’ an’ electric current at the place where the photographs are to be taken and the Dalada guy says that he needn’t bother his head about details like that because they will all be taken care of an’ that when Pierrin gets there he will find there is plenty of electric lights an’ what-nots for him to do his work.
The Dalada guy then gives Pierrin two hundred francs as a deposit an’ tells him to stand by an’ that he will be telephoned when he is wanted. He takes Pierrin’s number.
O.K. Pierrin says that about ten o’clock this mornin’ the Dalada baby comes through on the telephone an’ tells Pierrin that he is to be ready to-morrow night at eleven-thirty o’clock. That some guys will call in a car with a trailer-truck for the equipment an’ that they will pick up Pierrin an’ take him off to do the work. Dalada says that there will be plenty of photographin’ to be done an’ that he reckons that Pierrin will be workin’ all night an’ that he will be back in his place at Dives by eleven o’clock next day. Pierrin says O.K. that will suit him fine.
So there you are. It was like I thought, an’ I am gettin’ one helluva kick outa this business because with a bit of luck I reckon I am still goin’ to up-end these mugs properly. I will bet my bottom dollar this Dalada baby is nobody else but Tony Scalla an’ they are goin’ to play it just like I thought they would.
I get to work on this Pierrin. I tell him a helluva tale that I make up as I go along that sorta fits in with the situation as he sees it, an’ I give him another five hundred francs an’ tell him that if he does just what I want in the way I want it I will slip him another two thousand francs in two days’ time.
He says that he is goin’ to play ball. By the way his eyes shine when he gets his hooks on the dough I reckon he woulda photographed the devil himself if the dough was O.K.
I tell him just what he has gotta do an’ just how he is to do it an’ I make him repeat it over an’ over again until I see that I have got it right into his head.
After which I get him to show me around his studio. I make a coupla mental notes about one or two things an’ then I get back inta the car with Cy an’ scram.
Paris is callin’ me.
When we get back to the Wellington I go inta a long session with Cy Hinks. I have already told you guys that Cy is an intelligent sorta cuss but I make certain that he knows what he is goin’ after because any slip-ups from now on are not goin’ to be so good for me.
I work on Cy until it looks like he knows his end of the game an’ then I telephone through to Varney at the Embassy an’ tell him that Cy is comin’ round an’ that Varney has got to rustle up twenty thousand francs for him an’ that I want him to get the Naval Attaché around at the Embassy so as to give Cy some information about one or two things.
He says O.K. he will do anythin’ I want.
After Cy has gone I go downstairs an’ give myself a very nice dinner with a small bottle of champagne an’ I drink my own health because I reckon that pretty soon I am goin’ to need all the health I got.
I then ease inta a phone booth an’ call up Juanella Rillwater. I tell her that I wanta have a little talk with her an’ that I shall be stickin’ around at Charlie’s Bar in half an hour. She says it’s O.K. an’ that as Larvey is workin’ down in the basement like he was already servin’ in a chain gang that she reckons he won’t even miss her.
Juanella is sittin’ on the high stool along at the end of the bar when I get there.
On my way, smokin’ a cigarette in the car I been wonderin’ just how far I can trust this Juanella dame. Because you gotta realise that crooks are funny guys an’ their dolls are even funnier.
I have always found that a really high-class an’ expert crook, whether he is in the safe-blowin’ or counterfeitin’ or forgery rackets, is always sorta inclined to look down on the crook who is just a common or garden mobster who don’t specialise. I have known guys who specialised in big safe-cracking jobs who wouldn’t even talk to a stick-up man.
An’ another thing is that a crook is very often a patriotic sorta guy in a quiet way. He don’t mind pinchin’ an’ stealin’ from his countrymen, an’ he don’t mind gettin’ outa payin’ income tax or anything else like that, but in nine cases outa ten, when there is some sorta national trouble brewin’, you will find the guy is roarin’ to join the Marines an’ blast somebody down just because he is American.
An’ if you don’t believe me you get somebody to tell you the story of the formation of the Apache Battalions in the French Army at the beginnin’ of the World War, when every goddam crook in Paris who was worth a cuss went along an’ joined ’em singin’ the Marseillaise an’ wavin’ a flag with one hand an’ grabbin’ off anybody’s pocket book that was handy with the other.
But did those boys fight or did they?
Juanella hands me a sweet smile.
“Hey, soldier,” she says. “So you’re back again. An’ what is it this time? Ain’t you pleased with the way things are goin’ or is it that you can’t keep away from my beautiful figure? Also I would like to drink a double Vermouth-Cassis followed by a little chaser made outa Canadian bourbon with a cherry on a stick.”
I take a look at her while I am orderin’ the drinks. She is wearin’ a black close-fittin’ frock with a three-quarter coat an’ a black an’ white tailor-made hat. She has got on white doeskin gloves with a black motif on the cuff an’ her eyes are shinin’ like they was stars.
I reckon that if this dame would only take a pull at herself, reduce the height of her heels to about three inches an’ get Larvey to go straight, she would get herself—an’ him—some place in practically no time.
“How’s it goin’?” I ask her.
“Fine,” she says. “That Embassy guy Varney is a scream. I reckon he’s been thwarted in youth because every time he got the chance he was lookin’ at my legs like he’d never seen any before.”
