In the Bag

To go back to the Rue Cologne or not, that was the problem!

Claude biessy recognized that his appearance was a decided advantage, for he looked like a student at the Sorbonne and therefore dressed accordingly. With his student's satchel dangling indolently from one hand and his curly head obviously in some philosophical cloud or other, he always walked---strolled would be more accurate, though at times many miles were involved---from his small apartment in the Rue Collard near the university to and from his jobs.

His appearance may have been a bit of luck, but all else was thoroughly planned. No wheeled transportation to draw attention to the possible presence of an intruder in some untenanted-at-the-moment home or apartment; no curious taxi driver to recall a youthful fare following a safecracking in some office building or warehouse. No wallet with identification ever carried on a job, and never any accomplice. Nothing ever stolen except cash or objects easily transformed into cash without the services of a fence. No people, no chances. To date, it had worked fine.

He paused in his labors and listened. There was only the sound of the rising wind rattling the windows beyond the thick drapes of the old house; he had expected no other. With a brief nod, he returned to work. The chips were wiped from the hot drill bit, the bit dipped into oil. Claude tackled the safe door again. The beginning of the hole was clearly visible in the sharp beam of the adjustable flash. He had positioned it precisely at a certain point between the combination dial and the safe's handle---he knew this vulnerable spot very well. He turned the drill on and began again, putting as much weight against the drill handle as he could muster. He was pleased with the near-silent humming of the small, powerful motor, the eagerness with which the bit ate its way steadily through the thick metal. Easy did it; there was no rush. His careful scouting had made sure that the inhabitants of the house would not return until the following day.

The safe was a Le Clair, an unusually large one for home use. Most home safes were simply meant to protect against fire and they presented no special problems. A Le Clair was more complex---constructed in hopes of frustrating burglars---but Claude was familiar with it. He had spent four years under the tutelage of the famous Gil Lowendal himself and he had yet to find a small safe he couldn't enter.

The vibration of the drill changed; the bit slowed and then speeded up as it penetrated the last thickness of the steel shell. He had now drilled through to the locking linkage area. The rest was simple---even though it took a little more muscle. From his bag, he extracted a punch made of the hardest steel and inserted it into the hole. Then, reaching into the bag once more, he produced an all-steel hammer. A few sufficiently strong blows against the punch would break the safe's lock bolt---and the job would be finished.

It was not the effort of the pounding that bothered him. It was just that, when he thought back afterward, he always had a nightmare scenario occur to him. Somehow, the hammer would slip and there would be a loud clang. Or, even if it didn't, the noise of the blows might, by chance, reach the ears of a person in the vicinity. That person would rise up on one elbow in bed, perhaps, and say to himself, "Odd, I thought I heard something like hammering. (continued on page 128)In the Rag(continued from page 117) Yes, there it is again. It would seem to be coming from the Duponts' house. Ah, well." Then that person, sinking back in the bed again, would suddenly reflect, "But wait! Didn't I see the Duponts leaving for the weekend? There is something very curious here. Perhaps I should ask the police to have a look."

Claude snapped the flashlight off and went to the window to survey the street. Across the way, the streetlight shone on an empty garden. There was no sign of life except for the very faint sound of music coming from some house a little farther along.

He moved back to the safe and grasped the hammer. This old house would have thick walls. Besides, he counted on the fact that the listener of his nightmare---if there ever were one in reality---would hesitate a minute, would take another minute to find his slippers, would spend a little more time getting to the telephone. There would be a further delay as the policeman at the other end of the line wrote everything down.

It took a few more blows than he'd expected---each one a cannon blast to his ears---but at last the lock was broken. It was only after he had dismantled the drill and put each piece of his equipment carefully back into his satchel that he turned the handle of the safe. It moved easily. He shone the beam of his flashlight inside. Silver plate; he pushed it aside without qualms. A jewel case; he whistled slightly as he opened it, and then closed it resolutely. A tin box! He dragged it out and tipped the cover up. Papers. He took one up. Papers? Securities! Negotiable securities! He took one look at the face value of the top one and his eyes widened. A fortune! But this was no time to stand and count it. He dropped the bundle into the satchel, tossed the flashlight on top of it, buckled it hastily and moved to the window.

