Just back of us, and around the corner, as we came in, we had noticed a limousine which had driven up. Three faultlessly attired dandies had entered a doorway down the street, as we learned afterwards, apparently going to a fashionable tailor's which occupied the second floor of the old-fashioned building, the first floor having been renovated and made ready for renting. Had we been there a moment sooner we might have seen, I suppose, that one of them nodded to a taxicab driver who was standing at a public hack stand a few feet up the block. The driver nodded unostentatiously back to the men.
In spite of the excitement, Kennedy quietly examined the show case, which was, indeed, a veritable treasure store of brilliants. Then with a keen scrutinizing glance he looked over the police and detectives gathered around. There was nothing to do now but wait, as the detectives had advised.
I looked at a large antique grandfather's clock which was standing nearby. It now lacked scarcely a minute of twelve.
Slowly the hands of the clock came nearer together at noon.
We all gathered about the show case with its glittering hoard of wealth, forming a circle at a respectful distance.
Martin pointed nervously at the clock.
In deep-lunged tones the clock played the chords written, I believe, by
Handel. Then it began striking.
As it did so, Martin involuntarily counted off the strokes, while one of the plainclothesmen waved his shotgun in unison.
Martin finished counting.
Nothing had happened.