Donovan and I looked at each other in a kind of double-take. Then I
said, "I don't suppose you'd care to tell us how and where you're going
to do the stealing?"
"I won't tell you how--that would be silly. I don't mind telling you
where." He put down another symbol.
"All right--where?"
"I'm not quite sure yet. Chicago, or New York, or Pittsburgh, or....
This is the master plan. I've almost finished. It involves the
principals--the method of operation. There is much more to be done of
course. Assistants will have to be approached, analyzed mathematically
as to capabilities--"
"How much money are you thinking of stealing?"
"I figure I'll need about five million," Dalrymple said calmly.
Donovan and I looked at each other again and our eyes asked the
questions. What should we do about this? Haul the guy in and get
laughed at? Or did we have a right to haul him in if we wanted to? Just
call him a crackpot and let it go at that?
Sure. It was the obvious thing to do. And the easiest. Why stick our
necks out. And at that moment I saw Dalrymple smile ever so slightly
as though he knew exactly what was going on in our minds--had made
allowances for it on his damned chart.
Donovan shrugged. "Let's get away from this creep," he said.
We turned and walked out.
* * * * *
And we never saw Dalrymple again. In fact I'd practically forgotten
about him, when a year later--the date was January 17, 1951--I came
back to the squad-room late in the afternoon and there was a paper
lying on the desk Donovan and I used. Its headline read: