by John Creasey
When the first man had been gone for forty minutes – by then, Gideon had seen Ledbetter – one of the others went to look for him, leaving only the night manager behind the grille.
The second man didn’t come back either.
The night manager, a youthful forty-one, knew his staff well and was quite sure that they were reliable. He was going to find out what was keeping them| when two customers came in. Both were men, both wanted to deposit jewels. They were regular customers, the night manager could not offend them, and he took them downstairs to the first vault, one at a time.
In all, that job took him twelve minutes.
He locked the reception desk door on the two customers, and hurried to the narrow stone steps which led to the lower vault.
Halfway down, he stopped.
Ought he to telephone the police, and make sure that if anything were wrong—
It was too late.
A man appeared at the foot of the steps, holding an automatic pistol. The night manager felt as if death had suddenly knocked loudly at his door. The man with the gun was masked, tall, lean, leathery looking. The gun was very steady. He started up the stairs, and the manager backed a step, but didn’t move far. He was in between two alarm bells that would call the police, and his only hope of getting to one was to turn and rush up the steps.
The eyes of Fitzroy, the man with the gun, discouraged notions of heroism.
“Take it easy,” Fitzroy said. “You won’t get hurt if you do what you’re told, but if you try any tricks, you’ll get hurt badly. And you might not recover.”
The manager licked his lips.
Fitzroy was within two yards of him.
If he jumped—
He jumped.
As he moved, he had an awful sense of failure, of doom. He saw the gunman draw to one side, saw a long leg shoot out. He could not avoid it, and fell headlong down the stairs.
Another masked man appeared at the foot of them, and picked him up. Dazed and bruised, he could only think of the gun.
Fitzroy spoke brightly: “Just do what you’re told, and you won’t get hurt Let’s have your keys, for a start.”
“No. No, I—”
The second man struck the manager sharply across the face and spun him round. The keys were fastened to a thick leather belt running round his waist. The second man used a pair of wire cutters to cut the belt, then pushed the manager toward the lower vault. The manager was too frightened to think clearly, but a thought flashed into his mind. These men seemed to know their way about.
Entrance must have been forced from below. That wasn’t possible, it—
He pushed into the large bottom vault, where big, solid safes and rows of metal boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. On the floor, lying on their backs, were the two clerks. In one wall was a hole nearly two feet square, and by it was a heap of dirt and debris, chippings of cement, everything to show how the “impossible” had been achieved.
Then a man thrust a cloth over the manager’s head, tied it at the back, seized his hands and bound them, and then laid him down.
He did not know what was happening; all he knew was that he was alive. Fitzroy looked at him, and grinned, then turned to the two men with him, pulling off his mask.
“I’m going up to the office, to look after the customers.” He chuckled again. “They won’t know how safe their baubles are!” He went off, moving easily and outwardly confident, and he whistled softly as he took the place of the manager.
The odds had been nicely calculated.
Fitzroy knew that the fourth member of the night staff was away. He knew that the hour for late deposits was almost past, and that even if there were more, they would only be for the upper floor. He could lock himself in with the depositor, see the goods put in the box, and wish the man good night. His two assistants were expert safebreakers, and if they managed to open only two of the safes and two or three dozen of the metal boxes, the haul would be sensational. So he whistled as he sat at the desk, and made a show of working when he heard footsteps.
A young man came down, and stopped short at sight of him.
“Evening, sir,” said Fitzroy, getting up.
“Good evening. Isn’t Mr. Ilott here?”
“Downstairs at the moment,” said Fitzroy glibly, “but I can send for him if you really want him.”
“Well—”
“Or I can help you, sir.” Fitzroy looked so brisk and friendly, smiled so amiably, and spoke with such conviction that the depositor gave way. He had his own key. Fitzroy let him into the upper deposit vault, escorted him to his box, and watched him deposit a diamond ring and two diamond drop earrings.
“I always feel safer when they’re locked away,” said the depositor.
“I bet you do,” said Fitzroy warmly. “I would if they were mine, too. I’ll tell Mr. Ilott that you’ve been, sir.”
“Thanks,” the depositor said, and left with a hearty “Good night.”
Fitzroy went back to his desk, and whistled under his breath until the man’s footsteps had faded; then he lit a cigarette, and took out a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle. Now and again he perked his head up, and listened; he had heard imagined sound from the street.
Down below, the others were working quickly and with great skill.
Two safes were open, and cash, diamonds, jewels of all kinds and a little bullion were loaded into canvas mail-van sacks. One man was working at a third safe, the other was beginning on the steel boxes. He had a tool which pierced them at the edges, and working rather like wire cutters or tin openers, tore a big hole. He made some noise, but it did not travel even up the narrow stone steps to Fitzroy.
He opened box after box.
The other man forced the door of his third safe and, hardly troubling to examine the jewellery in it, dropped it into another sack.
The first man had emptied twenty-one boxes.
“About all we can manage,” he said, looking round the vault regretfully. “I hope we haven’t missed any juicy ones. They could tell us!” He grinned across at the three prisoners, but didn’t go toward them.