He was three blocks away, his surgical gloves tucked into an inner pocket, his bag swinging negligently from his hand, when a police car passed him with flashing lights and keening siren. Claude began to look after it and then brought his head to the front. It was impossible that the sound of the hammer could have brought any investigation to the old house in that short a time. Besides, a police car was certainly no unusual sight in Paris, even in the suburbs. Crime was certainly not limited to his small efforts, and automobile accidents were as common as the common cold. He put the police car from his mind and continued his stroll toward home. But subconsciously, one ear listened for the return of the siren.

The streets through which Claude returned were not the same ones he had traversed in going to the job, but they were of the same general nature. Major arteries were avoided, as were streets that appeared completely deserted. Avenues lined with spreading plane trees and strolling couples out for the evening air were the ones he preferred. Along several he saw other students---he always thought of them as other students ---equally hampered by bags, walking alone or together, and he felt a certain kinship with them.

He crossed the Avenue Mozambique and turned down the Rue Cologne, staying a reasonable distance behind a couple walking with their arms about each other. Here, well into the body of the city proper, traffic was still oddly light, but the night was pleasant and the breeze cooling. Claude strolled along, enjoying the walk, when he heard the sharp clack of leather heels on the opposite pavement. His eyes came up, incurious. Marching along in the opposite direction was a uniformed policeman, visored hat square on his brow, cape swinging in cadence to his almost military step. Claude smiled faintly, a smile that faded as the footsteps suddenly stopped. There was the briefest pause, and then they resumed, but their owner had turned and was now moving in the same direction as Claude, just across the street.

Claude frowned slightly without breaking the evenness of his pace in the least. A coincidence? Quite obviously. But, still, here he was with a satchel full of negotiable securities, not to mention a lot of highly unusual implements it would be most difficult to explain. One should be allowed a touch of nervousness, should one not? Ah, well, he thought, taking heart, one could scarcely walk across half of Paris and not run into a policeman now and then, could one? And if that policeman was walking in the direction he was, so what? They all had to walk in one direction or the other, did they not? Obviously, they did.

Still, this one had stopped dead and turned just after passing Claude, had he not?

He had....

On the other hand, look at it this way: If the flic had the slightest suspicion that he was following a much wanted safe-cracker (not following, you idiot! Because he isn't following; he's merely walking in the same direction!), would he remain across the street, marching along so sedately? Not likely! He would be storming over, whistle blowing like mad, baton raised for action. So forget the man, for heaven's sake! Walk along like the student he thinks you are, and stop sweating!

Curbs came and went on the Rue Cologne. Step down, step up. The couple ahead had withdrawn into a shadowed alcove; giggles came from it as he passed. Would the flic cross over and investigate the giggles? He did not, but it had really been a lot to expect. Ahead, the walk was now bare, the overhead streetlights throwing the shadows of the whispering trees in wavering patches on the walk. The two sets of footsteps echoed each other, one on each side of the pavement. Claude suddenly smiled to himself. Suppose he were to cross the street and plant himself in front of the policeman? Ask the flic for directions, say? Settle the matter once and for all------

His smile was wiped away immediately; he felt a sudden chill. You are an idiot, my friend, he said to himself grimly, soberly. You are beginning to show nerves. That idea was strictly from nerves. Don't. It is a bad habit to get into. Try not to get any more of those ridiculous notions.

Turn down one of the small side streets? And if the flic merely turns down the street with you, what then, my foolish friend? What did we just say about ridiculous ideas? Just keep walking. That's right. One foot ahead of the other.

The lights of the Place Duquesne appeared before him; a deserted sidewalk café beckoned hospitably from the broad sidewalk that flanked the empty flagstoned circle. Wait a minute! Approaching the flic was one thing, but pausing for a brief refreshment was quite another. One thing was certain; they couldn't keep up this silly charade all the way back to the university! Who was it who had said, if war must start, let it start here? He smiled faintly, slowed his steps and dropped into a chair well back from the curb. His satchel seemed to drape itself naturally across his thighs. And then he felt his heart lurch. The footsteps across the street had also stopped!

