where the beams of light from the floodlights were sweeping back and forth.
“And how are we going to get away from there?” Lisa asked.
“Not us,” Nilly said. “I need to break in alone, because with the mode of transport we’re going to be using, there won’t be room for anyone besides little old me
and the guy flying the getaway craft.”
“What kind of craft?” Doctor Proctor asked, puzzled. “And who are you talking about? Who’s going to be flying it?”
“I’m talking about a friend of mine who needs to get out a little more,” Nilly said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to go call him right now.”
“Out of where?” Doctor Proctor asked, still puzzled.
“That little backwater village,” Nilly said. “Does anyone know the area code for South Trøndelag?”
“You don’t m-m-mean . . . ?” Lisa stammered.
“You don’t mean . . . ?” Victor Proctor groaned.
And then in unison they both said, “YOU’RE CRAZY, NILLY!”
The Great Gold Robbery
THE CLOCK OVER Mr. Stumbleweed’s window at the Bank of the Very Rich was exactly—and now I mean exactly—2:16:23:14 p.m., or about a quarter past two, when the
front door of the bank opened.
In walked a man dressed in a top hat and an elegant penguin suit—not actually a penguin costume, a tuxedo, but there was something rather penguinlike about it. He was carrying a briefcase
that was attached to his wrist. At his side there was a very young, elegantly dressed girl in a sun hat decorated like a fruit plate, except hopefully the fruit was fake. Hopefully the mink stole
around her neck was also fake.
They walked right up to the window where Mr. Stumbleweed was sitting and asked him if they could rent a safety-deposit box. Mr. Stumbleweed explained the hair-raising sum the bank charged
annually for a safety-deposit box, and they listened without fainting or protesting. Then he and two armed guards escorted the two new customers down to the basement. There Mr. Stumbleweed unlocked
not just one but three locked steel doors, and then they were standing in the safety-deposit room. The safety-deposit boxes were the size of shoe boxes stacked on their sides, and they covered two
of the walls in the room.
“No one without authorization can gain access to this room,” Mr. Stumbleweed said with satisfaction. “And of course we promise complete discretion. Neither we nor anyone else
will know what valuables you store in your box.”
“Nice to know yur bank is secure,” the new customer said in his pronounced Scottish accent. “But tell me, aren’t we almost in the inner sanctum here?”
“I assume you mean the bank vault, Doctor MacKaroni,” Mr. Stumbleweed said with a smile. “Well, you’re part of the way in, but you still need to get through the laser
beams, the motion detectors, and a door made of authentic Uddevalla steel. Well, you would have to get through those if you and your niece were planning to break in, I mean,” Mr. Stumbleweed
said with a sniveling laugh, to which the two new clients responded with a smile and a polite nod.
“Then we’ll give you bank box sixty-seven,” Mr. Stumbleweed said, and handed Doctor MacKaroni two keys. “One primary key and one reserve key. If you’d like to put
anything in your box now, the guards and I will wait outside until you’re done.”
“Thank you,” Doctor MacKaroni said.
As Mr. Stumbleweed waited outside the reinforced door, he heard Doctor MacKaroni’s briefcase being opened and closed and then the door of the safety-deposit box being locked again. He had
to admit that occasionally he was curious and wished he could sneak a peek at what the customers put in their safety-deposit boxes. Diamonds? Gold? Their wills? Secret love letters? But it was none
of his business. So when Doctor MacKaroni came out again with a briefcase that seemed a good deal lighter, naturally Mr. Stumbleweed didn’t ask any questions. Although there was no rule
against
“And how are we going to get away from there?” Lisa asked.
“Not us,” Nilly said. “I need to break in alone, because with the mode of transport we’re going to be using, there won’t be room for anyone besides little old me
and the guy flying the getaway craft.”
“What kind of craft?” Doctor Proctor asked, puzzled. “And who are you talking about? Who’s going to be flying it?”
“I’m talking about a friend of mine who needs to get out a little more,” Nilly said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to go call him right now.”
“Out of where?” Doctor Proctor asked, still puzzled.
“That little backwater village,” Nilly said. “Does anyone know the area code for South Trøndelag?”
“You don’t m-m-mean . . . ?” Lisa stammered.
“You don’t mean . . . ?” Victor Proctor groaned.
And then in unison they both said, “YOU’RE CRAZY, NILLY!”
The Great Gold Robbery
THE CLOCK OVER Mr. Stumbleweed’s window at the Bank of the Very Rich was exactly—and now I mean exactly—2:16:23:14 p.m., or about a quarter past two, when the
front door of the bank opened.
In walked a man dressed in a top hat and an elegant penguin suit—not actually a penguin costume, a tuxedo, but there was something rather penguinlike about it. He was carrying a briefcase
that was attached to his wrist. At his side there was a very young, elegantly dressed girl in a sun hat decorated like a fruit plate, except hopefully the fruit was fake. Hopefully the mink stole
around her neck was also fake.
They walked right up to the window where Mr. Stumbleweed was sitting and asked him if they could rent a safety-deposit box. Mr. Stumbleweed explained the hair-raising sum the bank charged
annually for a safety-deposit box, and they listened without fainting or protesting. Then he and two armed guards escorted the two new customers down to the basement. There Mr. Stumbleweed unlocked
not just one but three locked steel doors, and then they were standing in the safety-deposit room. The safety-deposit boxes were the size of shoe boxes stacked on their sides, and they covered two
of the walls in the room.
“No one without authorization can gain access to this room,” Mr. Stumbleweed said with satisfaction. “And of course we promise complete discretion. Neither we nor anyone else
will know what valuables you store in your box.”
“Nice to know yur bank is secure,” the new customer said in his pronounced Scottish accent. “But tell me, aren’t we almost in the inner sanctum here?”
“I assume you mean the bank vault, Doctor MacKaroni,” Mr. Stumbleweed said with a smile. “Well, you’re part of the way in, but you still need to get through the laser
beams, the motion detectors, and a door made of authentic Uddevalla steel. Well, you would have to get through those if you and your niece were planning to break in, I mean,” Mr. Stumbleweed
said with a sniveling laugh, to which the two new clients responded with a smile and a polite nod.
“Then we’ll give you bank box sixty-seven,” Mr. Stumbleweed said, and handed Doctor MacKaroni two keys. “One primary key and one reserve key. If you’d like to put
anything in your box now, the guards and I will wait outside until you’re done.”
“Thank you,” Doctor MacKaroni said.
As Mr. Stumbleweed waited outside the reinforced door, he heard Doctor MacKaroni’s briefcase being opened and closed and then the door of the safety-deposit box being locked again. He had
to admit that occasionally he was curious and wished he could sneak a peek at what the customers put in their safety-deposit boxes. Diamonds? Gold? Their wills? Secret love letters? But it was none
of his business. So when Doctor MacKaroni came out again with a briefcase that seemed a good deal lighter, naturally Mr. Stumbleweed didn’t ask any questions. Although there was no rule
against
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