He went up to the main floor, and, without showing himself in the office, whispered: “You there, Fitz?”
Fitz called immediately: “Yes.”
“We’re going.”
“Nice haul?”
“Plenty.” There was an echo of satisfaction in the man’s voice; an echo of excitement, too. Fitzroy got up and went to the head of the stairs. Leaving the reception desk untenanted for a moment. He was pulling at a cigarette, and excitement showed in the brightness of his eyes; the other man showed his with a slight quiver of the lips and the hands. “Wouldn’t like to guess how much, but not less than a couple of hundred thousand.
“Nice work! Off you go.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Ten minutes,” said Fitzroy, “and then I’ll lock the front doors, and any customers will be annoyed!” The shrillness of his laugh was another betrayal of his taut nerves.
He went back to the reception desk. He didn’t hear a car stop outside, but for some reason went suddenly tense.
Below, his companions were taking the loot out through the hole they had made.
A man and woman came hurrying down the steps, the man in evening dress, the woman wearing a long dress and a mink wrap. The man produced his key and his card, and said briskly: “Don’t want to rush you, but I’m in a hurry.”
“All right,” said Fitzroy. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
There was no reason at all why they should suspect that anything was wrong; no reason for them to believe that anything was. They looked natural, happy. The woman was little more than a girl, and she had a glow in her eyes which suggested that she was not used to hanging onto this particular arm.
Number 413 – close to the head of the stairs leading to the lower vault.
Fitzroy, all right until then, became slow-moving, in spite of the impatience of the man; he was drawin
g attention to himself by his slowness.
He unlocked the door. He knew that it was a matter of custom for the depositor to come in alone, but the girl was like a limpet. A brunette, rather nice, low-bosomed dress, everything. Fitzroy looked at her, and swallowed hard. This was where he could easily make a fool of himself.
He forced a smile.
“Depositor only, please.”
“Won’t be a jiff, dear,” said the young man, and prized himself free.
Fitzroy’s fists, clenched until then, unclenched as he closed and locked the door. It seemed a very long way to Number 413, and it seemed as if the man had eyes that could see through the brick walls. Fitzroy’s body was aquiver; it was a good thing that the depositor had to unlock his own box.
He did so, took out a string of pearls, left everything else in, locked the box again, and was back at the grille ahead of Fitzroy. Fitzroy breathed rather hissingly. It was over, and he’d kept his head.
After that it was easy.
He did not give a thought to the three prisoners.
It did not occur to him that trouble might lie ahead.
18. The Tunnel
Gideon heard the voice of the City Superintendent, warm and friendly, broad in its Scots accent. Gideon was not thinking deeply about this call yet, for he was still preoccupied, although beginning to warn himself that he must go home and get some rest. Only the countless loose ends which came at the end of every day were left undone.
“Hallo, Alec,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“George, man, I’m puzzled a wee bit,” the Superintendent said. “You know the Mid-Union place? They keep half the valuables of London there, which is a slight exaggeration but you know what I mean.”
“I ken,” said Gideon, straight-faced.
“Stop your joking, man. One of the regular customers went there a while ago and said that he didn’t recognize the official at the reception desk. The official seemed to know his way about all right, but he didn’t have anyone with him. And that’s a curious thing, George. Under the regulations there are always two men on duty at the desk. I’ve never known it any different. So I told my man to keep a sharp lookout, and just this minute he’s telephoned to say that the doors are locked. Now that’s not done any night in the year; the Mid-Union is always open. So I’m putting a cordon round the place. I thought you’d like to know.”
Gideon said very slowly: “Thanks, Alec, that’s good of you.” He was thinking more deeply now worriedly. The City man had probably exaggerated, but the valuables in that safe deposit were worth a fabulous sum. The City police did not want to handle it on their own, and hadn’t lost any time asking for help. “All right, I’ll put word round and have some support sent along.” Gideon went on: “Are you going there yourself?”
“Aye, I think so.”
“I’ll see you there,” promised Gideon.
He still did not, could not, understand how important the job was; but it might be very big indeed. The drive to Wattle Street in the night air would wake him up a bit. If this fizzled out, he could go straight home.
“Lem, hand everything over to Cartwright, will you?” he said. “And then go home. Better forget Estelle; she’ll have to keep till morning. Take a chance on getting kicked out of bed.”
Lemaitre grimaced, and moved to his telephone.
Gideon went out.
He was in a curiously unsatisfied mood. He could not really complain about the day, and the capture of Sayer had been of first importance. A lot had gone right, too. At heart, he knew that two things had gone very deep: the discovery of Foster’s duplicity, and his death; and the face of Mrs. Saparelli. These made the finding of Estelle more urgent, but it would all take time. There were the drugs at Mazzioni’s too – the Italian didn’t know they’d been found. He’d probably make a slip—
Gideon telephoned orders to the Flying Squad CO. to have all available squad cars concentrated on the City area, and then hurried out. Few policemen were about. A squad car was waiting ready for an emergency call, with two men sitting in front. His own car shone darkly under a lamp immediately above it.
