by John Creasey
The van screamed round a corner.
Marriott and Dorris pulled up the tail-board, so that they could not be seen, and then bent over Bennison. Marriott now held a short, stubby knife. He stuck the knife into the thick leather of the wages bag, and worked with a sawing motion, quick, expert, effective. One cut made, he worked downwards.
Dorris was crouching and watching him, intently.
Bennison made a little moaning sound.
Blood was oozing from his head, and running into the sacks of cabbages on one side, another trickle was smearing some carrots.
Marriott stabbed with the knife again, making a third cut – and inside the bag the wads of money showed, all neatly parcelled.
“How much did you say it was?” Dorris demanded.
“Five thousand.”
“That’s not five thou’!”
“Bound to be,” Marriott said. He snatched the money out and stuffed it into his pockets. “Where are we?”
Dorris, still crouching, stared at him for a long time. Marriott licked his lips, and asked more savagely: “Where are we?”
“That’s not five thou’—”
“What the hell does it matter how much it is, we’ve got it, haven’t we? Where are we?”
Bennison moaned again. Marriott looked down and saw his eyes flicker open, saw his right hand stretched out, as if to try to pull at his, Marriott’s, ankle. Marriott picked up a box of apples, and smashed it down on Bennison’s head and face. The box broke, the wood splintering, and apples began to roll about the floor, but Bennison lay still. Dorris was standing upright, now, and he glanced round.
“We’re at Goswell Road.”
“Tell Alec to slow down.”
“But—”
“Tell him to slow down!”
Dorris turned away and banged on the back of the driver’s cabin. Almost at once the van slackened speed. Marriott did not lower the tail-board again, but climbed over it. Dorris followed him, quickly. As they landed, the van stopped. Several people stared at them curiously, especially at Dorris, for there were splashes of blood on his face. The driver, a lad in his teens who looked rather like a girl, said:
“Got it?”
“Yeh—split up yet?”
“Later.”
“Win—” Dorris began.
“See you,” Marriott said.
He turned and hurried off towards the City. The youth who had driven them here turned in the opposite direction. Marriott dodged across the road, aware that a lot of people were staring at him. He got on to a Number 17 bus, rode on it for five minutes, then dropped off again and hailed a taxi. He sat back in the cab, quivering from reaction, and patting his pockets. He was feeling sick, because he knew that Dorris was right – they had done all this for a few hundred quid. He could not be sure of it, but in a mood of pessimism he thought that there was no more than three hundred pounds in his pocket – three hundred, for all that. Not a hundred apiece. The kid Alec would have to have fifty, the rest was to be split three ways.
He moistened his lips.
It hadn’t been so clever, either. Now that it was over he could see the glaring weaknesses, and it was no help to think that he had planned all this. The actual scene of the robbery had been good, and the information had seemed reliable. It had come from a clerk who had once worked at Revels, but had left months ago. Marriott had watched the bank, learned the procedure which was followed every payday – but had not thought to question the amount.
Five thousand? Or five hundred?
Never mind how much; he should have had something laid on, a cab or a car or another van so that they could have changed vehicles. It had been a mistake to come here without transport laid on, and to rush off in three directions. He had seen at least two police helmets bobbing along the street.
He hadn’t heard a police whistle, though; had he?
He got out of the taxi at the Bank, and mixed with the thick crowds of people in Lombard Street. The company of so many others gave him a feeling of security; he had always liked crowds. The more he thought about what had happened, the less worried he became. He would have heard a police whistle if one had been blown, he was sure of that, so probably four or five minutes had passed before anyone had discovered the man in the van.
He might not be discovered even now – might be still lying on the floor, all among the oranges and lemons. Spuds and carrots, more like!
Marriott began to smile broadly, and to perspire. He was a rather short, broad-shouldered man in the middle twenties, with a big face and a broad chin and surprisingly fine, pale blue eyes. His hair, always kept very short, was medium coloured, rather more brown than anything else, and his nose was short so that the nostrils showed rather noticeably. Now, he wore an old suit of brown tweed, and only his associates knew that the money was in one capacious inside pocket, taking up much of the skirt of the jacket. There might be five hundred, after all – better than a smack in the eye. The sooner he could count it the better.
He walked along more briskly, planting his feet down very squarely, as if he had nothing to fear and was ready to face the world. Twice he passed bank messengers with cash bags chained to their waists. Lucky devils, they were – but their turn would come one day! He glanced at the entrance of several big banks, and had the same kind of exhilarated feeling. It was not dampened when a policeman came along, walking slowly, looking at a motor-cycle parked in the street where there should be no parking. That was about all these bloody coppers were good for, these days; picking on parked cars and stalling around until the drivers came up.
Marriott reached Aldgate.
