by John Creasey
“Don’t you know where Percy lives?”
“No, sir.”
“Kennedy?”
“I’ve heard the name, that’s all, and I think he’s called here once or twice, but when he’s been coming, I’ve had orders to keep out of the way.”
“How do you get your instructions?”
“From Percy, sir.”
“And he blackmails you into obeying?”
“That’s right.”
“What jobs have you done?” Roger asked.
Harry put down the empty tankard and half-closed his eyes.
“Safes, mostly, sir. And breaking and entering, more lately. One of the places I went to, an old man was killed. I didn’t do it, but Percy says he can pin it on me. I don’t doubt he can. I get well paid for this, I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t do what I was told. You were just another dope. But after Miss Day and Ginger was bumped off—I couldn’t settle. There’s some things you can take, and there’s others that you just can’t swallow, and coldblooded murder’s a thing I can’t swallow.”
Roger wanted a cracksman. He said: “Have you got any burglar’s tools here?”
Harry’s eyes opened wide.
“Well——”
“Good, up-to-date stuff, not just a jemmy and a screwdriver.”
“I haven’t got any here, but I know where I could lay me hands on some.” Harry was puzzled yet eager.
“Will you take a big risk?”
“Nothing much to lose, now,” said Harry, and his face became more animated, a little colour glowed in his cheeks. “So I was right, you’ve been putting one across Percy and his boss.”
“That’s right, Harry.”
Harry leaned back in his chair and gave a little, satisfied smile. There was no gloating in it, but much relief.
* * * *
Roger stood in the doorway and looked across Lyme Street. The guard was still there. He himself was in the shadows, and the man couldn’t see him. He saw the other put his hands to his pocket and take out a packet of cigarettes; a moment later, a match flared. The man moved out of his doorway and strolled along the street—and Roger moved forward, but drew back suddenly. A policeman had turned the corner and was walking along, that was why the guard had moved. The guard crossed the road and stood outside a small cafe which was still open; a man, looking into a cafe and studying the menu card in the window, wasn’t going to attract much attention. He peered along the street. The policeman passed him. The guard waited until the policeman had turned the next corner, and then went back to his usual stand. Roger moved again, quickly. He saw the man stiffen. He crossed the road, but didn’t look at the man—whose job it was to report, and perhaps to follow. He walked towards the dark dingi-ness of the market lanes and alleys, and the man followed him. He slipped round a corner; it was very dark here. He heard the man hurrying after him, and knew when he was at the corner.
The man turned.
Roger grabbed him by the neck, stilling a cry, drove a fierce punch into his stomach, let him go, then struck at his chin. Two blows knocked the man out. No one was here, the policeman was out of sight. Roger dragged the unconscious man across the bumpy, cobbled road, into a narrow alley leading towards the main, covered market. He took out a length of cord, bound the man’s ankles and wrists, dragged him farther—into a little alcove—and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Then he dragged him, by his coat collar, and saw a dark pile of empty wooden crates. He shifted some of the crates, dumped the man behind them, and put them back into position. He wouldn’t be found until those crates were moved, and that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least.
He went back to Lyme Street.
Harry came out of the doorway. “All okay, sir?”
“Yes. Get a move on.”
“I had to see this through,” said Harry. “See you at the Burlington Gardens end of Burlington Arcade in about an hour, then. It’s just on eleven—I ought to be there by midnight.”
“Fine.”
Harry turned and hurried towards the Strand and a taxi.
Roger had an hour to kill.
* * * *
There had never been a longer sixty minutes. He walked to Burlington Arcade, and his mind wouldn’t stop working, weighing up his chances; especially those against him. Kennedy would have his home well protected. Kennedy, as Hemmingway, wouldn’t be likely to keep the records at the home where he was so safe. Harry might fail him. Harry might get cold feet. Harry might have fooled him. Death didn’t take long. A man might come towards him, walking, or in a car—and shoot just once.
