6.The Alcatraz Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  The first of two cars, occupied by gang members wearing black balaclavas over their heads, took the van driver by surprise, forcing the van off the road, where it was partially hidden among bracken and small trees. Immediately, the van was surrounded by three of the gang members, one of them armed with a pistol, the others with sledgehammers. Quickly, the two guards in the front were overpowered, without a shot being fired. By that time, a second car, containing more gang members, had pulled up in the rear of the van. Three of the assailants jumped out of the car and hooked up chains to the van’s rear door handles and through the car’s front axle. The driver reversed, tearing the doors off the van, revealing the armed guard and the sacks of money. The guard got off one shot, which missed the closest gang member, and he was quickly disabled with a blow from a pickaxe handle. With the car driver now helping, the sacks of money were hustled into the car. Simultaneously, all three guards were bound with rope to their seats and their mouths taped. The keys were taken from the van’s ignition, and within seconds, both cars took off. It was later reported that not a single word was spoken among the robbers during the entire operation, which took less than ten minutes, and that neither car bore a number plate. The van and its trussed-up but unharmed guards were spotted approximately a half hour later by a passing truck driver, who had stopped to investigate.

  The robbers, and their associates

  The gang was led by Ronnie Butler and abetted by Brian Jennings, Sean Kennedy, Charlie Gilbert, and Michael Jones. The driver was Richard Ball and the lookout man, Pete Heatherton. The organizers, planners, and behind-the-scenes participants were never identified or caught, despite the fact that all but two of the robbers were subsequently arrested, underwent rigorous interrogations, and served lengthy jail sentences.

  The two-page section went on to link each robber to his specific role in the crime and to describe them in some length—including age, background, occupation, and previous criminal record. It also described the extensive organization and planning of the meticulous operation, proposing that it was masterminded by one or more influential, shadowy individuals and possibly crime syndicates. Kingston focused first on the section that discussed Jennings, for obvious reasons, and second, on Butler, the ringleader:

  Brian Edward Jennings was born in 1935 (22 years of age at the time of the robbery) to Thomas and Doris Jennings in Battersea, London. Among his childhood friends were Charlie Gilbert, who, as a teenager had been up before the magistrates several times on petty crimes, and Geoffrey Miller, who spent his juvenile years in Borstal, a youth detention center. Jennings never married and had little to do with women, either in his adolescence or years to follow. In his late teens he met Michael Jones and Richard Ball, two young car mechanics–turned–car thieves, who eventually introduced him to Ronald Butler, a full-time criminal who had spent a succession of short spells in jails for minor offenses. Up to that point, it appeared that Jennings had managed to either steer clear of involvement in any of his friends’ criminal activities or he’d been lucky escaping the long arm of the law. Jennings was never apprehended.

  Kingston took a break, heading into the kitchen to add hot water to the teapot, then returned to his office and continued reading where he’d left off.

  Ronald James Butler, who was 35 years of age at the time of the robbery, had turned to crime for fun and profit at an early age. As a youth, he and his mates stole merchandise from lorries, stole cars, and sold various goods on the postwar black market. Butler was the unofficial leader of the gang and was believed to have conceived the idea to rob the van. A year or so before the robbery, it is purported that he was introduced to a man known only as the “Manager,” a shadowy figure who had no contact of any kind with the other robbers. It was the scuttlebutt that in addition to his having close ties to London’s major crime syndicates, that this “Manager” had connections in law enforcement and even ties with prominent political figures. It remains unknown if Butler shared his idea first with Brian Jennings, and it was unclear if they had worked together on previous crimes. They were the only two robbers who were never apprehended, each walking away with close to £80,000. Today’s valuation, approximately £1.6 million or more.

  Butler wasn’t married, but when questioned by the police his girlfriend at the time denied having any knowledge of the robbery or Butler’s criminal activities, and was never called as a witness at any of the trials. As with Brian Jennings, it is assumed that Butler had managed to flee the country immediately after the crime, and has spent the subsequent years living with a new identity in a foreign country.

