Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 11

The disk shot high into the air, poised for one split second at the high point of its trajectory and disintegrated, the sound of the gunshot reverberating through the quiet morning.

The rooks lifted into the air from their nests in the beech trees at the end of the garden, crying in alarm, and Duncan Craig laughed and lowered the automatic shotgun.

“I’m not too popular, it would seem. Let’s have another.”

As Harriet leaned over the firer to insert another disk, Jenny came out through the French windows. “There’s a gentleman to see you, Colonel Craig. A Mr. Vernon.”

Craig paused in the act of reloading the Gower and turned to Harriet, who straightened slowly. “Does he now?” he said softly. “All right, Jenny, show him out here.”

Harriet came to him quickly, anxiety on her face, and he slipped an arm about her shoulders. “Don’t get alarmed. There’s nothing to worry about. Not a damned thing. Let’s have another one.”

The disk soared into the air and this time he caught it on the way down, a difficult feat at the best of times, snap-shooting from the shoulder, scattering the fragments across the lawn.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Vernon said and Craig turned to find him standing in the French windows, Ben Carver at his shoulder.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Vernon,” Craig said. “And to what do we owe the honour?”

Vernon nodded towards Harriet. “What about her?”

Craig smiled faintly. “Anything you say to me, you say to Harriet. She’s my right arm.”

Vernon took a cigarette from a platinum case and Carver gave him a light. “All right, colonel, I’ll put my cards on the table. I made a mistake about you, that I freely admit, but I know when I’m beaten.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about,” Craig said.

Vernon obviously had difficulty in restraining himself. “Let’s stop beating about the bush. I’ve lost the Flamingo and my place up the York Road and then Billy Stratton meets with a nasty accident. You aren’t going to tell me I’m just experiencing a run of bad luck?”

“It can happen to the best of us.”

“All right — I’ll lay it on the line. You’ve had your fun — you’ve broken me, so I’m getting out just as soon as I can find a buyer for what’s left. I’m asking you to leave it alone from now on — all right?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Vernon,” Craig said softly. “Not in a thousand years. I’ll see you in hell first and that’s a very definite promise.”

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Far from being angry Vernon now smiled amiably. “You’re being very silly, old man. I mean it isn’t as if you’ve only got yourself to consider, is it? There’s Harriet here…”

He got no further. There was an ominous click and the barrel of the shotgun swung round to touch his chest. Craig’s eyes seemed to look right through him and the voice was cold and hard.

“If you even try, Vernon, I’ll shoot you down like a dog. In your own home, in the street — you’ll never know when it’s coming — never feel safe again.”

For a long moment Vernon held his gaze and then quite suddenly he nodded to Carver. “Let’s go.”

They walked across the lawn and disappeared round the side of the house. Harriet moved to her father’s side. “Why did he come?”

“For another look at the opposition I think. Nothing like knowing the enemy — a cardinal rule of war and Vernon was a good officer, make no mistake about that.”

“But what was the point of all that business about selling out and asking you to lay off?”

“Who knows? It might have worked — perhaps that’s what he was hoping. He may even be up to something.” Duncan Craig smiled. “We’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

“What now, Mr. Vernon?” Ben Carver said as he turned the Rolls into the main road.

“We’ll go back to the club,” Vernon told him. “After lunch I want you to drive down to Doncaster to pick up Joe Morgan. I told him to leave the London train there just in case.”

“Do I bring him back to the Flamingo?”

Vernon shook his head. “No more indoor meetings — too risky. I’ll be waiting on one of those benches next to the fountain in Park Place.”

“Thinking of Craig?”

Vernon nodded. “There’s always the odd chance that he has more of those gadgets of his planted around the place.”

“When are we going to do something about him?”

“Thursday morning,” Vernon said. “Right after the job and just before we leave.” He leaned forward and his voice was cold. “And you can forget about the we part right now. I settle with Craig personally — understand?”

It was cold in the mortuary and when Jack Brady lifted the sheet to reveal Billy Stratton’s face it was pale and bloodless.

“But there isn’t a mark on him,” Grant said.

“I wouldn’t look any lower if I were you,” Miller told him.

“What a way to go. You’re satisfied with the circumstances?”

“Oh, yes, the driver of that bus didn’t stand a chance. It was raining heavily at the time and Stratton simply plunged across the road, head-down. He’d been drinking, by the way.”

“Much?”

“Five or six whiskies according to the blood sample.”

Grant nodded to Brady, who replaced the sheet. “Who did the formal identification?”

“Ben Carver — reluctantly, I might add.”

Brady chuckled. “I had to twist his arm a little. He wasn’t too pleased.”