Roger walked along to Bond Street and towards Oxford Street. There were few people about, and most of those who were came from the AEolian Hall, where they took the overflow from Broadcasting House. Taxis passed. A sleek car came from Oxford Street and slowed down as it drew near him. It was ten minutes to twelve. He turned his face towards the car, prepared to spring to one side if the driver or the passenger moved. The car passed.
Roger walked back towards the end of the Arcade. It was a warm night, but he didn’t feel warm. A clock struck sonorously—midnight. Each boom seemed louder and more threatening than the last. No one approached the Arcade. Harry might have taken fright; Harry might have fooled him. Harry might——
He walked away again; it was a dangerous spot to stand. Another car passed, slowed down at the corner, and then turned without the driver taking the slightest notice of him. Another—this wasn’t a car, but a taxi I It slowed down.
Harry, carrying a big suitcase, climbed out of the cab and paid the driver off. It wasn’t imagination that the driver looked at him curiously; but cab drivers were often curious about mysterious night passengers, it would have been better to have met outside a hotel; there were dozens nearby. Forget it. The taxi moved off, and Harry came forward briskly.
“I’ve got everything I could lay my hands on, sir. Had a bit of luck.” He was chirpy.
“Yes?”
“One of the new kind of burners, better than the old oxy-acetylene jobs, not so heavy. Heavy enough, but I can manage to carry it, need two and a car for the other kind. Are we within walking distance, sir?”
“Yes. Let me have the case for a bit.”
“I can manage, sir, thank you.”
Roger felt like laughing. Or screaming. “I can manage, sir.” He let the man have his way, and they walked briskly up Bond Street as far as Brook Street, then turned left. He took the case; it was heavier than Harry had made out. They changed it over three times before they reached the corner of Mountjoy Square.
They turned a corner, and a few yards along came upon a service alley which led to the backs of the houses in the Square. Mountjoy wasn’t typical of London squares. On small iron gates, to the tiny courtyards, there were house numbers. Roger didn’t light his torch. He peered closely at the numbers, found 23—it was white paint on a black gate, and there was some light from a house opposite.
Next door—25.
And here was 27.
“All right,” Roger said.
“I’ll see to the gate,” said Harry.
He didn’t add “sir”; he had dropped the handle. It wasn’t the only change in him—the other was so great that it was almost metamorphosis. Harry seemed to grow in stature and sureness and confidence. This was his real job, and he was a craftsman. The gate was simple, but it was locked. He opened it with a picklock, making no sound at all on the metal. The gate didn’t squeak when it swung back.
The courtyard was flagged. Their rubber-shod feet made hardly a sound. As they drew nearer the dark shape of the house, Roger saw a light; it hadn’t been noticeable from the gate. It was at the top of a window, where light crept past the curtains; and it was at the top floor—the servants’ floor. Harry glanced up, and then looked at the door. He didn’t use a torch, and there seemed to be hardly any light. He ran his fingers over the door gently, not worrying about leaving finger-prints.
“No can do,” he said. “Good job, that, it
’s got a burglar-proof fastening on the inside. Think they’re wired up for an alarm?”
“Probably.”
Harry sniffed. Pushed past Roger and went to the long, narrow window near the door. Here, for the first time, he used a torch—one with a hood which could be opened or closed at a touch, and which regulated the beam of light and prevented too much from showing. He stood with his back to the alley and the other houses, and peered into the window. Blinds were drawn, but he was looking at the sides, for the alarm wire. He switched off the light suddenly.
Harry backed away.
“Lot o’ trouble there,” he said. “Might be a first-floor window open. Maybe a ladder. Stay here.”
He vanished, leaving the tool-kit by Roger’s side. He was gone for what seemed a long time, and came back silently as a wraith. ; “Found one?”
“No. Careful, aren’t they?” Harry’s words came in a faint whisper. “Quiet.”
Roger stood aside.
Harry took what looked like a folded rag from the toolkit, then a small can. He poured water over the rag, and then spread it over the window: gummed rag, or paper, deadened sound; but Harry might have forgotten one possibility, that the glass here was toughened. Harry took out a hammer and gave the covered glass a sharp tap.
