And then, startling in its crisp transatlantic tones, a voice said:
Stick 'em up.
They swerved around. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped pyjamas stood in the doorway. In his hand he held an automatic.
Stick 'em up, guys. I'm pretty good at shooting.
He pressed the trigger—and a bullet sang past the big man's ear and buried itself in the woodwork of the window.
Three pairs of hands were raised rapidly.

The Labours of Hercules (1967)