“Oh, well, I’m not going to weep crocodile tears over the likes of Billy Stratton,” Grant said. “We’re well rid of him.” He shivered. “I don’t know why, but this place always makes me thirsty. They must be open by now. Let’s go and have one.”

The saloon bar of the George had just opened and they had the place to themselves. They stood at the bar and Grant ordered brandies all round.

“What about these two villains who had a go at Craig last night?” he asked Miller. “Have you got anywhere with them?”

“Hurst and Blakely?” Miller shook his head. “A couple of real hard knocks. We’ve had a sheet on each of them from C.R.O. a yard long.”

“Which means they were specially imported,” Brady said.

Grant nodded. “I don’t like the sound of that at all.” He swallowed some of his brandy and gazed down into the glass reflectively. “You know I’m beginning to think I may have been wrong about this whole thing, Nick. It’s just that it seemed such an incredible idea.”

“Duncan Craig’s a pretty incredible person,” Miller said. “I tried to make that clear at the very beginning.”

“Have you seen him since last night?”

Miller shook his head. “I tried this morning, but he wasn’t available. Gone to Manchester on business I was told. Of course he’ll have to come in to swear a formal complaint.”

“When he does, let me know. I think I’d better have a word with him myself.”

“You’ll be wasting your time, sir,” Miller said. “He’ll insist that the whole thing was quite simply a common assault and we can’t prove otherwise.”

“But Hurst and Blakely won’t get more than six months apiece for that.”

“Exactly.”

Grant frowned. “There’s no chance at all that they might crack and admit who hired them?”

“If I know Max Vernon, they won’t even know his name,” Miller said.

Grant sighed and emptied his glass. “All in a day’s work I suppose. Let’s have another one.”

“On me,” Miller said.

“Oh no you don’t,” a cheerful voice interrupted. “My round. The same again, Maggie, and make them big ones.”

Chuck Lazer grinned hugely as he climbed onto a stool next to Brady.

“What’s all this?” Miller demanded. “Last time I saw you, you were on your knees.”

“With the world falling in on me, but not now, boy. Not with the pressure off.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Max Vernon.” Lazer shrugged. “I mean he’s on the run, isn’t he? Everyone knows his betting shops have taken a hammering since the Flamingo closed and now last night’s little affair.”

“And what little affair would that be?” Brady put in.

“Come off it,” Chuck said. “You know what I’m talking about. That place he was running up the York Road. The cut liquor racket.” He chuckled. “He was making a packet there, too.”

“You mean Max Vernon was behind that place?”

“Sure — everyone knows that.” Lazer looked surprised. “Didn’t you?”

Miller looked at Grant. “See what I mean, sir?”

Grant sighed. “All right. So I was wrong, but just try proving it, that’s all. Just try proving it.”

Park Place was a green oasis on the fringe of the city centre surrounded by old Victorian terrace houses already scheduled for demolition to make way for an inner Ring Road.

It was much favoured by office workers during their lunch-break, but at three-thirty when Max Vernon arrived it was quite deserted except for the cars parked round the edges and the small, greying man in the camel-hair coat who sat on a bench near the fountain.

He was reading a newspaper and didn’t even bother to look up when Vernon sat beside him. “I hope you aren’t wasting my time?”

“Did I ever, Joe?”

“What about that Cable Diamonds job? I got nicked — five hard years while you sat laughing your head off in some fancy club or other.”

“Luck of the draw.”

“You never get involved personally, do you, Vernon? You never dirty your hands.”

“Two hundred to two hundred and ten thousand quid, Joe. Are you in or out?”

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “Two hundred grand? You must be joking.”

“I never joke. You should know that by now.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Half — you provide your own team and pay them out of your cut.”

“And what in the hell do you do?”

“I’ve done my share.” Vernon patted his briefcase. “It’s all here, Joe. Everything you could possibly need and it’ll go like clockwork — you know me. I never miss a trick.”

“Not where you’re concerned you don’t.” Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know. Fifty per cent. That’s a big slice to one man.”

“You’ll only need three men in the team. Give them ten thousand each — contract it beforehand. That still leaves you with seventy — maybe more.” Morgan sat there, a frown on his face, and Vernon shrugged. “Please yourself. I’ll get somebody else.”

He started to his feet and Morgan pulled him back. “All right — no need to get shirty. I’m in.”

“On my terms?”

“Whatever you say. When do we make the touch?”

“Wednesday night.”

“You must be joking. That only gives us two days.”

“No, it’s got to be then — you’ll see why in a moment. There’s an express to London in an hour. You’ll catch it easily. That’ll give you plenty of time to recruit your team, gather your gear together and be back here by tomorrow night.”

