The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin

by R. W. Hughes

  He had been following his usual boring routine, enquiring at the taxi rank, expecting the usual negative reply, when his heart skipped a beat at the second taxi driver’s answer to his usual enquiry. ‘Si, si, signore. Yesterday at the bus shelter there were two English that matched the description in the photograph. They had a big Mercedes car. No! I did not record the number of the vehicle but they were with two German gentlemen. One I have never seen before, he required a walking stick, the other I have seen many times before in the town of Castlgion Fiorentino.’ Simone was making a note of the taxi man’s phone number when he was startled by a loud comment from the taxi driver.

  ‘Look! There is one of the English now, over near the German panzer.’ The driver pointed towards the Second World War tank in the corner of the piazza.

  Simone looked to where the man was pointing. He was just in time to see a figure move out of his sight behind the trunk of a large tree.

  ‘Grazia, Signore!’ he said hurrying across the piazza whilst, at the same time, fumbling in his pocket for his mobile phone.

  Marco received the telephone message from Luca just as he was going into lunch at the hotel where he was staying with the rest of the group from England.

  ‘Hello! Hello! Marco. Ciao! This is Luca. I receive report from my operatives; two Inglese fit description on photographs. Inglese in comradeship Germans two, one need stick, one have informed lived apartmento in area. My operative enquires total number two German. One Inglese.’

  Marco wasn’t sure about the exact details in the telephone conversation but it was obvious that contact had been made with the fugitives. Luca’s second message followed a short while later. ‘Followed station Inglese depart train leaving Perugia. I contact our associates; they sent to multi stations pronto, I no further information.’

  Marco’s reply was short and to the point. He’d got the gist of Luca’s broken English messages. ‘Thank you, Luca, grazia! Keep me informed.’

  Marco decided not to inform his boss of the sighting before lunch. His boss, Mr. Brown, had been irritable and bad tempered ever since they had arrived. The Italians he had been allocated to trace the four English had, in his opinion, failed miserably, plus there had been no response from the Italian organisation’s contacts in the Carabinieri.

  Marco wanted to prolong his boss’s discomfort as long as possible. If there were any questions asked about him delaying passing on the message, he had decided he would say he was waiting to see if their Italian associates had more definite results to report but, in any case, he would refrain from mentioning the two Germans just for the time being.

  Marco was enjoying his meal all the more, as he observed the discomfort that Mr. Brown was obviously suffering. Smiling so much to himself, he attracted the attention of his boss.

  ‘What have you got to smile at Marco, got a promise off one of the waiters?’

  The remark brought a burst of laughter from the other two companions at the table. Marco just shrugged at the insult and carried on eating his meal, his now blank expression hiding the hatred that the constant insults from his boss were fuelling. The original loss of the briefcase was costing the association a lot of money, Marco reckoned they held Mr. Brown directly responsible for the cause of this present fiasco and they were obviously putting him under intense pressure to rectify the problem: quickly.

  *

  Geoff meanwhile was still waiting at Camucia railway station; he had the time to calmly assess their position while he was waiting for John Bolton to collect him. What would he do in that situation if he had just lost a contact but knew the area where the contact’s associate was known? He sat bolt upright on the low stone wall he was occupying under the bushes. It was obvious what he would do, he would trace the contact’s associate and follow him until he led him to the contact. He had to go back to Werner Fisher’s apartment.

  He remembered the old guy had said that the tank’s gun firing mechanism was in the store under his flat and he had to find the mechanism as soon as possible. Under no circumstance could Werner Fisher return to his apartment because he was a direct lead to him and the rest of his mates.

  He recognised the Mercedes which turned into the top of the road that led to the railway station. He rose and walked across the road to a cash machine in the wall of the station. Using several credit cards taken from his wallet, he withdrew a substantial amount of euros.

  ‘Great, they’re still functioning!’ he said to himself loudly. ‘No point in being cautious, they know we’re here now anyway.’

  The Mercedes pulled off the piazza and into the far side of a small car park at the side of the railway station. ‘Thanks for coming for us John,’ said Geoff as he eased himself into the comfortable passenger seat beside the elder Bolton brother, appreciating the coolness of the air conditioned vehicle.

  ‘I’ll fill in the details as we’re driving but we have to call at Werner Fisher’s flat as soon as possible. Hold It!’ he gasped, as with a squeal of tyres a car screeched around the island pulling up with a screech of brakes at the far side of the piazza in front of the station.

  Geoff and John watched, peering over the backs of their seats as two men jumped from the car before it had fully stopped, both rushing into the station.

  ‘I suggest it’s time we left here John? Nice and steady now, I don’t think those two guys were late for their train, I think they were hoping to meet me,’ said Geoff cynically.

  John Bolton slowly reversed the Mercedes and drove the car down the road that several seconds earlier the other vehicle and its two occupants had raced down.

