Revenge of Moriarty

by John Gardner

  His object was to drill four sets of seven holes, each set forming a right angle, making the corners of a square in front of the bolted area, each set some three feet apart. Thus, if one joined up the angles, each of the sides would be roughly three feet in length. He had drilled two holes, close together, when they heard the double yap of a dog. Evans’ first signal. Next time it would be a low whistle, then a night bird screech and so back to the dog.

  Franz quietly closed the door, leaning heavily against it. Ember froze, pulling the auger away from the wood. Peter and Claus squatted, silent, covering the lantern. Outside, they knew Evans would have retreated into the yard to crouch behind the rubble.

  They had deduced that five minutes would see them clear each time the copper passed: unless he decided to have a look around the yard, which he did about once each night. He did not come in this time around. Gently they relaxed and went back to work.

  The wooden planks above were easy, the bit cutting through like a needle into a candle, roughening a shade when it got to the linoleum floor covering above. After three stops to let the beatman pass, Ember had completed the four sets of holes.

  On the fourth stop, the copper came into the yard. They could hear his feet heavy on the cobbles as he marched up the lane. Then the flash of his bullseye lantern across the grimed cellar window. He tried the rear door and paused at the top of the area steps – Ember’s heart thudding like a navvy’s hammer. But he did not come down, and they soon began to breathe easy again as the footsteps receded.

  ‘Evans is on his way back now,’ hissed Franz, and Ember bent over the brief bag for his largest chisel to hack away the wood between the holes so that he finally had four small right-angled slits.

  He then chose the best saw blade, screwed the butterfly nuts tight and handed it to the portly Claus. It was now up to the pair of Germans to do the heavy work of sawing through the wood, separating the angles, and so producing a square access hole into the workshop above.

  It took an hour, with the pauses in work to let the beatman pass. Even so they only cut away three sides – Peter and Claus heaving on the planks and breaking them away from the fourth side so that they came down with a splintering crash fit to wake the dead. The noise was so great in the close confines of the cellar that Ember motioned them to stand still and listen, half expecting to hear the thud of the policeman’s feet running back fast towards the shop.

  With the tearing away of the boards, the brilliant gaslight from the shop above shafted down, completely illuminating the cellar. For the first time, Ember realized they would have to find some way of jamming the board back in place before leaving. If the beatman returned to the yard between now and their visit on the morrow, he would be immediately alerted by this unusual source of light from the cellar window.

  ‘I’m going up for a peep,’ Ember whispered, gesturing to Peter and Claus to give him a leg up through the hole.

  They had worked it just right. The hole was directly in front of the metal bedding upon which the safe stood, gleaming in the middle of the workshop floor. One look told Ember that, in spite of its spruce appearance due to the coat of white paint, the safe was all of forty years old. He moved around, crouched by the hinge side of the door, and smiled. There was plenty of room to insert wedges between door and safe.

  He straightened up and pulled out the hunter. It showed a quarter to four. They had plenty of time, and would be back in Edmonton before five, even with the chore of putting the floorboards back in place.

  Ember looked around the workshop, neat and tidy with a long workbench against one wall; stools for the craftsmen and their tools set in wooden racks above the bench: four sets. In the outer part of the shop, the glass cases stood empty and gleaming in the light and, for a second, Ember wondered if he should go over to one of the slits in the window shutters and signal to Spear, who would undoubtedly be watching from the shop across the road.

  His examination had taken longer than he imagined, for suddenly there was Franz’s urgent whisper from below. The beatman was on his way round once more.

  ‘Stow the chant,’ he hissed back, retreating from the safe, well out of line of view from the observation slits. He was breathing heavily and leaning against the workbench, conscious of the hollow tread of the copper’s boots on the pavement outside, so close, mingled with the occasional night street noises.

