The Madeiran Double Cross

by Sally Spencer

  Pedro took the shotgun out of the bag. Its barrel gleamed in the sunlight, its stock felt firm in his hands. He pointed it at the nearest banana tree.

  “I am the B Team,” he announced. “Put your bloodys hands up.”

  “No shooting,” Frankie had said, “not unless it’s absolutely necessary – and then only over their heads.”

  But supposing there was no choice? Supposing the only way to escape was to shoot it out with the police? Frankie couldn’t be angry with him for that.

  In his imagination, he could picture people pointing at him back in London.

  “There goes Pedro Gomes. He killed two policemen in Madeira. You don’t tangle with that bastard.”

  It would be wonderful to be given the chance to gain such a reputation.

  As he placed the shotgun reverently back in the bag, he wondered once more how Mason had managed to procure the guns. He was a clever sod, Frankie.

  *

  “Arnold Hebden,” Gower said loudly, startling the pre-dinner drinkers at the other tables. “Arnie the bloody Actor.”

  His mind had not been on the white-haired man at all – he had been thinking of Frank Mason – but his subconscious, ticking away on its own, had come up with the name. Now what the bloody hell was Arnie the Actor doing on Madeira?

  It was always possible that he was on holiday, Gower supposed. Until the Government had enough guts to stop villains ever leaving the country, you would always get scum like Arnie frittering away their ill-gotten gains in the sunshine.

  But did people like Arnie ever really take a holiday? The world was full of mugs, especially in places like this, and Gower had never known a con man yet who could resist the opportunity if it was staring him in the face.

  He left his drink and strode up to the reception desk.

  The immaculately dressed young man on duty favoured him with a polite, helpful smile. Gower scowled back at him and was just reaching for his warrant card when he remembered where he was. His face creased into what he imagined was a good-natured grin.

  “I’ve just seen a man I might know,” he explained, “but I’m not sure, so I’m a bit embarrassed about approaching him.”

  Tact? he thought to himself. Bloody subtlety? They wouldn’t recognize me back in London.

  “Perhaps you could describe this man, senhor,” the clerk said.

  Gower did, with the precise, clinical accuracy that was a product of nearly forty years of police work.

  “Yes, that is Mr. Blake.”

  Gower clicked his fingers in mock triumph.

  “So it is old Blakey. I thought it must have been.” He feigned concern. “I hope I haven’t missed him. Not after all this time. He hasn’t checked out, has he?”

  Acting? Bleeding Oscar-winners weren’t in it.

  The clerk consulted his register.

  “No, senhor,” he said. “He will be here for another week. Shall I tell him you have been enquiring after him?”

  If Arnie wasn't running a con, he wouldn’t be using an alias.

  “No, don’t tell him,” Gower said. “I’d rather like to surprise him.”

  He went up to his room and called Inspector Silva.

  “Is the man dangerous?” Jose asked, sounding worried.

  For a second, the thought of Frank Mason flicked across Gower’s mind. Two London villains on Portuguese territory at the same time was the sort of coincidence that he instinctively distrusted. But Frank would never be stupid enough to pull a job on an island – where he would have no chance to make a getaway.

  “All criminals are dangerous,” he said, then conceded, “but Arnie is probably less dangerous than most. Still, if I were you, I’d have him picked up immediately. You can hold him for using a fake passport until you can invent something a bit more serious. Listen, Jose, if you need any help in interrogating him, I’m available. You might learn something about British police methods.”

  He realized that for the first time since the start of his holiday he was sounding enthusiastic – and that his clenched right fist was beating a slow tattoo on the palm of his left hand. Of the pain he had been experiencing earlier in the day, there was no sign.

  *

  The maitre d' at Jardim's Restaurant glanced with grave distaste at the party in the corner. As the evening had progressed, they had drunk more and more, and become louder and louder. People at the other tables had turned to look at them until the dark-haired woman – the one dressed almost like a prostitute with her plunging neckline and split skirt – had made some loud comment that sounded like ‘rubber-necks’. Now the other diners were self-consciously intent on their food and, if they had to move their heads, made a determined effort not to look at the corner table.