  Kingston stopped reading, his mind bucking the implausible sixty-year leap back to 1957. He would read all the pages again, but with so much ground to cover and so much information to digest, any sort of review would have to wait for later. The most important information he’d gleaned from this first pass, though—other than the “Manager” and those who participated in the behind-the-scenes operation of the robbery—was that only two of the men were never apprehended and both could still be alive: Butler and Jennings.

  Kingston did a mental calculation: Jennings would be in his late seventies and Butler in his late eighties by now—a little old to be running around intimidating and murdering people or, possibly, now dead. The same could be true of the organizers. Just how many of them were still living was a big question mark but he knew the answer was probably few.

  Perhaps Emma could find out more about them. As he thought on it, he realized that he was deluding himself thinking she would still have access to police information on the case. By now, that door would surely have been closed. With an unsolved murder and the cobwebs being dusted off the files of one of Britain’s most sensational crimes, the case would be back in the hands of the top law enforcement agencies in the country. Emma might prefer it that way. Everything considered, perhaps it was best for both of them.

  He had to begin thinking seriously about the new life stretching ahead of him, though it was still just a tad early to start down that road. He had his visit to the States to finalize first. That would give him plenty to occupy his mind, not the least of which was making sure that his relationship with Emma didn’t die slowly on the vine. He liked and respected her too much to let that happen.

  He put the papers in a desk drawer, put the iMac to sleep, and went to the kitchen to make a list of things to buy from Partridges and Sainsbury’s; not much, since he was going to be gone for a while. Staring into the half-empty fridge and making mental note of what he needed, an intriguing idea struck him. Distracted for a moment, he dismissed it as being frivolous and went to the table to jot down a shopping list. Putting pen to paper, he looked up at the ceiling: The idea was back. This time, he let it take shape, weighing its viability and the chances of its producing tangible or useful results. He knew exactly what Andrew would say about it and how Emma would feel. Forget it, he decided. Putting the idea out of his mind, he finished his list.

  Minutes later he stepped out onto the square, keeping his eyes open for a cab. He started walking; he would easily find one on Sloane Street in less than a minute. Crossing the road at the corner of the square, he saw the familiar redbrick Charles Hotel and the row of international flags angled over the covered entrance. In the center, waving lazily in the light breeze, was the Union Jack—and next to it, the Stars and Stripes.

  The idea had returned, and now he gave it full rein. He made up his mind: He was going to San Francisco. And why not? It was, without question, his favorite city in the United States. It was geographically breathtaking: multicultural, with world-class museums and art galleries, internationally acclaimed symphony and opera. It had more restaurants by far than any other U.S. city, hands down the best food—mostly from surrounding farms, dairies, and the Pacific Ocean, and—a mere forty-five minutes away—the magical blue-skied Sonoma and Napa wine valleys. It wasn’t entirely coincidental that Andy Harris, the Alcatraz historian, lived there, too. It all made perfect sense.

  And not to
mention, that by the time Andrew and Emma found out, it would be too late for them to protest.

  A black cab pulled up to the curb and Kingston got in and slammed the door closed.

  “Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

  “San Francisco,” he said.

  “’Wot?” The cabbie turned around and looked at him strangely.

  “Sorry.” Kingston smiled. “Duke of York Square, Partridges,” he said. And then, more quietly, “That’ll do for now.”

  That evening, he called British Airways and changed his itinerary to include a four-day stay in San Francisco.

  16

  San Francisco, two weeks later.

  WITH EARL GREY tea in a china cup and saucer, Kingston sat reading a Bay Area restaurant guide in the Union Street Inn’s garden. The small, congenial, and unexpectedly luxurious bed-and-breakfast, a ten-minute cab ride from downtown, had been recommended by an acquaintance who worked at Kew Gardens, a young woman who had stayed there on her honeymoon. The British couple that owned it knew every nook and cranny of the city and its nontourist restaurants, and was equally familiar with the Sonoma and Napa Valleys. It suited him to a T. The fact that he had his choice of the Wild Rose Room or the English Garden Room—he chose the former—further persuaded him of the rightness of his side trip to San Francisco.