"M'sieu?"

Claude swung about, startled, staring up at a sleepy-eyed waiter. "What?"

The waiter stared at him. "Exactly, M'sieu. What?"

"Oh. A cognac."

The waiter nodded, yawned, wiped the table from force of habit and wandered off inside. He returned with a glass of amber liquid and placed it down. Claude turned to the glass, refusing to recognize the existence of the uniformed figure hesitating across the small place from him; he raised the drink and downed it in one swallow. It was a cheap cognac, an embarrassment of the vine, but its warmth was welcome. Claude forced himself to raise his eyes. (concluded on page 216)In the Bag(continued from page 128) The taped figure across from him had not moved.

"Waiter!"

"M'sieu?"

"Another cognac. A double!"

It was placed before him. He twisted the glass slowly and then raised it toward his lips. About to toss it down, his hand froze on the glass. The caped officer had ceased his vigil and was slowly crossing the stones of the place. His baton swung restlessly at his side.

Claude felt fear evaporate as quickly as it had come. He had always known the day might come. A plan formed, as plans always formed for him. He would not answer the questions; he would pretend he had not heard. When the flic bent lower, he would receive a double dose of cognac in the eyes! The policeman was big, but he did not look very fast. Off and running! Take the securities from the satchel on the run and the rest jettisoned, maybe under the flic's feet! Here he comes. Claude's fingers lowered the glass slowly.

The policeman shouldered his way through the scattered tables, passed Claude without a glance and came to rap on the bar counter with his baton. The waiter looked up.

"M'sieu?"

"Your telephone---"

Claude frowned. Calling for the wagon? His muscles tensed, prepared. The voice of the policeman came now, but it was surprisingly nervous, oddly cringing.

"Marie? Where have you been? I finished my tour nearly an hour ago.... I've been up and down the Rue Cologne several times.... No, no, my darling! Of course I'm not complaining.... I'm merely.... No. no, darling! Believe me, of course I still want.... It's simply that...." There was a pause as the uniformed man listened further. "I'm at the Place Duquesue, on the Rue Cologne.... Ten minutes? ... Of course, my sweet.... No, no, I don't mind! ... No. no, I'll wait...."

Claude bit back a grin, fighting hard not to burst out into nervous, almost hysterical laughter. A lesson here, he told himself, trying to sound stern, and took the cognac in his hand down in one huge swallow. He choked a bit on it but welcomed it. Never invent problems. Life furnishes us with sufficient. He swung an arm up to intercept the waiter.

"One last cognac, if you please, And the check, as well."

The policeman passed him, a foolish grin on his face, and took a stand at the curb, staring hungrily up the deserted avenue. Claude grinned in relief, gulped down the cognac and reached into his pocket. It was empty. He reached into another with equal results. What the---His wallet! His wallet, of course, was home with all other identification. He looked up to see the waiter's eye upon him, cold as only years of serving the public can chill an eye.

"I must have left my wallet at home...."

The waiter moved closer, preventing escape, managing a sneer without moving so much as a muscle of his face. The policeman had turned and was watching.

"Tomorrow I will come back...."

The waiter shrugged, caught the policeman's eye and jerked a thumb downward. The policeman stared and then shook his head in profound disgust as Claude sat frozen. The shoulders of the uniformed man slumped. Eight long, miserable, lonely hours on his feet, Marie about to meet him with almost assured results, and now this! Because of some idiot youngster who wandered off without money, he was going to have to waste hours at the office, fill out God knows how many millions of papers---it was impossible! Would Marie wait for him to get back? What a dream!

No, damn it, no! Not tonight! He looked clown at the pale face of the young man in the chair.

"I'll lend you the money for the cognac," he said, reaching for his billfold. "This is my regular beat: four in the afternoon to midnight. You can come by tomorrow and pay me back."

Claude felt his head whirling. He could not believe it. He came to his feet. "Oh, I will! I will!"

"I'm sure you will," the flic said confidently and picked the satchel from Claude's fingers. "I'll hold your books for security." He was generous, but also cautious. "Don't worry. They'll be sale."

To go back to the Rue Cologne or not, that was the problem!