Graveyard to hell, p.28
Graveyard to Hell, page 28
‘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.
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-acetylene 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 memorized 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.