  Turning his head slightly, Ember glimpsed something white near his hand on the workbench. Directly in front of one of the stools, weighted down with a small piece of metal, was a paper. A florid flowing copperplate hand-writing below the letterhead of John Freeland & Son. The date neat at the top: Friday, 20 November 1896. Then, below –

  Axton. Further to our conversation this evening, I find that I may be a trifle late getting in to open the safe in the morning. This is unavoidable, though irritating in view of the urgency of the work. You will, perhaps, use the time in order to assure the lads that they will be well recompensed for coming in to complete the work for Lady S and her Grace. The firm’s reputation rests upon it. Yours etc. John Freeland.

  A few seconds passed before Ember took in the full meaning of the note. He was conscious of the policeman’s footsteps outside the windows of the outer shop, but his head was whirling with the ramifications. The workmen would be coming in within a few hours. Perhaps at half-past seven or eight o’clock. If they were to succeed with the robbery, the safe would have to be cracked now. Tonight. Crowding in upon this and linked with the ominous tread of the beat copper, was the knowledge that it would be impossible to crack the safe while the blue boy was on his rounds. Too much noise and no way of disguising the shattered door. That was part of the plan which he had so carefully kept from Schleifstein. The whole thing turned on the beatman being substituted by one of Terremant’s punishers.

  Even if they did manage it by some miracle, the inner core of Moriarty’s intrigue would go for nothing: the black maria, the punishers disguised as coppers descending on them as they left, the raid on Schleifstein’s house in Edmonton and the final dénouement, making it plain to Schleifstein that the Professor still ruled. All that would be lost. Worse, the Professor would blame him. He might even imagine that Ember had cross-bitten him and there would be only one conclusion to that.

  The policeman’s footsteps were dying away up the street and Ember knew that he now had to make the most important decision of his criminal life.

  The lad, Saxby, got to Edmonton just after two o’clock and found Ben Tuffnell in his usual place, curled up in a doorway opposite Schleifstein’s house. He was asleep with one eye open and looked startled when the boy shook him.

  ‘They’re not to go.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘The Nob had an accident. Got run over by a cab. But they’re not to go.’

  ‘They’ve bloody gone, young Saxby. A good hour ago they’ve gone.’

  ‘What’s to do then?’

  ‘Did you see the Nob?’

  ‘I saw him. Terrible mess. Got his arm bashed up.’

  ‘What did he say? His actual words.’

  Ben Tuffnell had hold of the boy by the coat and his eyes had a wild look.

  ‘He said they mustn’t go in tonight as the shop’s being opened up tomorrow.’

  ‘Gawd help us,’ breathed Tuffnell. ‘I don’t know what to do, lad. Straight. I don’t know.’

  Spear would rather have been in bed with his Bridget instead of spending the night in the shop across the way from Freeland & Son in the Cornhill. Now, in the early hours, he found himself yearning for the warmth of his wife next to him, even though she had begun to fill out: the fruit of their coupling growing within her.

  He granted that it was necessary to keep watch tonight, but tomorrow would see the real business. Looking around in the gloom, Spear had the feeling that Terremant and the punisher called Betteridge were as fatigued as himself.

  All appeared to have run as smooth as silk. Earlier they had seen the cab turn into Bishopsgate, and s
ince then nothing had intruded upon the routine of the night. The policeman marched the course of his beat, the traffic of the small hours remained light and normal, with the odd closed van and several stray hansoms still out plying until dawn.

  Just after two, the rain had given up, and at half-past the hour two young revelling gents, with a pair of likely girls, had proceeded merrily down the Cornmarket, their laughter echoing and dying away, evidence of youth having its fling even in the sober confines of the sacred square mile of the City of London.

  A little before half-past four, the empty cab had come up slowly from the direction of the Royal Exchange and turned quietly into Bishopsgate. Though he could not see it from this watching point, Spear was certain that it would be slowing down and stopping near the lane which led to the back of Free-land’s premises, where it would pick up Ember. It would then gather speed and clatter on to collect the two members of the gang who would by now have walked up to Houndsditch.

  As he thought of it, something bothered him.

  ‘We haven’t had sight of the two that were to walk to the Minories,’ he whispered to Terremant.