He took a bus which went along the Mile End Road, got off at a corner with a public house on one side and a cafe on the other, and sauntered towards the cafe. Sitting in the window was Mo Dorris. Good-o! Sitting next to Dorris was Alec Gool, the driver. Good-o! Only Stevens, the man who had been detailed to look after the escort, was missing. Marriott went in breezily, cocked a thumb at the thick-waisted young girl behind the counter, called: “Coffee and hamburger, toots,” and sat down with the others at a window table.
“Where’s Stevens?” he demanded in a whisper.
“He’s okay—he phoned a message to the caff,” Dorris said. “He’s on the way.”
“Any trouble?”
“It was easy, like the rest,” young Alec Gool said. “Perfect. We knocked off the van, and after that it went as smooth as a tart’s—”
Alec Gool broke off, as a man walked past the window: this was Stevens. He glanced in, then came in. There was a quality about Stevens which sometimes worried Marriott; he was too big for his boots. Tall, with sharp features and rather supercilious expression, he looked round as if to say that he was above this kind of cafe, with the buns and sandwiches under plastic covers, the urns bubbling, the hot dogs and the hamburgers waiting to be cooked, the cheap soft drinks, the cheap calendars and posters showing bosomy girls, the old and dirty oilcloth, the plastic covered tables which were never quite clean.
He came and sat down.
“How much?” he demanded.
“Haven’t had a chance to count,” said Marriott.
“Well, what’s stopping you?”
“No hurry,” Marriott said. He leaned back on his chair, so that it looked almost as if he would fall backwards. His eyes were narrowed, and he consciously challenged Stevens. To himself, he was saying: there’s got to be a showdown sooner or later. He’s got to know who’s boss. He hoped that this showed in his eyes.
“About four hundred quid,” Dorris said.
Stevens caught his breath. “How much?”
“Four hundred nicker.”
“But you said—”
“So we said it would be five thou’,” interrupted Marriott. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, his thoughts sti
ll running on the same lines: this man had to know who was the boss. “He didn’t pick up much today. I haven’t counted it yet but it might be five hundred. That’s the lot.”
Stevens was staring at him. Marriott suddenly licked his lips. Dorris said, “What’s up?” and stopped. Young Alec was watching both men, eyes darting to and fro. He was thin faced, curly haired, rather aesthetic-looking, and he had long fingers with beautifully manicured nails, and a good complexion. His harsh, Cockney voice took strangers by surprise and filled some of them with disappointment.
“What are you looking at me like that for?” Marriott demanded.
“Where’s the rest?”
“I’ve told you—”
“There were five thousand pounds in that bag.”
“Not on your life,” Dorris said. “I saw him cut it open. I know.”
“Pack it in,” said Alec Gool. “The broad’s coming.” He waited until the girl placed cups of coffee and hamburgers on the table, winked into her coarse, blotchy face, and waited for her to go. All this time Marriott and Stevens were staring at each other, and Marriott found his breath getting short.
“The newspapers will tell us how much it was,” Alec put in. “Win wouldn’t try anything. He knows he’d be found out!”
“You said five thousand,” Stevens repeated.
“It—it must have been a mistake. It must have been—”
“Mistake,” Stevens echoed in a grating whisper.
“The—the chap who told me said five grand. That’s five thou’, isn’t it?”
“Let’s see it,” said Stevens. “Come on, let’s see it.”
There was a small back room, off a passage leading to the lavatories. They crowded into the room, and Marriott took out the money. The one pound notes were in packs of twenty-five pounds; so were the ten shilling notes. In all, there was four hundred and seventy-five pounds, and at the bottom of the bag was the list of instructions which Bennison had given to the cashier at the bank: a level five hundred pounds.
“So that’s all,” Stevens said, stonily.
“I told you it was,” Marriott said. He paused, as if expecting Stevens to start talking about the misinformation, but hurried on when Stevens kept silent. “The rest was silver and copper, see. Didn’t want me to bring that with me, did you?” He had the money back in his pocket. “Fifty for Alec—”
“Seventy-five,” said Alec Gool, quickly. “Seventy-five for me and a hundred and thirty-three for each of you guys, and a quid for the meal. I couldn’t say fairer than that, could I?”
No one argued.
Quickly, Marriott counted the money; as quickly, each man tucked it away. When they had finished the share out they went back for coffee and more food. Soon Marriott and Dorris went off together.
An hour later, Alec and Stevens left, also together, the youngest and the oldest of the foursome, a lad of seventeen or eighteen and a man in his middle forties.
“That pair won’t get anywhere,” Alec said, with complete assurance. “They’re dead beats already. Anyone who could get five thousand and five hundred mixed up wants his head examined. But you and me, Steve—we got a future.”
The older man made no comment.
They walked towards the junction of Whitechapel and Commercial Roads, where newspapermen were calling, and placards were showing up in the sunlight. By one of these, Marriott and Dorris were standing, buying a paper.
The other two walked past, but as they did so, they read:
“Bank Raid Murder.”
“So you killed him,” Alec said. He darted a quick, almost admiring glance at Stevens.
“So you killed him,” Dorris muttered to Marriott, half under his breath.