  It was the pretty fair-haired girl who the maitre d’ felt sorry for. She seemed to have no place amongst this group of rough people. Not only that, she looked lost, as if the others were playing a game and had not explained the rules to her.

  “Oh, come on, Linda,” the young man in the smooth suit said at the top of his voice, “you have to admit, you’re a bit like a second-hand dartboard.”

  The maitre d’ did not understand the statement, but its tone told him all he wanted to know. He would ask them to leave immediately. They had run up a large bill, but the reputation of the restaurant was more important than a few thousand escudos.

  Before he could make a move, the tart was on her feet, leaning across the table.

  “Say that again, Tony,” she shrieked. “Say that again.”

  The man laughed uneasily. “Well … I mean … you have had more pricks in you than …”

  He got no further. The woman's hand flew through the air, catching his face with a crack that echoed across the whole restaurant.

  Two wine bottles, knocked off the table, gurgled their contents on to the carpet, but apart from that there was total silence. Then the man came out of shock.

  “You bitch!” he shouted. “No woman does that to me!”

  He started to rise, tilting the table and causing plates and glasses to spill on to the floor. He was not quick enough – a tall dark man was already on his feet and forcing him back into his chair. Another couple took the tart by the arms and began to hustle her towards the door.

  “Come on, Linda,” the woman said. “Calm down. Let’s get you home.”

  “I’m all right now, Mrs. Snell,” the tart replied. She turned to the man. “Tell her I’m all right now, Harry.”

  “You’re all right,” the man said, reassuringly, “but I think we’d better get you home anyway. Don’t you agree?”

  The tart nodded, and allowed them to lead her away.

  The maitre d’ was almost at the table when the big dark man blocked his way. He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, and found himself being steered away from the disaster. It was a new experience to be shepherded through his own restaurant but there was something about the dark man …

  By the time he had abandoned the idea of trying to puzzle it out, they were already at the kitchen.

  The man took out his wallet and produced his Visa card. The maitre d’ looked at it dubiously and then, suddenly, the sense of superiority that came from being the captain of his ship – the lord of his castle – deserted him.

  This man frightened him, he acknowledged to himself. Let him pay with his card, let him not pay at all, just as long as he left the restaurant. He looked up, apprehensively, to see if his look had caused offence. But the other man didn’t appear to be offended at all.

  “You don’t want to take the card, right?” he asked. “Fair enough.” He put his hand in his pocket again and withdrew a plastic wallet of traveller’s checks and his passport. “You just tot up the bill and the damages. And listen, include a big tip for the waiters – they’re good lads.”

  “Yes …” the maitre d’ said uncertainly. “Yes, Mr. …” he glanced at the passport, “ … Mr. Mason.”

  TWELVE

  The car, a Renault 5, was parked just whe
re Frankie had said it would be. Crouching down on the blind side, Pedro slipped on his black jumper and over-trousers. He was starting to look like a bank robber – but it was the ski-mask that would make the real difference.

  When he’d studied himself in the mirror, the previous evening, he’d been amazed at how the mask had transformed him – how it had created a face that was not only no longer recognizably his, but was both evil and commanding. With the mask and the gun, he was a man to be feared.

  It was three minutes to nine as he drew level with the bank. The blind was down, the plastic notice still turned to ‘closed’. There was no sign of the other car.

  “If it’s not there,” Frankie had said, “just drive around the block.”

  There was little traffic and very few pedestrians. Pedro passed the grey-haired manager a hundred meters from the bank.

  “You got a bloodys shock coming,” he mouthed at the walking man. “Oh, yes.”

  By the time he had completed his circuit, the other car, a black Volkswagen Golf, was parked in front of the bank. Pedro pulled in behind it, being careful not to get too close.