  ‘Doubtless they’ve cut through the other way,’ the big punisher replied.

  Spear thought about it for a moment and realized that this was the only plausible explanation. Yet he did not feel happy about it, for it would mean that four men would, even for a short time, be heading in the same direction up Bishopsgate.

  The constable appeared again, solemn and stately, no doubt thinking of his breakfast still an hour and a half away, yet going through the same motions he had performed since midnight: the guardian of law and order in the dog watch of an uneventful night.

  ‘Time to sneak off, then,’ Spear turned to the other men who were already gathering their possessions together, ready for departure.

  Then Spears head cocked at the sound of hooves and wheels. A cab coming up from Cheapside, reining in and drawing to a halt, as though depositing a passenger before pulling away again. As it passed, Spear had the feeling it was the same cab that Ember was using. Fragments of unease began to prick at his mind. The cab turned into Bishopsgate and, as it did so, a small figure flitted across the shop window. Spear knew the dark shadow and the manner of walking. Ember. A moment later a rapid low tapping at the shop door confirmed his observations.

  ‘Something’s up,’ he called to Terremant who was already springing to the bolts.

  Ember heard the policeman’s footsteps fading down the street, leaving only the sound of one of the gas mantles popping away, burning through, in the main shop. He looked across at the safe, wondering how long it would take him to jack the door off; pulling out his watch as though to reassure himself of the time. Ten minutes to four. There was a little less than half an hour before they planned to disperse two to Houndsditch; five minutes later two to the Minories, leaving Ember alone, vulnerable with his brief bag of tools, waiting for the cab.

  Ember made up his mind in double quick time, going down on his knees and calling through the hole to the cellar, for Franz to get up on the packing case.

  ‘There’s got to be a change in plan,’ he said, softly, so that the others would not hear. ‘This damned place is to be open tomorrow, so I’ll have to do the safe now.’

  Franz muttered some oath in German, then, angrily, ‘It won’t do. The Boss will not be able to get rid of the glass till Sunday.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to hang on to it. Pass my bag up and then warn Evans that we’re not pulling out as agreed. I want you to watch the clock. I’ll go out at half four, ride round the houses in the cab and give him instructions. You’re to stay here.’

  ‘Evans can give the instructions.’ Franz was alert, suspicious even.

  ‘I’m not letting him near the cab. It’s my life …’

  ‘He’s been a good crow.’

  ‘Being a crow is one thing. Working a plan is another matter. I’ll be held responsible not him. Sling the tools up here and let me get on. I’ll be away at half four and back within ten minutes, but I’m going to open this tin before dawn so let’s move.’

  Franz did not look happy, nevertheless he shrugged and handed up the heavy bag. Ember stationed himself near the hinge side of the safe door, took out a thin flat jemmy together with the jack-in-the-box, and set to work. Inserting the jemmy in the crack between the door and the casing of the safe, he began to work it gently, removing all traces of paint, dust and grime just below the top hinge, opening the aperture to its widest natural extent. He then performed a similar operation below the bottom hinge. By the time this was finished, the constable was going round once more, and Ember had to slide out of sight, close to the wall, dragging the tools with him.

  Once the all clear was given, he left the brief bag where it was, advancing on the safe again, armed only with a spanner cum lever key and the jack-in-the-box. The instrument was heavy, made in beautifully turned brass, the underside being circular, like an elongated drum, through which ran a strong screw, pointed at one end and cut square at the other to fit the spanner. This was normally used rather like a drill, the pointed end being inserted into a lock and then screwed home from the other end with the spanner, so that the lock was cracked open and the innards gouged out. An unsubtle though sure method of lock breaking.

  However, it was the upper part of the tool which concerned Ember. This was a simple vice, but with jaws which ran upwards in two lips. When closed it was as though a pair of abnormally wide chisels were pressed together. This vice was worked by a solid screw on the side of the instrument, the end of the screw being a brass ball through which a hole just fitted the lever key end of the spanner.