“An’ he ain’t the only one, Juanella,” I tell her. “Me, I have seen a lotta legs in my time but I reckon that your legs are sorta special an’ if I hadda lot of time I would tell you just what I think about you in general an’ it would make you feel very good. Maybe you sorta realised why I put you next to Varney, hey?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I reckoned that you wanted us to know that you were on the up-an’-up on this job, that we’re really, for once in our lives, workin’ for Uncle Sam.”
She grins at me sorta friendly.
“It was certainly a sweet gesture,” she says.
She drinks the Vermouth-Cassis an’ starts in on the bourbon. She pulls the cherry out an’ looks at it, holdin’ it just a few inches from her mouth. I get to thinkin’ that her lips are just about the same colour as the cherry.
“The boys are workin’ like they was nuts,” she says. “An’ with the machinery that Varney has got in I reckon they’re goin’ to be through by about seven o’clock this evenin’. It was a swell idea of Varney’s to give us a real set of steel plates to work from.”
She looks at me very old-fashioned.
“An’ is that all you wanted to know?” she says.
“Nope,” I tell her. “I wanta ask you to do somethin’ for me. Somethin’ sorta personal.”
She drops her eyes an’ wriggles a bit.
“Well . . .” she says. “I shall have to sorta think it over, because I have already told you that Larvey is a very jealous guy. But maybe when we got this business . . .”
“Just a minute,” I interrupt her. “You’re gettin’ me wrong. This business is personal all right, but not as personal as anything that would get Larvey all steamed up—see?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Oh well, I knew I was goin’ to get a big disappointment to-day. I saw it in the bottom of the teacup this mornin’. O.K. Go ahead, Lemmy. What’s eatin’ you?”
“Look, Juanella,” I tell her. “You remember way back in 1932 somebody blew the time-lock off the vault in the Third Associated Farmers Bank in White River. It was a swell job. Whoever done it had planted some sorta’ time-bomb in the outer casin’ of the vault, an’ this bomb was fixed to blow the lock off at exactly five o’clock next day.
“At a quarter to five next mornin’ there is a county fire an’ police call put through to all fire an’ police stations, an’ this call concentrates every fireman an’ copper at some place about thirty miles away. While they are all there wonderin’ who the hell has pulled this trick on them the bomb in the bank vault goes off, blows in the vault lock an’ the crooks walked inta the bank an’ got away with the County an’ Borough pay rolls—one hundred an’ fifty thousand dollars. You remember about that?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I heard about it.”
“O.K.,” I tell her. “Well, although they was never able to hang that job onto Larvey, everybody had the sorta idea that he was the guy who pulled it. Me, I was interested in it because although I knew that Larvey was one of the finest counterfeiters in the U.S. I never knew that he was an expert at fixin’ time-bombs. I was sorta interested, see?
“Well, I go easin’ around tryin’ to get an angle on this, an’ what do I find? I find that about three months before Larvey’s charmin’ an’ delightful wife—a honey by the name of Juanella Rillwater, to whom I have the pleasure of talkin’ at this moment—had got herself a job in the office of the Oklahoma Minin’ an’ General Corporation as stenographer to the Chief Engineer in charge of the blastin’ works. She worked there for six weeks as Jane Lowkell, an’ after six weeks she resigned.
“I reckoned she took that job to learn how to make that time-bomb.”
“Very interesting,” she says. “An’ where do we go from there?”
“Look, Juanella,” I tell her. “I reckon I am goin’ to be in a spot pretty soon, an’ I guess that there is only one thing that is goin’ to give me a chance of gettin’ out of it an’ that is a really swell time-bomb. But I gotta have it right away. I gotta have it in about three hours’ time.”
She looks at me an’ she smiles.
“I reckon I’m plenty important to you,” she says. “I don’t know what you’d do without Juanella. O.K. big boy, it’s easy. You get me the makin’s an’ I’ll fix you up a time-bomb so mild that it’ll just wake you up in the mornin’ or so goddam hot that it’ll blow the whole street up.”
“Sweet sister,” I tell her. “What would I do without you? Now you tell me what you want.”
“It’s as easy as makin’ a strawberry shortcake,” she says. “An’ I’m good at that too. All you gotta get me is a first class electric chronometer. I want a really swell electric alarm clock that I can take outa its case an’ mount on a wooden platform. O.K. Well, I wire this clock up to a small battery an’ I bore holes through the wooden platform which is about ten inches square an’ run three or four leads from the clock alarm system through the holes, an’ on the other end of the leads I fix little tiny fulminate of mercury caps to act as detonators.
“O.K. Well, I take another little wooden platform an’ I drill holes in it an’ in each hole I put a stick of dynamite accordin’ to the amount of explosion I want.
“Then I fix on the leads with the detonators so that each stick of dynamite has got its detonator cap. See?
“All I’ve got to do then is to fix a trigger wired on to the battery one side an’ connected with the clock alarm on the other. If I set the clock alarm for three o’clock then, just at the moment that the alarm goes off the trigger is released an’ it bangs down the fulminate of mercury caps, the dynamite sticks are detonated an’ the balloon goes up.
“I guess,” she goes on, sorta reminiscent, “that was the way those guys blew that time-lock off the White River vault right at the very minute they wanted to.”
“Juanella,” I tell her, “you’re a honey, an’ one day I’m gonna give you a big hug. In the meantime you get back to the factory an’ get the boys movin’ hard. I’ll be with you in an hour an’ I’m sending you the best chronometer we can get an’ the other fixin’s. Varney’ll get ’em for me. Then you can get busy an’ I’ll tell you just the sorta explosion I want.”
