Chapter Twenty-Five

 

Summersby and Legrand grunted as they slid the crate over towards the garage doors.

“How the hell are we going to open that damned door with the power out?” asked Summersby.

“That is a problem,” agreed Legrand. “Let’s get this thing nearby first. Then we´ll figure it out. I wish that ass Jimmy Luke had shown. We could do with the extra help.”

Summersby heaved his corner of the box another two feet nearer the doors.

“What the hell is in here anyway?”

The box slid reasonably easily across the flat concrete floor and shortly they had it stationed to the right of the doors.

“Okay,” puffed Legrand. “Now, let’s go check the door.”

It was a normal cantilevered design door with two, two-inch steel slip bolts that locked into responding steel rebates set in the concrete floor. The whole thing was operated electronically from switches set in the wall. There was no way they were going to move it without some heavy equipment. The door itself was manufactured from a standard lightweight aluminum and Legrand knocked a knuckle against it to prove to himself it was a thing of little substance. The sound echoed hollowly in the vast garage.

“You know,” he said. “If we had a ram, this thing would fold like tissue paper.”

As one, they both looked around at the fine collection of vintage cars stored behind them in neat rows.

Summersby glanced over at Legrand, an evil grin creasing his face.

“What do you think?”

“Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” Legrand observed wryly.

Summersby laughed. “Going by what we found in the last lamb, you never spoke a truer word.”

They threw off dustsheets one after the other looking for a vehicle with the right weight to do the job. It was a big Duisenberg that finally got the vote. A heavy, black, high-sided beast best known for its appearance in a multitude of gangster movies.

“No keys,” said Summersby, opening the door.

Legrand quartered the room and saw the metal box set in the wall beside the door.

“There,” he said, pointing. “They´ll have them in there.”

It took only a second for Legrand to smash open the locked box with the butt of his shotgun and as he’d surmised inside hung sets of neatly labeled car keys. He snatched the corresponding set and tossed them over to Summersby.

“Hope we got gas.”

Summersby turned the key and the car exploded into life.

“R. B. Loville obviously believes in good maintenance,” he shouted over the roar of the powerful engine.

Legrand gave him the thumbs up and waved him on towards the double doors.