  Kingston couldn’t have been in better spirits. His holiday with Julie and Brandon had exceeded his most ambitious expectations, and from the very beginning, when he arrived bleary-eyed at Sea-Tac airport, it was apparent that they were as close to a perfect match as could be wished for. Julie was the same lovable Julie: vivacious, full of life, and with her mother’s ever-present winsome smile. Brandon impressed him from the start. By central casting standards he was leading man caliber: a couple of inches shorter than Kingston, straw-colored hair, and a tennis player’s physique. The even tan, Kingston guessed, came from sailing, according to Julie his favorite pastime. When he wasn’t working long hours running his small but highly successful accounting business that catered mostly to clients from Seattle’s ubiquitous technology companies, he was out on Puget Sound.

  Their two-bedroom waterfront house on Lake Washington was contemporary in décor, with accents of more traditional furnishings: Oriental rugs, and several pieces of antique Japanese furniture, including some very fine country Tansu chests. On the second day, Kingston was pleasantly surprised when Julie announced that Brandon was going to be the chef de cuisine that evening. When he learned that Brandon was also savvy about and had a keen appreciation for wines, their friendship was sealed.

  His days were spent mostly with Julie, who had taken time off to play tourist with her father. They wandered leisurely through the old part of the city, the waterfront and its famous markets, several museums, taking in the architecture, sights, and smells. One day they sailed the island-dotted waters off Seattle on Brandon’s ketch, a new and exhilarating experience for Kingston. Another day they took a ferry trip to Bainbridge Island for lunch, shopping, and to visit galleries. Of particular interest to Kingston, one afternoon was spent exploring Washington Park Arboretum. They dined at Seattle’s better restaurants, attended the symphony, and there was Brandon’s well-kept surprise: a night baseball game at Safeco Field. Alone one afternoon, Kingston had taken a guided tour, roaming the spooky underground passages and alleys beneath the streets of old downtown Seattle. He was genuinely sorry when the time came to say goodbye. He couldn’t have wished for a better time and, most important of all, there was no doubt in his mind that Julie had picked the right man.

  It had been a wonderful vacation. But now . . .

  He put down the restaurant guide and stood. It was time to get back to work.

  He and Andy Harris had agreed to meet at Sam’s Grill, one of San Francisco’s oldest and most iconic restaurants. When Kingston stepped inside, he was met by a wall of chattering men and women squeezed into a small reception area, alongside a long mahogany bar. Most of the men—many holding drinks—were wearing suits, and the few women were also dressed for business. Kingston edged his way in, looking for someone resembling a maître d’. With his height, he had a slight advantage and was about to elbow his way to the other side of the room, glimpsing white-clothed tables, when he saw an equally tall man with military-cropped gray hair wearing a navy blazer and open-necked shirt, waving to him from several feet away.

  Kingston waved back.

  “Dr. Kingston, I presume?” The man smiled. “Andy Harris.”

  The two shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you,” Kingston said.

  “And you. Your timing’s impeccable, Doctor.”

  “Lawrence, please.”

  He nodded. “Okay, Lawrence. It appears our table is ready.”

  He gestured toward a black-coated waiter, who was motioning to them, and within a couple of minutes they were seated at the far end of the main dining room, well away from the hubbub. As if out of nowhere, another waiter appeared and took their order for a bottle of Chateau St. Jean Fumé Blanc, placed two menus on the table, and disappeared with a gravelly, “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  “So how was Seattle?” Harris asked. “Your future son-in-law?”

  “It was truly wonderful, couldn’t have been better,” Kingston replied, with a gleam of pride in his eyes. “He’s a really nice chap. We got on famously together. As for the two of them, the cliché ‘made for each other’ is the best way I can put it. I wish I could have spent more time with both of them, but you know how that goes.”