Big Ben boomed eleven.
Gideon got into the Wolseley, slammed the door, and then, for some reason, remembered Kate. There was an added cause for his discontent. He could picture her running down the stairs to him, almost eagerly. Eagerly. He could picture her bright eyes and attractive face as she had sat next to him on the way to Oxford Street, and the jaunty grace of her walk as she had left him. She hadn’t looked back. She’d obviously been pleased that he had taken the trouble to drop in, and to give her the lift. It would have been all right had he been able to go home early, but here it was eleven o’clock, and even if this turned out to be a false alarm, it would be midnight before he was home.
He didn’t hurry.
Two squad cars passed him, on their way to the City.
Fitzroy finished locking the door at the top of the narrow steps, and, still whistling, hurried down them to the brightly lit reception desk. The street door was closed, and they were safe. He opened a drawer, and found some loose change and a few one-pound and ten-shilling notes. He stuffed these into his pocket, saluted the drawer, and then looked round quickly, making sure that he hadn’t left anything behind. The stubs of three cigarettes were in an ashtray; he emptied this into a piece of paper, screwed it up, and thrust it into his pocket.
Whistling, he went down the next flight of steps to the main deposit room. The three prisoners lay stretched out, and one of them was wriggling.
“You’ll soon feel better, chum, don’t worry,” Fitzroy said, and then hurried toward the lower vault and the hole in the wall.
He saw one of the others, coming back into the vault, out of the hole. The man was treading on bits of cement and dirt.
When he saw this, Fitzroy stood stock-still and open-mouthed. No shock could have been greater. He had pictured his accomplices already driving through London to the safety of obscurity. It was like seeing the ghost of a living man. But this was no ghost; it was a youth in the early twenties, looking badly scared.
“What the hell’s this?” Fitzroy demanded, in a squeaky voice.
“We—we can’t get out,” the man said, as thinly.
Fitzroy just would not believe it.
“Don’t talk a lot of bull! We can—”
“Police are—are in Hay Court,” the man announced.
Fitzroy didn’t speak.
The light was good, and he had not put on his mask again. He had pleasant features, an open face, and smiling blue eyes; only they were not smiling now. A new light came into them, cold and ugly.
“We’ve got to get out,” he said. “Where’s Jem?”
“Keeping watch.”
“Come on,” said Fitzroy.
He had to bend almost double, to get through the hole. He took a torch out of his pocket, and it showed the gap they had made in days of patient labour. Now they made grating noises as they moved along, and once or twice Fitzroy bumped his head painfully on the uneven roof; but he didn’t stop. Soon bright light glowed.
He reached the cellar of the building next door, one used for storing old files and documents. The night watchman of the building was in his, Fitzroy’s, pay; he did not know what they were doing in the cellar, just turned a blind eye and did not come beyond the first cellar level.
The steps leading to that cellar were of stone, crumbling away. Fitzroy went up them slowly. He moved with great caution, while the full significance of what was happening gradually caught up with him.
He reached the ground floor.
There were two ways out of this building; the big, massive front door, which was barred and bolted to prevent anyone from coming in; and a small doorway at the back, leading to a little courtyard and, by a narrow alley, to Milchester Street. It should have been so easy. The only problem was to get the sacks through the alley to the small car which was parked nearby, in a little private parking place. They had studied the
time of the police patrols in the district, and had judged the right moment.
Fitzroy went through the deserted building, his footsteps making little sound on the stone floor of the hall; then on linoleum over wide boards; finally over tiles. Soon he saw the faint light against a window. He could not make out the figure of the third burglar, Jem, but heard the faint whisper.
“How many outside?”
“Dunno.”
Fitzroy moved toward the window. He shone his torch so that the beam fell upon a chair which he knew one of the others had put into position. He climbed up, and could now peer through a window into the courtyard.
He saw three uniformed policemen.
He got down. His heart was thumping, but he told himself that he wasn’t really frightened. He had been in tough spots before, and had got out of them. He slid his right hand into his hip pocket; the steel of an automatic pistol felt very cold.
“How many in Wattle Street?”
“Several,” Jem muttered. He was the tallest of the three. “Tell you what—”
“What?”
“We could go up the first floor, and climb up, then—”
“Carrying what?” Fitzroy asked sneeringly.
Jem didn’t answer.
“We’ve got a fortune,” Fitzroy said, “and we’re going to keep it. Stay here a minute.”
He turned back, toward the front entrance. He would not have admitted it to anyone, but he did not really know what to do. He had been so sure that this way of escape would be left open, because it didn’t affect Mid-Union. He began to ask himself what had gone wrong, but gave that up as futile. He could see the street lights showing against the huge fanlight, but if he went into one of the offices … He tried a door handle; and the door opened.
He stepped into an office. This had frosted glass halfway up the window, but through the top he could see the dark shape of a lamp standard; as he went in, the light outside grew brighter, and the engine of a car sounded. The car swept along the street, the driver changed gear and turned a corner.
A desk stood close to the window. Fitzroy climbed up, and peered cautiously over the frosted glass into the street.