“He wasn’t dead! Stevens must—” Marriott broke off, moistened his lips, and then put his hand inside his pocket, to touch his hundred and thirty-three pounds.
“Well, one of them’s dead,” Dorris declared, in the same half audible voice. “So it’s a murder rap.”
“Don’t lose your nerve,” Marriott said. “No one knows who it was. We’ve just got to keep our nerve, that’s all. Nothing will go wrong, don’t you worry.”
“If you ask me, plenty’s gone wrong,” Dorris said. “We’ve got some thinking to do.”
“While I’m around, let me do the thinking,” ordered Marriott.
As he spoke, he glanced round, but Stevens and Alec were out of sight. Standing and looking at the placard was a policeman.
Chapter Three
The Third Look
Chief Superintendent Roger West, of New Scotland Yard, was having a slacker day than usual. The years had taught him the value of taking every job that came his way as calmly and unhurriedly as possible; ten minutes’ thought at the beginning of an investigation could save a lot of wasted time later.
In his early forties, he was the youngest senior ranking detective in the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. Years ago, when he had been the youngest inspector, some of his colleagues had resented his speedy promotion, but no one resented him now. He still had the looks which had earned him the soubriquet “Handsome” and was still known by most people at the Yard simply as “Handsome” West, but there was no longer the slightest hint of sour grapes about the use of that nickname.
He had a small office overlooking the Thames, preferring it to a larger room without a river and embankment view. His desk was in one corner. Squeezed into another, behind the door, was a much smaller desk – that of Chief Inspector Cope, Roger’s chief aide. Cope was out, probably snatching a cup of tea or coffee in the canteen. His desk was tidy, and all his work as up to date as C.I.D. work could be. There were always cases pending.
On the mantelpiece, where in the winter a small fire always glowed despite the big radiators, were some reference books and, on one side, a large photograph – of a woman and two boys. The boys were young, in the picture, no more than eight or nine, and the woman looked very young, too; in the late twenties, perhaps. Now and again, when deeply involved in a case, Roger would glance up at this photograph of his wife and two sons, give a half smile, and get back to the job in hand.
At that moment he had never heard of the Bennisons; although his own family had a lot in common with them. It was half past eleven on the Friday morning and he was wondering whether he would be able to take the Saturday off and make it a full week-end. He had managed two already this summer. He knew that the boys had a full programme of sports – tennis and swimming mostly – and now, at the age of eighteen and seventeen, they could take care of themselves. If he could get down to the coast for a couple of days with Janet, it would set them up for weeks. Finding a hotel would be a problem, but the Brighton Police had worked miracles for him before. He liked Brighton. In some ways, it seemed to him more truly London’s seaside than Southend, which was East London’s resort.
The door opened, and Cope came in. Cope was a big, weighty, heavy-looking man, with a round, rather doleful face, almost bull-like in his expression. He had thinning black hair, a prominent, beaky nose, deep-set eyes which were so dark blue they were almost black.
“Heard about that Covent Garden job?”
“A bit about it,” said Roger.
“They’ve found the van.”
“Any sign of the missing man?”
“There’s a sign of him all right,” said Cope. He squeezed between the wall and his desk, and sat down. He was a man always likely to complain when there was nothing to complain about, and yet bore legitimate grievances – such as the size of his living space in this office – with saint-like long-suffering. “Bashed about badly. Proper mess.”
Roger didn’t speak.
“One dead, one on the danger list—not a bad score,” Cope went on. He brought a sheet of paper to Roger’s desk. “Meant to give this to you,” he said wi
th annoyance. “Shall I read it out?”
Roger stood up. News of murder, news of men being beaten to the point of death, always created restlessness and the beginning of anger in him, and he was glad to go to the window, then come back to pick up the sheet of paper. It was a teleprint message, put out by the Information Room, and for the first time he saw the name Bennison.
“Second victim of Covent Garden bank robbery found in a van stolen from Medley Brothers there, early this morning. The van was on loan to Medley Brothers. Victim’s name: Paul Bennison, of 35, Acacia Avenue, Wimbledon. Aged 39. Married, wife named Isobel, aged 38. Three children, one girl 17. Bennison taken to Charing Cross Hospital to undergo emergency operation for head and face injuries. No report of his condition yet available.”
Roger, standing in front of Cope’s desk, read this very slowly. Cope was breathing heavily; he suffered a little from sinus.
“Nasty,” he said.
Roger found himself thinking: Wife, three children.
“What about the messenger, the man named Charley Blake?”
“Widower,” Cope replied. “One married daughter, who lives in Canada. He lived at a working men’s hostel, and spent most of his spare time watching television or football matches.”
In a queer way, Roger was relieved; at least the death of the man who had escorted Bennison to and from the bank was likely to cause no deep immediate grief, no one would really suffer. Bennison was different.
“Who’s going to handle this job?” asked Cope.
“I don’t know,” said Roger.
“That flicking conference,” Cope remarked, and pulled some papers towards him.
