THE g**g was completed by a dandy chauffeur borrowed by Mme. Storey from a wealthy friend. The car “stolen” for the occasion was an elegant new limousine.
On Saturday morning at nine we met at the flat. I was in a miserable state of funk. I hope I succeeded in concealing it.
Mine. Storey served out the guns, and she herself made sure that Falseface and Tony were not carrying any additional weapons. They protested against the blank shells, but our leader stood firm.
“Our object is robbery, and not murder,” she said coolly. “If you are obliged to shoot, the blanks will go off with just as much noise and have the same moral effect. And if there is any slip-up in our plans, you won’t land in the death chamber.”
They appeared to see the force of her argument.
We left the flat separately. I