  Harris nodded. “Plenty of time for that in the years to come.”

  “Right. They’re planning to come over to England next year.”

  Further conversation about Julie and Brandon and Kingston’s reacquainting himself with Seattle ended with their studying and exchanging thoughts on the menu, moving on to a round of small talk, mostly about San Francisco and London.

  As if divining the suitable moment, the waiter returned with the wine, pouring it and taking their orders with an atypical economy of words, which Kingston appreciated.

  “So, the plot thickens, eh?” Harris said, sipping his wine. “Quite a hornets’ nest you’ve stepped on, Lawrence. You start off looking for a rose and end up getting bloodied by thorns.”

  “Not literally, but as I mentioned in my letter, my friend Andrew did.”

  “Yeah, that was tough. How is he?”

  “Oh, he’s fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  “By the way, I hope I didn’t saddle you with too much information.” Kingston had e-mailed Andy, telling him about the recent developments, along with a copy of the abbreviated history of the Great Highway Robbery, as well some notes he had made concerning the rose. “It was difficult to know what to leave out.”

  “No, not at all,” Harris said. “You did an excellent job, and I can see where your reputation comes from. A while ago, I took the liberty of reading your life story on Google. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Most of it’s reasonably accurate, I suppose.”

  “Having read the material several times, I have to agree with you that it’s possible—even though a bit remote—there could be a connection between the Belmaris rose growing on Alcatraz and one or more of the people involved in the robbery. Incidentally, your summary of the heist and everything that followed was unbelievable. Like a British movie.”

  Kingston nodded. “It wasn’t difficult, most of it was easy to find online. So much has been written about it: books, hundreds of serialized newspaper and magazine stories, and the Internet, of course.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s reminiscent of our Great Brink’s Robbery in Boston. Oddly enough, that was in the fifties, too. I believe three or four movies were based on it.”

  “The name’s familiar. I’ll have to read up on it.”

  “So tell me what’s your plan now. You’re touring the island, you said?”

  “Yes. The last tour this afternoon, so I have to keep an eye on the clock.”


  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here in plenty of time. Cabs are easy and it’s only a ten-minute journey this time of day.”

  “It’s going to be interesting to revisit the scene of the crime, as it were.”

  “The crime.” Harris smiled. “With the police taking over, what is it, exactly, you hope to achieve?”

  “As far as the murder and anything to do with the robbery—nothing. But I still want to know how that damned rose crossed three thousand miles of ocean and almost another three thousand overland, to end up where it did.”

  “Well—” Harris frowned. “The warden would have been the only one with the authority to order plants and such, unless he delegated that responsibility—but even then it would only be up to his secretary. And that begs the question: How the hell would he have learned about such a rarified rose? Not only that, but from everything you’ve told me, it would be damned near impossible to obtain one—even at a price. Would he have known all that?”

  “To be honest, I rather doubt it. Not unless he was an avid collector. Frankly, if I wanted to lay my hands on one, I wouldn’t even know where to start, and I’ve been involved in plants and roses most of my life.”

  “If it wasn’t the warden, then you’ve got me.”

  Kingston downed the last of his wine and placed the glass on the table.

  “In one of our earlier conversations, I remember your saying that, in addition to the warden’s garden, there were a couple of others that good-conduct prisoners were permitted to work in.”

  “That’s right. Over the near-thirty years that Alcatraz was a federal penitentiary, there were a few places on the island where there were what you would call gardens. One, as you said, was the garden surrounding the warden’s house. There was another, larger one near the old NCO cottages, with a greenhouse that was used for propagation and whatever else they do in greenhouses—you would know all that, of course. A third, I remember, was above the roadside wall, planted over some old foundations that were never removed. I’m not sure if any prisoners worked in the warden’s garden, but a few privileged inmates were allowed to work regularly in the other gardens. In fact, there was one whose name escapes me—a convicted counterfeiter—who built a garden shed that still stands.”