other man added.
" Any body," Joyce said, and shut her mouth tight as the smaller man pointed his gun at her. She wondered if she should say that she was sorry for correcting his English. She decided to keep quiet.
"The kid's a wise guy, Murph."
"I'm sure she didn't mean anything by---" Joyce's mother started.
"Shut up," said the man called Murph. The hard words had cut Mrs. Walther off. Her face turned a bright red color. "Now look here---" Mr. Walther began. "No, you look," Murph said. "Look right into the barrel of this.'' He raised the revolver toward Mr. Walther's face. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way." "What do you want?" Joyce's father said in a low voice.
"You're Bryce Walther, right? Owner of Walther's Jewelry over on Fifth Street?" Mr. Walther nodded.
"Your shop is closed today. It's closed every Sunday and Monday."
"You've done your homework," Mr. Walther said.
A mean smile curved Murph's lips.
Joyce noticed a C-shaped scar on his left cheek. She made a note of this in her mind. She realized that she should try to remember everything she could about how both men looked. Anything she could tell the police might come in handy later. Besides, she might want to write about a guy like this in one of her stories.
The name is Murph. A white male, about 25 years old, six feet tall, blue eyes, neatly trimmed brown hair. Wearing a blue sports jacket, blue tie, white shirt, gray slacks, and shiny black shoes.
"Well, Bryce," Murph said, "I've got a little surprise for you. You're open for business this morning, and I'm going to be your only customer."
That's why he's all dressed up, Joyce thought. So he won't look odd entering the jewelry store with Dad.
"You're going to rob it!" she blurted out.
"That's the picture," Murph said, not turning away from her father. "And just to make sure that you don't try to be a hero, Bryce, my friend here will be keeping the wife and kid company until you and I come back with the goodies. As long as everything goes nice and smooth, he won't harm them." Murph smiled at his friend. "You'll be nice and friendly, won't you?" The smaller man nodded. "We don't want nobody getting hurt."
Anybody, Joyce thought. But she kept her mouth shut.
"Any questions?" Murph asked.
"Yes," Mr. Walther said. "What happens if...I mean, I'll do nothing to put my family in danger, but...there are other shop owners on the block who know I'm closed today. If one of them sees me going in..."
"Then you'd better have a good story. If we're not back with the goodies in half an hour---bang bang."
Mr. Walther's face turned pale.
"Okay, Bud, tie them up."
"A re you OK, Mom?" Joyce had a worried look on her face.
Joyce's mother nodded.
"You don't look too good."
"Knock off the small talk," Bud said. He was leaning against the refrigerator, watching them with his tiny eyes. Joyce and her mother were tied to kitchen chairs.
Joyce noticed that this second man,
Bud, wasn't well dressed like Murph. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. Bud looked a little nervous. That wasn't like Murph either. Even from her seat at the kitchen table, Joyce could see the sweat on the man's face. He kept moving his gun from one hand to the other and wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Is that a thirty-two caliber automatic?" Joyce asked.
"Don't talk to him, dear," her mother said.
"I just want to know." Joyce tried to smile at Bud. "I'm a writer," she told him. "I write mystery stories."
"Good for you," he muttered. "I live them."
Joyce went on. "Maybe I can use all this in a story, you know? I've never seen a real thirty-two automatic."
"Shut up, kid," Bud snapped at her.
He took a quick look at the clock on the wall. Joyce looked, too. Five minutes had gone by since her father had left the house with Murph.
"How many people have you shot with that gun?" Joyce asked.
"Joyce, please." Her mother sounded nervous.
"Nosey kid," Bud said. He rubbed the sweat off his upper lip.
"Come on," Joyce said. "You can
" Any body," Joyce said, and shut her mouth tight as the smaller man pointed his gun at her. She wondered if she should say that she was sorry for correcting his English. She decided to keep quiet.
"The kid's a wise guy, Murph."
"I'm sure she didn't mean anything by---" Joyce's mother started.
"Shut up," said the man called Murph. The hard words had cut Mrs. Walther off. Her face turned a bright red color. "Now look here---" Mr. Walther began. "No, you look," Murph said. "Look right into the barrel of this.'' He raised the revolver toward Mr. Walther's face. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way." "What do you want?" Joyce's father said in a low voice.
"You're Bryce Walther, right? Owner of Walther's Jewelry over on Fifth Street?" Mr. Walther nodded.
"Your shop is closed today. It's closed every Sunday and Monday."
"You've done your homework," Mr. Walther said.
A mean smile curved Murph's lips.
Joyce noticed a C-shaped scar on his left cheek. She made a note of this in her mind. She realized that she should try to remember everything she could about how both men looked. Anything she could tell the police might come in handy later. Besides, she might want to write about a guy like this in one of her stories.
The name is Murph. A white male, about 25 years old, six feet tall, blue eyes, neatly trimmed brown hair. Wearing a blue sports jacket, blue tie, white shirt, gray slacks, and shiny black shoes.
"Well, Bryce," Murph said, "I've got a little surprise for you. You're open for business this morning, and I'm going to be your only customer."
That's why he's all dressed up, Joyce thought. So he won't look odd entering the jewelry store with Dad.
"You're going to rob it!" she blurted out.
"That's the picture," Murph said, not turning away from her father. "And just to make sure that you don't try to be a hero, Bryce, my friend here will be keeping the wife and kid company until you and I come back with the goodies. As long as everything goes nice and smooth, he won't harm them." Murph smiled at his friend. "You'll be nice and friendly, won't you?" The smaller man nodded. "We don't want nobody getting hurt."
Anybody, Joyce thought. But she kept her mouth shut.
"Any questions?" Murph asked.
"Yes," Mr. Walther said. "What happens if...I mean, I'll do nothing to put my family in danger, but...there are other shop owners on the block who know I'm closed today. If one of them sees me going in..."
"Then you'd better have a good story. If we're not back with the goodies in half an hour---bang bang."
Mr. Walther's face turned pale.
"Okay, Bud, tie them up."
"A re you OK, Mom?" Joyce had a worried look on her face.
Joyce's mother nodded.
"You don't look too good."
"Knock off the small talk," Bud said. He was leaning against the refrigerator, watching them with his tiny eyes. Joyce and her mother were tied to kitchen chairs.
Joyce noticed that this second man,
Bud, wasn't well dressed like Murph. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. Bud looked a little nervous. That wasn't like Murph either. Even from her seat at the kitchen table, Joyce could see the sweat on the man's face. He kept moving his gun from one hand to the other and wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Is that a thirty-two caliber automatic?" Joyce asked.
"Don't talk to him, dear," her mother said.
"I just want to know." Joyce tried to smile at Bud. "I'm a writer," she told him. "I write mystery stories."
"Good for you," he muttered. "I live them."
Joyce went on. "Maybe I can use all this in a story, you know? I've never seen a real thirty-two automatic."
"Shut up, kid," Bud snapped at her.
He took a quick look at the clock on the wall. Joyce looked, too. Five minutes had gone by since her father had left the house with Murph.
"How many people have you shot with that gun?" Joyce asked.
"Joyce, please." Her mother sounded nervous.
"Nosey kid," Bud said. He rubbed the sweat off his upper lip.
"Come on," Joyce said. "You can
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