Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 12

It was raining hard when the van turned into Brag Alley and braked to a halt, the light from the headlamps picking out the faded lettering of the sign on the wooden doors that blocked the far end. Gower & Co — Monumental Masons.

“This is it,” Morgan said. “Right — let’s have you, Jack.”

Fallon, a large, heavily built Irishman, jumped out, a pair of two-foot cutters in his hands that sliced through the padlock that secured the gates like a knife through butter. The gates swung open and Harris, the wheelman, took the van into the yard and cut the engine.

Fallon was already levering up the manhole in the alley and Morgan and Martin unloaded the van quickly and joined him. He dropped into the tunnel and they passed down the heavy cylinders for the oxy-acetyline cutter and the other equipment and followed him.

Harris dropped to one knee and Morgan whispered “Replace the manhole, shut yourself into the yard and sit tight. An hour and a quarter at the most.”

The manhole clanged into place above his head as he dropped down to join the others. He switched on the powerful battery lantern he carried and its beam cut into the darkness. In spite of the thick cables, there was room to crawl and he moved off without a word, Fallon and Martin following, each dragging a canvas hold-all containing the equipment.

It was bitterly cold, the insulating jackets of the heavy cables damp with condensation, and at one point there was a sudden whispering like dead leaves rustling through a forest in the evening and a pair of eyes gleamed through the darkness.

“Jesus Christ, rats,” Jack Fallon said. “I can’t stand them.”

“At these prices you can afford to,” Morgan said and paused as his torch picked out the name Chatsworth Steel painted in white letters on the wall. “Here we are.”

“Not much room to swing,” Martin commented.

“Never mind that. Get the bloody gear out and let’s have a go.”

Martin was a small, undersized man with prematurely white hair, but his arms and shoulders were over-developed from a spell of working in the rock quarry at Dartmoor and he lay on his side and swung vigorously with a seven-pound hammer at the cold chisel which Fallon held in position.

When the wall gave, it was not one, but a dozen bricks which collapsed suddenly into the cellar on the other side. Martin grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light of the lamp.

“There’s present-day British workmanship for you. I don’t know what the country’s coming to.”

Morgan shone his lantern into the darkness on the other side and picked out the control panel at once. “Come on, let’s get in there,” he said. “We’re right on time. Let’s keep it that way.”

It was the work of a couple of minutes to enlarge the hole sufficiently to allow him to pass through and he left the others to manage the equipment and made straight for the control panel.

There were thirty-seven boxes on the board, each one numbered, and he had to pull the switch on nine of them. He had memorised the numbers, but checked them from the list Vernon had given him just to make sure.

“Everything okay?” Martin said at his shoulder.

“Couldn’t be sweeter.” Morgan dropped to one knee, located the green cable running along the edge of the skirting board and severed it neatly with a pair of pocket cutters. “That’s it unless Vernon’s made a mistake somewhere, which I doubt.”

When he opened the door, the outside corridor was brilliantly lit by neon light. “What in the hell is the idea of that?” Martin demanded.

“For the television cameras, you fool. They wouldn’t see much in the dark, would they?” Morgan led the way out into the corridor and grinned tightly. “Keep your fingers crossed. If that bloke upstairs is still awake, he’s seen us already.”

“I can’t see any cameras,” Martin said in bewilderment.

“No, but they can see you.” Morgan paused at the foot of the service stairs. “You stay here. Jack and I will go and take a look.”

He went up the stairs quickly. The door at the top had a Yale lock and therefore opened from the inside with no difficulty.

The hall was tiled in black and white and brilliantly illuminated, its great glass doors protected by a bronze security grill. Morgan knew exactly where he was making for. He crossed the hall quickly, found the third door on the right with Control Room painted on it in black letters and turned the handle gently.

The guard had obviously tumbled from the black leather swivel chair in front of the control panel and sprawled on his face. The thermos flask stood open on a small table at one side and Morgan poured a little into the empty cup and tested it.

“Cold — he’s been out for ages.”

“Would you look at this now?” Fallon said in wonder.

There were at least thirty separate screens on the control panel. Not only was every entrance to the building covered, but cameras had obviously been positioned at strategic sites in all the main corridors.

“There’s Johnny,” Fallon said, pointing.

They could see Martin clearly as he stood in the basement corridor, the two canvas hold-alls at his feet.

“Looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Morgan said and leaned forward. “There’s the entrance to the strongroom and that’s a picture of the vault door. Look, they’ve even got a shot of the interior. Would you credit it.”

“It’s fantastic,” Fallon said. “You can see everything from up here.”

Morgan nodded. “Come to think of it, it might be a good idea if you stayed up here, Jack. You’ve got every entrance to the building covered. If anyone did turn up, you’d know in a flash. Johnny and I can manage below.”

“And how will I know when to join you?” Fallon said.

“You’ll see on the screen, won’t you?”

Fallon grinned delightedly. “And so I will. Off you go then, Joe, and God bless the good work.”

