Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963

674 Preston Street was right in the middle of the area where the red pins on the map indicated that the jewel thieves were holed up. An unmarked police car containing two detectives from the Criminal Investigation Detail was parked across the street at various inconspicuous locations twenty-four hours a day.

In the alley near the back door of the old-fashioned, three-story gray stone house, a three-man crew from the “telephone company” had dug a hole and over-ralled detectives worked on the “underground cables” around the clock.

These repairmen had explored the house thoroughly. 3B was on the top floor front overlooking Preston Street. It consisted of four small rooms and a bath, and was reached by a small self-service elevator recently installed in the old mansion which had been converted into an apartment house.

There were three apartments on each floor. The other occupants of the house seemed to be mostly young or middle-aged working couples. The house didn’t allow children. It was quiet, undistinguished, respectable — a perfect hole-up for a gang of clever jewel thieves.

Only the three men occupying it weren’t clever. They were petty hoodlums, hanging on the outer fringe of the national crime syndicate that dominated the Baltimore underworld.

VI

The next time Egan ate at Muriel’s, she asked him, as they sipped their pre-dinner martinis: “Why don’t you arrest those three punks you’re cat-and-mousing up there on Preston Street? After all, you can connect them to the last two robberies.”

He shook his head. “They’re connected, but just barely so. I want that gang’s brains, not just its muscle. They’re getting ready to hit again, and when they do we’ll be waiting for them.”

“It’s none of my business,” she said, “but aren’t you overlooking one important angle?”

“All the angles I can overlook from here are pretty good.”

“Lecher!” She drew her housecoat tighter. “No, seriously, Phil, your locksmith is obviously the brains of the outfit. He had to learn locksmithing somewhere, didn’t he?”

He said thoughtfully: “It isn’t something you just pick up.”

“Where do they teach it?” she asked.

“Trade schools, YMCA courses, night schools. Places like that.”

“You said the gang was local, so chances are your brain studied locksmithing here. The schools probably keep records of their graduates. Go through the records and check out any that look interesting.”

“That is an angle that would bear investigating,” he said “And that’s a curve that would also—”

She laughed and drew away from him. “Oh, cut it out. I’m serious. Hurry up and catch those jewel thieves so we can start having fun again.”

What she had said about the locksmith started him thinking, though. It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, but even a 1000 to 1 shot looked like good odds in this case.

The next morning he called in Detective Sergeant Terence Clancy. “Check out all the trade schools, the YMCA’s, the night schools, and any other places you can think of that might teach lock-smithing. Go back ten years and list all their graduates, what they’re doing now, and where.”

Clancy groaned. “Hell, Phil, there are eighteen public trade schools alone in town. I know, because I had to check them once before. This’ll take to Christmas at least.”

“Take two men to help you. And hurry it up!”

Clancy groaned loudly and went out, but Egan knew he’d get the list in a couple of days. Clancy was a griper, but a good man.

From the stakeout on Preston Street he learned that Byers, Mahaffey, and Visconti had two visitors practically every night. One was a tall, thin man of about thirty who wore horn-rimmed glasses and drove a sporty little red Italian sports car. The other was a man of medium height, stocky, who arrived in a blue panel truck marked “Elite Bakery, 3714 Harford Road.” The license plate on the sports car was Maryland 292–861; that on the panel truck was Maryland 728–592.

He called the Motor Vehicle Department. “This is Lieutenant Egan, Police Department. Will you check out these license plates for me? Maryland 292–861, and Maryland 728–592.”

The girl on the other end said: “Just a minute, Lieutenant.” Then, after a long pause: “Here they are, Lieutenant. Maryland 292–861 is a Fiat sports car and it is registered in the name of Mrs. Stuart R. Heisman, 1821 Belair Road. Maryland 728–592 is a Ford panel truck registered in the name of Harold J. O’Konski, 3714 Harford Road.”

“Thank you, honey,” said Egan.

The next thing to do was to find out as much as possible about the men who drove to the nightly rendezvous with Byers, Mahaffey, and Visconti.

He had traffic cops stop both men to look at driver’s licenses and ask routine questions. Thus he learned that the driver of the sports car was Stuart R. Heisman, out of the army about a year, married, no children, worked as a pharmacist at the Belair Drug Store near his home on Belair road. He answered questions easily, was self-possessed, and seemed all right.