It gave a curiously dull sound.
He sniffed. “Triplex.” He pulled the rag away, wrapped it up in newspaper and dropped it into the box. Then he I took out a drill and, working swiftly and with very little, sound, drilled four holes, close to each other in the wooden frame. Next, he used a narrow saw, which was just thin enough to go through one of the holes. The saw made hardly a sound, as it was loaded with grease. The line of the cut seemed to leap into the green-painted wood. In less than five minutes, he took a piece of wood out, making a hole big enough for him to reach inside. He did so, using the torch with one hand, groped for the catch and found it.
That made the first real sound—a sharp clang. He stood absolutely still. There was no other sound, no alarm. Harry poked his arm inside again; he was pushing the alarm wire up, away from its wall-fastening. It took a long time, and another car passed in Mountjoy Square, headlights glowing against the houses opposite. Harry didn’t stop working. A faint sound came from the window, and he withdrew his hand.
He pushed the window up. It made little noise, and there was no clangour of an alarm.
“Kit,” he ordered as he climbed through, pushing the curtains to one side. Roger handed him the suit-case, open; it was as much as he could do to lift it. Then he climbed through.
“Going to switch off the current at the main?” he asked.
“Not me! Light on upstairs, ain’t there? If it goes out, they’ll come and investigate.”
How many cracksmen were as good as he?
He adjusted the curtains and then switched on the light. They were in a long narrow kitchen. White tiles glistened, a chromium sink fitting showed. The door faced them.
“Know where we want to go?” asked Harry.
“For a start, the first floor—I know the room.”
“Any vaults here?”
“We’ll have to look and may have to get inside.”
“Okay. Try upstairs first. Know what, don’t you?” Harry looked at him, with a hand on the switch.
“What?”
“There’s one certain way of getting the dicks to have a look round. Ring 999 and report a burglary.”
“That will come later.”
There were two more rooms before they reached the passage leading to the hall. All was in darkness, and only the faintest glow shone from the torch, but it was enough to show the staircase. The thick pile of the carpet became their ally. Harry took the case, shut now, and they went upstairs, Roger in the lead.
Harry whispered: “Who’s at home?”
“I’m not sure.”
“They haven’t any guards.” The words suggested that Harry was beginning to feel nervous; but that was probably due to the fact that the first, worst job was finished and he was suffering from reaction. Give him a safe to open and he would forget his nerves. They reached the door of the study. Harry put the case down softly and tried the handle; the door was locked. He examined it, partly in the dim light from his torch, partly by sense of touch. He nodded, and set to work at once with a picklock.
Harry pushed the door open, gently; there was no light inside. He nodded and stepped in, shining his torch brightly now, but careful to make sure that it didn’t shine on the window. Roger closed the door. It closed too sharply, and he heard Harry’s soft intake of breath. Nothing happened. Harry moved away from him, his cat’s eyes getting him past the furniture without difficulty. He reached the window, and his curiously soft and penetrating voice, even when lowered, came clearly:
“Curtains are drawn—okay.”
“Door,” said Roger.
“Not a chance.”
Roger groped for and switched on the light.
Only two wall-lamps came on; they spread a quiet, subdued light. The room was familiar. He looked at the door, and remembered that he had noticed, on his first visit, that it was specially protected at top, sides, and bottom, to make sure that it was sound-proof; that also made it light-proof when closed, and Harry had realized that. He now had a lot of respect for Harry. The curtains were heavy green velvet with a large, deep pelmet, and they were wide and dropped well below the window. There was little chance of light showing.
Harry said: “Where?”
“You’re the boss.”
