“For the love of Mike, Trent,” exclaimed Faraday. “Get on with it. Save the personal stuff for Old Home Week.”
Trent ignored Faraday for the moment and concentrated his attention on Tommy. “I’ve told you what goes on in the bank, Tommy. Now you tell me what’s wrong with the scheme — from the viewpoint of a locksmith.”
“There’s a hell of a lot wrong with it. First of all, they wouldn’t let a stranger into their safety deposit box room...”
“Who said anything about a stranger going in? I told you before Faraday showed up that you were to go and rent a box for yourself.”
“What would I put in it?”
“Newspapers, for all anyone cares. The idea’s to get access into the vault — legitimate access. Give you a chance to study the locks.”
Tommy’s eyes suddenly narrowed in thought. “Actually,” he said, slowly, “if I had a key of my own, there wouldn’t have to be much study. Those keys come in sets. I can make the blank from my key.”
“See!” Trent cried, exultantly. “That’s what I mean about taking care of the bugs. You’ve got your blank now, see. All you have to do is smoke it up with a match and—”
“While the girl in the bank is watching me?”
Trent smiled indulgently. “Tommy, you don’t give me credit for anything, do you? I told you, I’ve got a box at this bank. What do you think I’m doing while you’re in the vault?”
“Waiting outside with the getaway car.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s no getaway car in this. Uh-uh, while you’re in the vault, I’m out in the bank, filling out a little slip and giving it to the girl. I’m taking my time about it and she’s watching me — not you. It’s a matter of timing. I keep her eyes on me for thirty seconds — maybe more. You’re taking your impressions. Naturally, you’re not doing any filing in there. You do that at home. We don’t pull this job in one trip, you know. The stuff is there all the time, if it takes us a week, or a month.”
“Which reminds me,” Tommy said. “What stuff?”
Trent and Faraday exchanged quick glances, then Trent said softly. “You don’t have to worry about that, Tommy. You get your five grand, hot or cold.”
“Five thousand,” Tommy said quietly, “for doing all the work. What does Faraday do?”
Faraday began to swear, but Trent held up a warning hand. “Faraday gets us the number of the box that we’re after.”
“Oh, it’s one particular box, is it?”
“Do you think we’re crazy? The average safety deposit box is full of insurance policies and locks of hair from Junior’s first haircut. We know what’s in this particular box.”
“What?”
Trent hesitated. “Cash. The long green.”
“How much of it?”
“Enough to give you five g’s.”
Tommy got to his feet. “As Faraday said, there are a million locksmiths...”
Trent said softly: “If you think you can back out of this now, Tommy, guess again.” He rose from his chair, reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a snub-nosed revolver. “You’ve been in the army, Tommy, you’ve seen lots of guns. Big guns. But you know what? This little gun kills people just as dead as a big gun.”
Across the room Earl Faraday grinned cheerfully for the first time since entering Trent’s apartment. “That’s just a sample, sonny boy.”
Tommy knew that he had never been closer to death in his entire life than at this moment. He said, doggedly: “An even split, three ways.”
Trent looked down at his little gun. “Twenty-five per cent, Tommy. I worked out this caper and I’m entitled to fifty per cent...”
It was now Faraday’s turn to protest. “Fifty per cent, my eye; not if he cuts in for twenty-five. Without my little contribution there’s no caper at all. Besides...” he paused. “There’ll be two hundred thousand in that box...”
“Two hundred thousand dollars!” exclaimed Tommy Dancer.
“More or less. A hundred thousand at the very least.” Faraday cocked his head to one side. “Forty per cent, Trent. Forty for you, forty for me and twenty for the kid. It’s a good haul for all of us...”
“Twenty per cent of two hundred thousand dollars—” Tommy said slowly.
“Is forty g’s,” Trent said, putting away his gun. “Which is as much money as you can earn in fifteen years, making locks and keys.”
A week went by, during which Tommy Dancer lived his normal life. He reported to the little shop of the Melrose Lock and Key shop every morning and he performed whatever duties George Roan gave him. He went out on calls, opened pantry doors, garage doors and he made keys for car owners.
In the evening he bowled at the Melrose Alleys. But not every evening. Three evenings he drove his flivver out to Beverly Hills and rolled slowly up and down Foothill Boulevard. Always he looked at a Georgian Colonial house, a huge two-story affair that contained no less than twelve rooms. There were lights in the house; sometimes every window seemed to be lighted up.
