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

The Ford panel truck was driven by Harold J. O’Konski, 31, also out of the army about a year, married, no children. He and his wife ran the Elite Bakery on Harford Road. They lived over the bakery, and O’Konski used the truck to deliver pies, cakes, and other baked goods to restaurants in the northeast Baltimore area. He was laconic, maybe even a bit surly, but he, too, seemed all right.

But a pharmacist and a baker as the brains of a gang that included simple thugs like Byers, Visconti, and Mahaffey? It didn’t add up.

Then, suddenly, everything began to fall into place, as it usually does when the police have done their homework well. A routine check with Identification disclosed that while Heisman was completely clean, O’Konski had been picked up leaving the scene of a crime at a shopping center not far from his bakery and home.

A sporting goods store had been held up about a week before, by four men wearing stocking masks. But O’Konski claimed that he had merely been delivering pies to a restaurant in the shopping center and had tried to speed away when he heard the police sirens, not wanting to get mixed up in anything. They didn’t really have anything on him, and he had been released with a reprimand.

Of course Egan had heard about the hold-up of the sporting goods store, but it was Burglary’s case, not his, and he hadn’t paid too much attention. But with the discovery that O’Konski had been at the scene of the crime, he was all ears. What had been taken from the sporting goods store, he asked Identification.

Five Colt .38 revolvers and about a hundred rounds of ammunition, Identification reported. No money! Only the guns and ammo. The hold-up men had ignored $138.60 in the till.

The M.O. had been the same as in the hold-up of the Texaco station in Towson. The thieves had ignored everything except what they needed for their next job. And, if their previous M.O. meant anything, that next job must be close at hand.

Two days later the complaining Clancy brought in his list of all the locksmiths graduated from trade, YMCA, and night schools during the past ten years. First, Egan had a secretary pick out of it — with the cooperation of Identification — any locksmiths with known criminal records. There were five. One had recently died, two were back in prison, one had spent the last two months in Johns Hopkins Hospital, and one was now a bartender on The Block with an airtight alibi. Nothing there.

Next, he had her pick out all the trained locksmiths who were now engaged in another profession, or were unemployed. There were 247 names on this list.

And, about a third of the way down the list, was pay-dirt. It read: Heisman, Stuart R. Graduated Ensor Street Commercial and Trade School, June 1958. U.S. Army, 1958–1961. Present address: 1821 Belair Road. Present occupation: Pharmacist, Belair Drug Store, 1647 Belair Road.

Egan went down the police garage, picked up the black Chevvie, and drove out to the Ensor Street Commercial and Trade School. The principal there turned out to be a white-haired old gentleman named Brierly who had occupied his position for twenty-one years.

“I remember Stuart Heisman very well,” he told Egan. “Quiet, studious boy, with an inventive mind. I remember one thing he put together while he was here. He could have patented it, it was that good.”

“What was that, sir?”

“A key-maker. It was a box-like thing. It would probe any lock with a very slender gauge and then record the depth of the tumblers, the spring tensions, and all the rest. Then you fed in a piece of metal, turned a dial to the proper setting, and out dropped your new key. I wonder if he ever did anything with it?”

“Well,” said Egan guardedly, “I don’t know, but I think he did.”

Old Mr. Brierly said: “If you could get hold of his friend — they roomed together at the YMCA on Franklin Street while they were in school here — he could tell you more about Heisman. They were inseparable. Went into the army together, as a matter of fact. Oh, what was his name?”

“Was he a locksmith, too?”

“No. He studied welding — acetylene gas welding. Pretty good at it, too.”

“Could it have been O’Konski, sir?”

“That’s it — Harold O’Konski. You know him?”

“A little. Well, thank you, Mr. Brierly. You’ve been very helpful.” Egan rose to go.

The old man said: “I hope Stuart isn’t in any trouble.”

“We don’t know yet. Goodbye, Mr. Brierly.”

VII

Now came the long wait. The Heisman and O’Konski residences were also staked out by inconspicuous, unmarked cars that kept changing location. The “telephone repairmen” worked around the clock by temporary lights strung in the alley in back of 674 Preston Street.

Byers, Mahaffey, and Visconti rarely left their apartment now except to go to the supermarket or a neighborhood bar. Heisman and O’Konski came every night and rarely left before eleven. And from The Block the stoolies whispered a Greek chorus: soon, soon, soon.