  “We don’t want to get parked-in,” Frankie had said, “so leave a gap. Give Tony space to reverse.”

  He thought of everything, that Frankie.

  Pedro looked at his watch again. Thirty seconds to nine. By five past nine it would all be over – it had better be all over.

  “It’s likely we’ll be spotted when we enter the bank,” Frankie had said, “but that still gives us four minutes.”

  It hadn’t seemed an awfully long time to Pedro, who had seen how quickly cops reacted on TV.

  “The feller spots us, right?” Mason had explained. “His first thought is that he must be imagining the whole thing, because he’s just an ordinary bloke, and ordinary blokes don’t get caught up in bank robberies. Then he hesitates – what should he do? Call the police, of course. He’s got to get to the phone box and put the call through. There’s a delay while he’s connected with the right department, especially in Madeira, where there’s never been a bank robbery before. The cop on the other end can’t believe it either, and it takes a while to convince him it’s not a hoax. Add on his reaction time and traveling time, and we’ve got four minutes. But not a second more!”

  At nine o'clock precisely, the plastic sign was turned. Pedro did not move. He was waiting for the signal. The Golf’s brake lights flashed three times. That was it!

  Pedro reached for his ski-mask and pulled it over his head. He picked up his shotgun, opened the car door and ran towards the bank.

  A little way down the street he could see two men, frozen to the spot. He pointed his shotgun at them, and they dived for cover.

  The power, the power!

  Frankie, Tony-Boy and Harry Smell were in the bank, black menacing figures, their shooters covering the eight startled bank employees.

  "Maos pra arriba!" Pedro ordered, but the clerks, in the standard clichéd manner, already had their arms high in the air.

  Pedro walked up to the manager and laid his gun lightly against his chest. The man almost fainted with fear.

  “Take out the keys to the safe,” Pedro said in Portuguese. “I want you to move very slowly. If you press the alarm, or we even think you are going to press it, we will kill you.” He turned to the tall robber nearest the counter. “While I am with the manager, watch these bastards,” he instructed, carefully using the exact Portuguese words that the others had learned from the cassette. “If anyone tries to be clever, shoot him.”

  And Frankie nodded. Frankie Mason – one of the most famous gangsters in London – was obeying his orders.

  “Vá ali ao cofre!”

  The manager started to move slowly – jerkily – towards the metal box embedded in the wall.

  “Not that one,” Pedro snapped. “Don't try to piss me about. I am Big-Time P … Take me to the main safe before I blow your bloodys head off!”

  “It’s in the b-back room,” the man stuttered.

  “Then let’s go to it,” Pedro said.

  He turned to the stocky man holding a kitbag and rucksack. It was right that Harry Smell should have such a menial job. Harry wasn’t anything like as important to this operation as he, Pedro, was.

  “Siga-me,” he said.

  The stupid bastard just stood there, probably rigid with the fear that he had showed right from the start.

  “Siga-me,” Pedro said again – and this time, the other man followed.

  The safe, a grey metal one, was embedded in both the floor and the back wall. It was taller than Pedro and must have weighed several tons. It would have taken a crane to lift it out, but Pedro did not need a crane. He had a shotgun, and that was the most powerful thing in the world.

  He looked at his watch – 09:00:45.

  “Open it!” he ordered.

  The manager took the key, inserted it in the top lock and turned until it clicked, then extracted it and repeated the same process on the bottom one.

  “I have to dial the combination now,” he said nervously, pointing to the circular lock in the centre of the safe.

  He had to kneel down to do it.

  Pedro put the shotgun to his head. He could feel the vibrations as the man shook.

  “Do not be too long,” he said, “or I just might pull the trigger.”

  Maybe once the manager had opened the safe, he would pull the trigger anyway, he thought – just to show the bastard who was boss.