Morgan went down the service stairs quickly and rejoined Martin. “Let’s get moving,” he said and picked up one of the canvas hold-alls.

The entrance to the strongroom was at the end of the passage, a steel door with a double padlock that took him exactly three minutes to pick.

He crossed the room quickly and examined the face of the vault door, testing the handles. Behind him, Martin had already got the first cylinder out of his hold-all. He screwed home one end of the flexible hose that connected it to the blow torch and ignited the flame.

Morgan pulled on a pair of protective goggles and held out his hand. “Okay, let’s get to work,” he said.

A few moments later he was cutting into the steel face of the vault, six inches to the right of the locking mechanism, with the precision of an expert.

For something like forty-five minutes, Jack Fallon had a seat at the show that couldn’t have been bettered if he’d been sitting in the front circle at his local cinema. He leaned back in the swivel chair, smoking one cigarette after the other, intent on the drama that was being enacted below.

He was at Morgan’s side when he finished cutting the hole and waited, biting his fingernails, while the explosive was gently poured inside the lock, sealed with a plastic compound and fused.

He heard no noise, but the visual effect of the explosion was dramatic enough. The door seemed to tremble, then a portion of it around the lock seemed to disintegrate before his eyes and smoke rose in a cloud.

He saw Morgan and Martin rush forward, heaving on the door together, swinging it open, and switched his gaze to the next screen in time to see them enter the interior of the vault itself.

He jumped to his feet, excitement racing through him, started to turn away and paused, a cold chill spreading through his body.

He was looking at another screen — the one that gave a view of the passageway linking the cellar by which they had entered the building with the strongroom. A man was moving along the passage cautiously, tall and dark in sweater and pants, gloves on his hands and a nylon stocking pulled over his face.

Fallon cursed savagely, turned and ran to the door, knocking over the chair in his haste.

Beyond the van a monumental cross reared into the night and here and there, marble tombstones gleamed palely. The mason’s yard was dark and lonely, a place of shadows that was too much like a cemetery for comfort and Frankie Harris huddled into the driver’s seat miserably, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat.

He was getting old, that was the trouble — too old for this sort of action by night. He seemed to have been waiting there for hours and yet it was no more than forty-five minutes since his three companions had entered the manhole.

His feet were so cold that he could no longer feel them and after a while he opened the door and stepped into the rain. He walked up and down for a minute or two, stamping his feet to restore the circulation, and then paused to light a cigarette, his hands cupped around the flaring match.

He gave a sudden, terrible start as the light picked a face out of the night — a dark, formless face lacking eyes and mouth that could belong to nothing human.

He staggered back in horror, the match dropping from his nerveless fingers, and his throat was seized in a grip of iron.

“Frank Harris?” The thing had a voice. “You’re just out of the Ville, aren’t you?”

The pressure was released and Harris nodded violently. “That’s right.”

“How long?”

“Ten days.”

“You bloody fool.” Suddenly he found himself being jerked round and propelled towards the gate. “Now start running,” the voice said harshly, “and don’t stop. Anything that happens to you after this, you deserve.”

Harris ran along the alley as he hadn’t run since he was a boy and when he reached the end, paused, leaning against the wall.

“Christ Jesus,” he sobbed. “Oh, Christ Jesus.”

After a while he pulled himself together, turned into the main road and started walking briskly in the direction of the Central Station.

Duncan Craig moved rapidly along the tunnel towards the patch of light that streamed in through the broken wall from the cellar. When he reached the opening he paused to examine his watch, wondering if he had timed things right and a sudden, muffled explosion reverberating throughout the basement told him that he had.

He dropped into the cellar and moved out into the passage, a strange and sinister figure in his dark clothing, a nylon stocking pulled down over his face.

A cloud of dust and smoke filtered out through the half open door of the strongroom at the far end of the passage and he moved towards it cautiously and peered inside.

The room was full of dust and smoke and beyond through the half open vault door, he was aware of a vague movement. He stepped back into the passageway and slammed the strongroom door shut, jerking down the handle, the locking bolts clanging into their sockets with a grim finality. Without the key he was unable to actually lock the door, but the important thing was that it would be impossible for it to be opened from the inside. He turned and moved back along the passage.

As he passed the entrance to the service stairs, Fallon jumped on him from five steps up, fourteen stone of bone and muscle driving Craig into the floor.

For the moment, he was winded and as he struggled for air, the Irishman’s massive forearm wrapped itself around his throat. As the pressure increased, Craig rammed the point of his right elbow back hard, catching Fallon in the stomach just under the rib cage. Fallon gasped and again Craig drove his elbow home with all his force. As the Irishman’s grip slackened, Craig twisted round and slammed him backwards with the heel of his hand.

Fallon rolled against the wall, the instinct derived from a hundred street fights bringing him to his feet in a reflex action, but Craig was already up and waiting for him. As Fallon moved in, Craig’s right foot flicked out in a perfectly executed karate front kick that caught the Irishman in the stomach. He started to keel over, and Craig’s knee lifted into his face like a battering ram, sending him into darkness.