  ‘The UK police, an Inspector Robinson, left a message on our kid’s internet answering service. They were telling us to give ourselves up to the Italian authorities for our own safety. He said as we were no doubt aware, there were other not very nice people looking for us as well.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of them,’ replied Geoff, fastening his seat belt, as he still watched the entrance of the railway station through the rear view car mirror. ‘Can we be traced through that email?’ He asked, alarm creeping into his voice.

  ‘Naw! Our kid reckons it’s not possible,’ came back the reply as a relieved Geoff settled in to the comfortable passenger seat as the Mercedes pulled onto the main road leading out of the Tuscan town of Camucia.

  *

  Following Geoff’s instructions, John Bolton parked the car in the next block to Werner Fisher’s apartment, staying with the car while Geoff walked to the corner.

  Looking down the street there was just one large van parked in the road and, as he was watching, the driver walked from the back of the van with a large, cardboard box and entered a grocer’s shop. After several minutes he returned, climbed into the van’s cab and drove off leaving the street empty.

  Geoff turned and gave the thumbs up sign to John Bolton who was waiting for the signal; he cut the engine of the Mercedes. Geoff then walked briskly down the road and with great self-assurance entered the walled courtyard of the block of flats. He knew from previous experience that if you were doing something that you shouldn’t be doing, you should do it with confidence as it attracted less attention. There were several doors at the side under the external brick stairs that led to the front entrances of the apartments.

  Each had a number on the side of the door frame. Werner Fisher’s apartment was No. 78. He tried the door. Breathing a sigh of relief, he realised that it was not locked. Werner Fisher was a very tidy person and, consequently, everything was stacked neatly in boxes in the small storage area.

  It took only a few minutes to find what looked like a firing mechanism but to be on the safe side he decided to take all the contents of the wooden box. As he was struggling to drag the heavy box from the store room, he was suddenly aware and startled by a figure that was standing over him, blocking out the light from the nearby window, holding what looked like a club in his hand.

  He cowered down expecting a blow at any second until he realised the figure was a
n old man and what he thought was a club was a folded shopping bag. He had been approached by a tenant of the flats who had been observing him and was playing his part as community watch attendant.

  ‘Werner Fisher. Signor Werner Fisher. He is my friend, pal, comrade.’ He rattled off several words but he could not remember the Italian for friend. He tried again, ‘Signor Fisher, amico.’ At the same time he gave the thumbs up sign. The old man seemed to grasp what he was saying. Replying with a long sentence in Italian he shrugged his shoulders, turned and started to make his way across the road towards the grocer’s shop.

  Geoff followed him out of the small courtyard walking as quickly as was possible down the road whilst struggling to hold the wooden box and its heavy contents in front of him.

  He had never felt as relieved as when the box was in the boot of the Mercedes and John Bolton had started the engine of the big car, pulling away from the kerb, and in no time at all they were back on the road heading in the direction to the villa. But he could not relax completely, looking behind every few minutes to make sure they were not being followed. It was only after they had travelled several kilometres that he convinced himself that they weren’t, he then asked John Bolton to pull off the road at a small shopping complex that they had passed on their previous journeys.

  ‘Park up here for a short while, John, while I have a quick look around these stores, I’ve just thought of something.’ John Bolton did as requested parking the Mercedes in the shade of some trees and out of sight from any passing traffic on the road. He then followed Geoff, who visited several of the medium sized stores coming away empty handed. John could not contain his curiosity any longer.

  ‘What are we looking for Geoff?’ he enquired.

  ‘Push bikes,’ was the instant reply.

  ‘Push bikes?’ repeated John, receiving no answer from Geoff who by now was going into the next store. ‘Right! Push bikes it is,’ he said, following Geoff, still none the wiser for his enquiry.

  The two lads found what they were looking for in the next to last store in the complex. It had a selection of various makes and models. One particular type, similar in appearance to a mountain bike, was on offer. It was also a fold up model and came with a cyclist crash helmet.

  ‘Two of these will do the trick,’ said Geoff, ‘we can use them to bob into the village for any bits and pieces rather than take the car, it’s a bit conspicuous that big Merc.’

  ‘That’s good thinking, Geoff,’ commented John, giving his friend an admiring glance.

  ‘And folded up they should fit in the boot of the Merc. Great!’

  They left the line of stores continuing their journey towards the villa, the boot lid of the Mercedes sticking out at an odd angle with two wheels projecting from its rear with the boot fastened by several elasticated bungees from the boot handle to the bumper.

  Listening to the quiet throb of the powerful engine, Geoff managed to relax and settle back in the comfort of the passenger seat. After a short time he eventually dozed off into a mentally exhausted, fitful sleep.

  *

  Simone Campagni had passed his information on to his senior contact as soon as he had lost the English man who he was following at the railway station. He had then gone back to the taxi rank to obtain more information about the old German that lived locally. The taxi driver who Simone had talked to previously was not at the rank and according to several of the other drivers he had just left with a fare.

  Simone managed to contact him by mobile phone and was informed he would be back at the rank in two hours’ time. As he had regular clients to attend to this would make it 4.30pm. Simone decided that as he had time to spare he would go and collect his own car which was parked at the far side of the town, possibly calling for an espresso on the way, then he would bring his car to Piazza Garibaldi in time to meet the taxi driver.