  The manager’s shaking hand turned the dial first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again. Finally he sighed and stood up. He grasped the handle of the door, pulled down and then outwards.

  Nothing happened.

  09:01:50

  “What’s the matter?” Pedro demanded.

  “I must have dialled incorrectly.”

  “Do it again, and don’t make a bloody mistake this time.”

  The manager knelt down again.

  “Please,” he said, “I can’t concentrate with that gun against my head. Couldn’t you take it away?”

  Who did this bastard think he was? Pedro felt his finger tighten on the trigger. And then Harry was standing by his side, a finger pointing down desperately at his watch to show the precious seconds ticking away.

  “All right,” Pedro said, and stepped backwards so that his gun was no longer in contact with the manager’s skull.

  The dial was turned again, the handle pulled, and this time the door swung open to reveal shelf upon shelf of lovely money.

  09:03:10

  Pedro pointed to the rucksack that Harry was holding open.

  “Fill it,” he said.

  The manager, his years of training over-riding all else, picked up some bundles of notes and laid them neatly in the corner of the sack. Pedro stuck the shotgun in his face and pressed so that the man’s nose tilted upwards.

  “You think we mind if it gets creased?” he snarled. “Mais rapido!”

  The terrorized manager began flinging money into the sack as fast as he could. When it was full to the top, Pedro pressed it down with his foot, and the manager added more.

  09:04:17

  “Now the other bag,” Pedro said.

  They should already be gone, but he could not bring himself to leave any of that beautiful money.

  Harry looked as if he was about to protest – but he couldn’t, not without revealing that he was not Portuguese but English. Not without blowing the plan.

  The bag was smaller, and took less time to fill. And still, there was money in the safe. While Harry put on the rucksack, Pedro took a few bundles and stuffed them down his trousers.

  09:05:11

  “Vamos,” Pedro said.

  The scene in the main office was exactly as he had left it – Frankie and Tony-Boy with their shooters, the clerks with their hands in the air.

  Pedro nodded to Frankie. Giving orders again!

  The two made their way to the door, stood with their backs against the jambs
, then burst out of the bank, twisting as they went, so that Pedro’s gun covered the north end of the street and Frankie’s the south.

  Word had got round. A few people were watching, but they had been wise enough to keep a safe distance.

  The two gunmen swung in a half-arc, checking the centre of the road and the other side of the street.

  Nothing.

  Pedro whistled and Harry came running out of the bank, closely followed by Tony. As Tony started the car, Harry loaded the bags into the boot.

  The policeman came out of a side street. He was fat, middle-aged, and was waddling rather than running, but the gun in his hand was real enough. He got within range and stopped, lifting his revolver to take aim. Pedro swung his shotgun in the direction of his middle, and let him have it with both barrels. Instantly, the man dropped to the ground.

  “Got you, bastard-pig,” Pedro said gleefully.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Frankie shouted.

  The voice was high-pitched and tight. It didn’t sound like him at all, and even in the heat of the moment, Pedro wondered what was wrong.

  And then he knew!

  Frankie Mason was scared – scared – while he, Pedro Gomes, was calm and in perfect control.

  A scrap lorry trundled past, its driver, white faced, gazing down at the scene. Pedro wished he’d had time to re-load,

  Frankie scrambled into the back of the car, Pedro into the front. Tony gunned the engine, and they shot off down the street. They were just about to overtake the lorry when the driver deliberately slued it across the street, blocking their path.

  The wall of steel and rubber was only meters away from them.

  Pedro could see individual scratches on the paintwork – could almost read the manufacturer's name on the tires. They were going to plough into it. They were all going to die. He closed his eyes.

  He felt a great wrench as Tony pulled frantically on the wheel, he heard the screech of the tires, he smelled burning rubber.

  He opened his eyes again. The lorry was to one side of them, but ahead was the plate-glass window of a cafe. Tony had his foot down hard on the brake, but nothing could stop them now. They bounced up the curb, and crashed through the window.