Ruth Miller waved the last of her guests goodbye and closed the door. She looked at her watch and smothered a yawn. One o’clock. A good party and the clearing up could wait till morning. She started across the hall and the ’phone rang.

Nick Miller and his brother were having a final drink in front of the fire when she looked in. “It’s for you, Nick. He wouldn’t say who he was. I do hope you don’t have to go out.”

“On a night like this? Not on your life.” He went out into the hall and picked up the ’phone.

“That you, Miller?”

“Yes, who is it?”

“Never mind that. Chatsworth Iron & Steel — they usually keep a couple of hundred thousand in their vault on a Wednesday night, don’t they? You’d better get down there quick. They almost lost it.” There was a hoarse chuckle. “Poor old Maxie. Talk about the best-laid schemes…”

But Miller had already cut him off and was dialling the best-known telephone number in England furiously.

The main C.I.D. office was a hive of industry when Grant entered at two a.m. and Miller got up from his desk and went to meet him.

“Well, this is a turn up for the book and no mistake,” Grant said.

“You’ve had a look at Chatsworth’s, sir?”

“Never seen anything like it. Any chance of a cup of tea?”

Miller nodded to a young D.C. who disappeared at once and they went into Grant’s office.

“What about the guard?”

“I’ve just had a ’phone call from the man I sent with him to the Infirmary. Apparently his coffee was laced with enough chloral hydrate to put him asleep for twelve hours so he still hasn’t come round.”

“Who have we got in the bag?”

“Joe Morgan for one.”

“Have we, by George?” Grant’s eyebrows went up. “We certainly don’t need a scratch sheet on him. One of the best petermen in the game. Was Johnny Martin with him?”

Miller nodded. “That’s right.”

“I thought so — they usually work together. Who else?”

“We found a nasty-looking piece of work lying in the basement passageway. He’d taken quite a beating.”

“Is he okay now?”

“Alive and kicking, but making things awkward for us. Jack Brady’s running his fingerprints through C.R.O. now. We found their transport, by the way, parked in a monumental mason’s yard in Brag Alley at the other end of the tunnel which they used to gain access. No sign of a wheelman.”

“Maybe they didn’t use one.”

“Could be — I’ve put out a general call anyway, just in case.”

The tea arrived and Grant drank some gratefully, warming his hands around the cup. “Fantastic, Nick — that’s the only word for it. This thing was planned to the last inch, you realise that don’t you? They’d have been in London by morning. God knows where after that.”

“Except for an elusive someone who shut the strongroom door on Morgan and Martin and left this other bloke lying unconscious in the passageway.”

“Your informer, presumably. And he mentioned Vernon?”

“As far as I’m concerned he did. Vernon’s the only Maxie I know and planning a job like this would be right up his street.”

Grant emptied his cup and sighed. “I suppose you think it’s Craig?”

“I can’t see who else it could be.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Do I pull him in for questioning?”

“On what charge?” Grant spread his hands. “We’d have to think up a brand-new one just for him.”

“What about accessary before the fact? He knew the caper was coming off — he should have passed on the information to us.”

“I can’t imagine a judge giving him more than a stern wigging for that. Anyway, how could Craig have obtained such detailed information?”

“Simple,” Miller said. “He’s an electronics expert. Directional microphones, transistor transmitters the size of matchboxes, fountain pen receivers. You name it, he’s got it.”

“Nothing illegal in that considering the nature of his business.” Grant shook his head. “Proof, Nick — real proof. That’s what you need. You haven’t got it and you never will have unless I miss my guess.”

“All right,” Miller said. “You win. What about Vernon? Do we bring him in?”

Grant hesitated. “No, let him stew for a while. He’s always covered his tracks perfectly in the past so there’s no reason to think things will be any easier for us this time. If we’re going to get him, it must be through Morgan and his boys. Put two men on watch at his club and leave it at that for the moment.”

Brady knocked on the door and entered, a sheaf of teletype flimsies in his hand. “I thought I’d get the facts on all of them while I was at it. Our awkward friend is a bloke called Jack Fallon — a real tearaway. He’s even done time for manslaughter.”

“He certainly met his match this time,” Grant said.

Miller was reading the reports quickly and he suddenly frowned. “Cable Diamonds — that has a familiar sound.”

“It should have,” Brady said. “It was mentioned in that confidential file on Vernon that we got from C.R.O. in London. Another of the jobs he was supposed to be behind.”

Miller grinned. “You’re going to love this, sir,” he said to Grant and passed one of the flimsies across. “Joe Morgan was nicked for that job after getting clean away. He did five years, but the diamonds were never recovered.”

“He doesn’t seem to be having much luck with Max Vernon, does he?” Brady said.

Grant nodded and got to his feet. “Let’s go and remind him of that fact, shall we?”