  Ember inserted the lips of the jack into the crack below the top hinge, sliding the lever key in place. Slowly he began to turn the key until the two lips started to press outwards on either side of the crack. Pulling heavily on the key, immense pressure was brought to bear on the door and main casing of the safe, literally jacking the two sections apart.*

  Ember heaved, rested, and heaved again, putting all his force behind each pull on the lever key, then stopping to regather his breath and strength. On the sixth attempt he felt the door give slightly at the hinge. Then came the signal to stop work again. He quickly unwound the jack shut and retired to his corner until the copper once more moved out of range.

  Time was pressing and he needed the policeman out of the way. He also had to make sure of the cabbie. Leaving the jack by the brief bag near the wall, Ember slid over to the hole and let himself gently down into the cellar. The time was now twenty minutes past four.

  ‘When I get back I shall need some brute force up there,’ he said, panting, to Franz. ‘Have you warned Evans?’

  ‘It’s all done; but, Ember, if you are pulling the cross, I’ll see you in hell myself,’ he threatened, his clipped accent flat and without any theatrical menace.

  ‘Why should I cross you? We’re all in this together with good shares when we bleed the boodle.’*

  ‘See you don’t cross me, Ember.’

  Franz might prove difficult yet, and it flashed through Ember’s mind that if the Professor was satisfied with the results of this night’s work – if he did bring Schleifstein to heel – Franz would not be one to have at his back in the future.

  He crept out of the cellar door, up the steps and across the yard, down to the end of the lane.

  ‘No sign of the copper or the cab,’ muttered Evans. ‘What’s the word?’

  ‘You go back to the cellar and wait for me. I’ll not be gone long. Just stay quiet.’

  Evans was off, a silent shadow clinging to the wall. Ember positioned himself at the end of the lane, watching for the constable while his ears were pricked for the cab. It came, from the direction of Cornhill, some two minutes later, and, as it drew abreast of the lane, Ember sprang forward, grabbing for the door handle and calling up to the cabbie, ‘Take me round to Old Broad Street and pull up – out of the way of any of the blue-bellies.’

  The
cabbie whipped up his pair, passing the turn to Thread-needle Street, on up to the next left turn which took them across to Old Broad Street which ran parallel to Bishopsgate.

  They pulled up just before the Excise Office, on the left hand side. Not a soul in sight, only shadows thrown by the gas standards onto the still wet streets. Above them the night had become pitch; the last hours before dawn.

  ‘Can you give yourself a story for tonight?’ asked Ember of the driver. ‘There’s been an alteration. I want you to leave the cab as though it was tomorrow.’

  ‘In Helen’s Place?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Saint Helen’s Place had been fixed as the rendezvous for the following night, being on the opposite side of Bishopsgate and a fair way up from the robbery site. It was also a spot unlikely to cause suspicion.

  The cabbie sucked at his teeth. ‘If the price is right.’

  ‘Another twenty guineas,’ Ember blurted.

  ‘That’ll see me fair. When?’

  ‘With the rest, as arranged. You know me.’

  The driver nodded. ‘I put it there now?’

  ‘You take me up Cornhill and drop me on the right hand side. I’ll show you where. Then you take her up to Helen’s as fast as you can.’

  ‘Jump up then guv’nor.’

  Four minutes later Ember was tapping on the shop door opposite Freeland & Son.

  ‘Best get hold of Blind Fred,’ grunted Ben Tuffnell to young Saxby after much shaking of his head.

  ‘Where?’ asked the lad. He was feeling cold and not a little tired. He was also hungry. Too much liquor and not enough solids while waiting in the Chapel for the Nob.

  ‘This time in the morning he’ll be up near the Angel. I’d go myself, but …’ Tuffnell left the rest unsaid. It was not an excuse. His duty was to stay on watch at the German’s house.

  Saxby took an hour to find Blind Fred who was playing penny Nap in a sluicery which was no more than a cellar. The lad drew him to one side and whispered the urgency into his grubby, waxy ear. Fred looked uneasy once the message got fully home.