  It was while he was returning from the car park with his battered old Fiat from the far side of the town that he passed the Alfa Romeo agents where the open-topped sports car was still prominently parked in the showroom window. Simone could not resist.

  On impulse he swung his old Fiat into the parking area of the car showroom causing the driver of the vehicle travelling behind him to brake suddenly, giving Simone a long blast on his horn as he was forced to swerve around the old Fiat. Simone Campagni was not particularly bothered. He was riding high, as he could already imagine the feel of the big, fat bonus in his wallet.

  He wanted another look at this eye catching, head turning, super red Alfa Romeo sports car.

  It was while he was admiring the lines of the motor that the salesman, who over the last few weeks had noticed Simone taking a great deal of interest in this new model, approached him asking if he would like to sit in the driver’s seat and try the car out for comfort, check the style of the dashboard, the position of the instruments, the steering wheel and gear stick.

  Simone knew he was already late, so what! A couple of minutes more were neither here nor there; he could not resist the auto salesman’s offer.

  The information that Simone eventually received from the taxi driver, which had cost him twenty euros, led him to a block of modern flats on the outskirts of Castiglion Fiorentino. The taxi driver did not know the German clerk’s name or the number of the flat, only that he worked locally and lived in this block.

  Simone parked his car and walked to the entrance of a small courtyard that led to a flight of steps leading to the front door. His arrival coincided with that of an old man carrying a bag of groceries coming from a shop across the road.

  His polite enquiries gave him all the information he required from this very talkative neighbour of Werner Fisher. The old German lived on his own since his Italian wife had died several years ago. They had no children and he had no visitors from his wife’s family. Apparently, they had disagreed with the marriage that had taken place over fifty years ago. He rented flat No. 78 from the same landlord that also owned his apartment. He thought Werner Fisher was an insurance clerk at one of the prestigious offices within the walls of the nearby city. He had just retired and he was out at the moment but he usually came back before dark.

  Simone thanked the old man. He had no need to ask any more questions as Werner Fisher’s neighbour had given him all the information he required. He would return to his car and wait. It should not be for long. He had a good description of the retired German clerk from the taxi driver as well as from his neighbour.

  The old man watched the well-dressed young Italian return to the shady part of the road and get into his parked car before he turned and entered the building. He had two flights of stairs to climb which aggravated his painful knee joints. He decided that when he reached his flat he would ring up again and complain about the faulty lift. It was the third time this week that it had been out of commission.

  ‘That’s a battered old machine for someone so well-dressed,’ he said aloud to himself, as he looked through the stair window while he stopped for breath half way up the second flight of stairs. It’s odd that Werner Fisher has no callers for months then he gets two within a few minutes of each other. I wonder if I should tell the young man in the handmade, patent leather shoes about the Inglise who called earlier, pondered Signor Berendese who had never in his life been able to afford shoes like the pair his young country man was wearing. He had worn boots all his life, except for one pair of cheap black shoes kept for very special occasions like funerals, weddings or christenings.

  No, I don’t think I will. I don’t fancy going all the way down then coming all the way back up these stairs again and I do really need to put these groceries in my fridge. Having regained his breath after the short stop, the old man continued his journey up the rest of stairs to his one bedroom apartment.

  John Bolton enjoyed driving the Mercedes. The journey to the villa through the pleasant countryside was uneventful and as the powerful engine pulled the motor easily up the limestone drive he noticed that his mate beside him was asleep. He also
noticed something that he had not seen before; his friend’s normally dark hair was turning white. Geoff Larkin was prematurely turning grey!

  That’s unusual for someone who is only in his early twenties, he thought as he stopped the car outside the front entrance of the villa, turning off the engine before waking his friend by shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Wakey! Wakey! Geoff, we’ve arrived.’

  Geoff woke with a start. He had just been dreaming that he was in the German tank and every time he tried to get out through the hatch the Italian police opened fire on him with automatic weapons.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘I’ll go to the kitchen to see what’s on the cards for dinner,’ said John after helping Geoff to remove the two bikes that had been fastened in the boot and then proceeded to assemble them.

  ‘Here, take one of these bikes,’ Geoff said, pushing the assembled bike towards John while he strolled around to the rear of the villa, pushing the other bike in front of him.

  Sitting on a chair by the pool on his own with a pot of coffee on a side table was Werner Fisher.

  Great, thought Geoff, he’s on his own. I’ll strike while the iron’s hot.

  ‘Hi, Werner, how are you today?’

  ‘Today I am fine, Geoff,’ said Werner Fisher with a smile on his face. ‘My comrade, Peer, is issuing instructions to his staff in the kitchen. He too is happy!’ Geoff laughed at the old man’s remark.

  ‘Herr Fisher,’ said Geoff, becoming more formal and respectful, ‘you were saying yesterday about the size of the gun on the tank.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. The calibre was 75mm, not 90mm as the Italian authorities have put on the plaque near the Sturmgeschuttz Mark III.’