“At what hour?” asked his friend.
“Nine-thirty,” said Davidson, “if you can get down so early.”
“I’ll be there promptly,” said the obliging depositor.
“Thanks; and then,” explained Davidson, “we’ll get the securities, and that’ll end it. I’ve asked a lot of you, my boy, and I’m sorry—hope I’ll be able to reciprocate sometime.”
He didn’t turn a hair at uttering this last falsehood—the crowning one of many. The next morning, not long after nine o’clock, Davidson and I were at the hotel, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our dupe. We’d reached the critical stage of our plans. The combination numbers were to be gotten. I was sure of it. Laughingly, a few days prior, I’d staked my reputation as a burglar against the temperance pledge of “Silly Billy,” a ne’er-do-well known to the headquarters police. This lad’s pledge was worthless. He would go before a priest at noonday and solemnly promise never to tipple again, and within the hour he’d be tipsy. When called upon to explain why he’d broken his solemn word, the silly fellow would put up the novel plea that he’d left his pledge at home in his other trousers’ pocket. I had staked my reputation thus that I’d get the St. Nicholas Bank combination numbers, if I were put within ten feet of the vault at the unlocking. This morning Davidson, through his friend, was to put me there. We hadn’t long to wait, for the latter came in smilingly, and evidently delighted to befriend Davidson at any cost. It being the first time I’d set eyes on the fellow, he came in for a close inspection. I satisfied myself that he was rather soft, as is said of some men when they appear a trifle womanish.
“Shake hands with Agent McCantry,” said Davidson, in accord with our plan. Being thus formally introduced, we shook hands. My new acquaintance seemed to be wondering what sort of an agent I was, and Davidson enlightened him.
“He’s a Secret Service detective—a United States official,” he whispered, first looking around mysteriously, as though careful that no one should hear him. Then he added, “Don’t say anything about it—it mustn’t be known he’s in the city—we had to call him in our case.”
I cautiously, but opportunely, displayed an elegant gold Secret Service shield, which had been given to me by Colonel Whiteley, the chief of the service. It clinched matters. This shield had done me much good service on many occasions. After lighting cigars,—my companions,—all being ready, we went to the St. Nicholas Bank. We arrived there a trifle too early. The man in charge of the vault hadn’t come in, but we were admitted to the rear room, where the vault was, Davidson and his friend in the lead. I got a seat at an angle favorable to my purpose—I could get an excellent view of the lock. We didn’t have to wait long, for the employee we were awaiting came in presently, and our dupe told him Detective Davidson wanted the box of securities. The unlocking began right away. With a trained eye and a ready perception, rendered acute by experience because there was much depending upon them, I took in each turn of the hand at the lock dial. Now it went forward, now backward, and again forward, while I took careful mental notes by which to figure out the combination numbers. When the vault door had been thrown open, I knew I had the number at which the dial spindle had been placed at the beginning of the unlocking, and where it had stopped at each reverse. The remainder of the task could be accomplished outside the bank.
As I saw the great safes through the open vault door, I wondered about how many days would pass ere I could be the master of all I surveyed in the vault. How different would be the conditions then. By the time the box was in Davidson’s hands, I signed him everything was lovely, and, bidding his friend adieu, we went away. What a dupe the man had been, but of how much use after all. We walked up Broadway toward the court-house to Cedar Street, where we turned to Nassau, and from there we doubled back to our rendezvous.
While we’d been scheming to obtain the combination numbers, a close watch had been kept on one of the bank’s night watchmen, William Price, the one upon whom the success of our enterprise much depended. It was essential that we know his habits; and in fact, we soon had him well in hand and knew he had at least one bad failing,—he frequently absented himself from duty and spent an hour, and sometimes two, in a neighboring saloon. It was ascertained, also, that he was the watchman who guarded the inside of the bank. That knowledge had been gained from the vantage of a stairway on the outside of the Stock Exchange building. One of the landings afforded us an excellent view, through a rear window on the New Street side, of the interior of the banking office. This window, we ascertained, was seldom locked. It was our opportunity.