“Rehearsal?” Jimmie stared at him.
“Sure. Crooks have to be up-to-date. No movie producer ever rehearsed an act oftener or more thoroughly than crooks do some big play they are going to make. Getting in, getting out, the cop on his beat, the number of people likely to be on the street, every curve that the car or truck must make, are important; those and a hundred other things. They——”
“There,” he exclaimed, “they’re pulling up to that place a half block ahead, preparing to back in.
“Stop here, driver,” he commanded. “They can’t see us. Here’s your fare. Turn around and get away quietly.”
“Right. Thanks.” The taxi slid silently away.
“Here!” said Tom drawing something flat from his inside pocket and snapping it into the form of an oblong box. “Take this. It’s your lunch box. At least we’ll pretend it is.” From another pocket he produced a paper bag. After inflating this he dropped it to his side.
“This,” he said, “is a street of small factories for the most part. It is the noon hour. Slouch a little as you walk. We are workers going to eat our cold lunch with a cup of hot coffee at the place round the corner. Come on. We’ll cross the street and walk down past where the truck stands.”
Jimmie felt his blood tingle as they crossed the street then sauntered down the sidewalk. He was thinking of sudden sallies, burst of machine gun fire and all the rest.
Everything, however, was quiet enough. The street seemed almost deserted. It was an old section of the city. Four-story buildings lined the street on either side. On one was the sign of a candy manufacturer, on another that of a job printer and a third of some novelty dealer.
“Don’t look like a place where big-time crooks could make a grand haul,” said Tom, talking out of the side of his mouth. “Still you never can tell.”