“What will I need?”

“That depends. You’ll do the vault yourself?”

“Naturally. What is it?”

“Bodine-Martin 53 — the latest model. Burglar proof naturally.”

“They always are.” Morgan chuckled. “A snip.”

“What will you use — nitro?”

“Not on your life.” Morgan shook his head. “There’s some new stuff the Army’s been experimenting with going the rounds. Handles like nitro, but three times as powerful. It’ll open that vault up like a sardine can.”

“How long will you need?”

“On the vault itself?” He shrugged. “I’ll have to cut a hole into the lock. Let’s say forty-five minutes.”

“And twenty to get you inside.” Vernon nodded. “Just over an hour. Let’s say an hour and a half from going in to coming out.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“You’ll need a good wheelman to stand by with the car.”

“Frankie Harris is available. He’s just out of the Ville. Could do with some gelt.”

“What about a labourer?”

“That’s settled to start with — Johnny Martin. He knows how I like things done.”

“And a good heavy and I don’t mean some punch-drunk old has-been. You’ll need someone who can really handle himself, just in case of trouble, though I don’t think he’ll even have to flex his muscles.

“I know just the man,” Morgan said. “Jack Fallon. He used to run with Bart Keegan and the Poplar boys, but they had a row.”

Vernon nodded approvingly. “That’s a good choice. I remember Fallon. He’s got brains, too.”

“Okay — now that’s settled let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the pitch?”

“Chatsworth Iron & Steel down by the river. Only five minutes from where we are now as a matter of fact. Nine thousand workers and the management are still daft enough to pay them in cash. It takes the staff two days to make the wages up, which means there’s never less than two hundred thousand, sometimes as much as two hundred and twenty in the vault Wednesday and Thursday, depending on earnings of course.”

“Isn’t there a night shift?”

“Only for the workers. The admin. side closes down at five-thirty on the dot. It’s housed in a brand-new ten-storey office block between the factory and the river and they’ve installed just about every kind of alarm known to man.”

“Bound to with loot like that lying around. How do we get in?”

“About a hundred yards from the factory there’s a side street called Brag Alley. I’ve marked it on the map I’m giving you. Lift the manhole at the far end and you’ll find yourself in a tunnel about three feet in diameter that carries the Electricity Board main cables. You’ll know when you’ve reached Chatsworth Steel because they’ve been obliging enough to paint it on the wall. There’s a single-course brick wall between you and the cellars of the office block. If it takes you longer than ten minutes to get through that I’ll eat my hat.”

“What about the alarm system?”

“I’m coming to that. When you get into the cellar you’ll find a battery of fuse boxes on the far wall and they’re all numbered. I’ve numbered the ones you’ll have to switch off in your instructions, but the most important thing to remember is to cut the green cable you’ll find running along the skirting board. It looks innocent enough, but it controls an alarm feeder system in case the others fail.”

“Are the vaults on the same level?”

“That’s right — at the far end of the corridor.”

“What about night guards?”

“They only have one.” Morgan raised his eyebrows incredulously and Vernon grinned. “I told you they’d installed every gadget known to man. The whole place is rigged for closed-circuit television, which is operated by one man from a control room off the main entrance hall. The moment you leave that cellar and walk down the passage you’ll be giving a command performance. All he does is lift the ’phone and the coppers are all over you before you know it.”

“Okay,” Morgan said. “The suspense is killing me. How do we sort that one out?”

“They run a three-shift system and our man takes over at eight. He always stops in at a little café near the main gates for sandwiches and a flask of coffee. On Wednesday night he’ll get more than he bargained for.”

“Something in his coffee?”

Vernon grinned. “Simple when you know how.”

Morgan looked dubious. “What if he hasn’t had a drink by the time we arrive. We’d be in dead lumber.”

“I’ve thought of that. You won’t break in till midnight. That gives him four hours. If he hasn’t had a drink by then, he never will.”

There was a long silence as Morgan sat staring into the distance, a slight frown on his face. After a while he sighed and shook his head.

“I’ve got to give it to you, Max. It’s good — it’s bloody good.”

“See you tomorrow night then,” Vernon said calmly and passed him the briefcase. “Everything you need is in there. Your train leaves at five o’clock. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

He watched Morgan disappear into the side street in the far corner of the square and nodded. So far, so good. The sun burst through the clouds, touching the fine spray of the fountain with colour and he smiled. There were times when life could really be very satisfying. He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and strolled away.

Duncan Craig watched him leave from the rear window of the old Commer van which was parked on the far side of the square. He, too, was smiling, but for a completely different reason. He turned and patted the chromium barrel of the directional microphone mounted on its tripod and started to dismantle it.