Harry grinned, his confidence fully restored. He roamed about the room, moving this picture, that piece of furniture, scanning the walls with expert eye. Roger took one end of the room, Harry the other. Roger wasn’t surprised when he heard Harry whisper: “Okay.” He turned. Harry stood by a bookcase which he had eased away from the wall. Roger crossed the room and saw the wall-safe behind it. There were wall-safes and wall-safes, and it was impossible to judge the really good ones from the outside. All there was to see were round pieces of metal and a bright steel knob. Harry pushed the bookcase farther away; it moved at a touch. He pointed, and showed where it was fastened to a spring hook in the wall; at the first tug, it would seem too heavy for one man to shift, but Harry hadn’t been fooled. He pulled a lamp standard nearer and switched it on. Then he took a pair of thin asbestos gloves from the case, drew them on, and picked out a tiny piece of needle-fine wire. He held the point against the steel of the knob; nothing happened. He held it at one of the ridge circles. There was a tiny blue flash. He drew back and grinned.
“Difficult?” Roger asked.
He knew that the orthodox move was to switch off the current at the main. But Harry was teaching him much about the practice of cracking cribs.
“Could be. But if it’s electric it isn’t so bad. Could be infra-red.” Harry sniffed. “That means an alarm, too— wired up liked this, they always ring the alarm.”
“Main switch?”
“You and your main switch.” Harry grinned. “Stop the alarm where it rings, that’s the idea. Most likely place is somewhere outside this room. Maybe there are two, but if we find the control alarm and put it out of action, that will stop the other one. Staying inside?”
“I’ll come with you.”
They went out again. Harry looked sharply at Roger when he opened the door, but didn’t speak. They stood in darkness on the landing. Then Harry put down a light switch; subdued light came on. Nothing stirred, there was no sound. Harry began to roam about the landing, looking towards the ceiling. He didn’t have to look far. A box was fastened to the wall, near the ceiling, just beyond the doorway from which the woman had stared at Roger. He brought up a chair; it wasn’t high enough. He pointed to an oak chest, and they carried it to the wall and then placed the chair on top of it. Harry still wasn’t satisfied, took the chair away and brought a cloth from a large table. He spread the cloth over the chest; that wasn’t to prevent scratching; he took infinite pains to be silent.
He c
ould reach the box comfortably, now. He opened it gently, and inside a large brass bell gleamed. He worked on it for five minutes; they were nerve-racking minutes. Then he turned and whispered:
“Hand me down!”
Roger gave him a hand.
“Okay now,” said Harry. “Let’s get back.”
They went across to the wall-safe, and Harry put a cold chisel between the wainscoting and the wall, and levered part of the wainscoting away. Wood groaned and splintered, but he went on until he had room to work behind it. He had laid bare the electric cable leading to the safe. He put on the asbestos gloves again and took a pair of wire cutters with insulated handles. He cut the cable quickly; the powerful jaws snapped through at one nip. There was a fierce blue flash and a hissing sound; that was all. Harry nodded with satisfaction, straightened up, and turned his attention to the wall-safe. He could have spent time trying to find the right combination; he didn’t but took out a compact-looking instrument like a blow-lamp. It was fastened to a small iron cylinder by a long rubber cable. He fiddled with the blow-lamp for a few minutes, and then pressed a lever; a tongue of white-hot flame spat out towards the circular handle.
“Glasses,” he said, and then growled: “Only one pair. Look away.” He put on a pair of goggles and then turned his attention earnestly to the safe. Roger turned his back on him. Bluish white light filled the room with a garish brightness. He smelt something; molten metal? He was tempted to turn and watch, but knew that it would be crazy, he wouldn’t be able to see for an hour or more if he if looked at the flame with his eyes unprotected, so he stared at the door.
He saw the handle turn.
CHAPTER XX III
KENNEDY’S WIFE
THE flame hissed and glowed as Harry knelt by the safe, intent, unaware of the movement at the door.
The handle turned slowly.
Roger moved towards it. The door was locked, was light-proof and sound-proof. Why had anyone come ? Why was the handle being turned so cautiously? Had Kennedy returned, with suspicions at fever-pitch? Roger waited, watching the handle in that garish light. It didn’t fall back, and instead the door began to open.
