“I’ve done my share.” Vernon patted his briefcase. “It’s all here, Joe. Everything you could possibly need and it’ll go like clockwork — you know me. I never miss a trick.”
“Not where you’re concerned you don’t.” Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know. Fifty per cent. That’s a big slice to one man.”
“You’ll only need three men in the team. Give them ten thousand each — contract it beforehand. That still leaves you with seventy — maybe more.” Morgan sat there, a frown on his face, and Vernon shrugged. “Please yourself. I’ll get somebody else.”
He started to his feet and Morgan pulled him back. “All right — no need to get shirty. I’m in.”
“On my terms?”
“Whatever you say. When do we make the touch?”
“Wednesday night.”
“You must be joking. That only gives us two days.”
“No, it’s got to be then — you’ll see why in a moment. There’s an express to London in an hour. You’ll catch it easily. That’ll give you plenty of time to recruit your team, gather your gear together and be back here by tomorrow night.”
“What will I need?”
“That depends. You’ll do the vault yourself?”
“Naturally. What is it?”
“Bodine-Martin 53 — the latest model. Burglar proof naturally.”
“They always are.” Morgan chuckled. “A snip.”
“What will you use — nitro?”
“Not on your life.” Morgan shook his head. “There’s some new stuff the Army’s been experimenting with going the rounds. Handles like nitro, but three times as powerful. It’ll open that vault up like a sardine can.”
“How long will you need?”
“On the vault itself?” He shrugged. “I’ll have to cut a hole into the lock. Let’s say forty-five minutes.”
“And twenty to get you inside.” Vernon nodded. “Just over an hour. Let’s say an hour and a half from going in to coming out.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“You’ll need a good wheelman to stand by with the car.”
“Frankie Harris is available. He’s just out of the Ville. Could do with some gelt.”
“What about a labourer?”
“That’s settled to start with — Johnny Martin. He knows how I like things done.”
“And a good heavy and I don’t mean some punch-drunk old has-been. You’ll need someone who can really handle himself, just in case of trouble, though I don’t think he’ll even have to flex his muscles.
“I know just the man,” Morgan said. “Jack Fallon. He used to run with Bart Keegan and the Poplar boys, but they had a row.”
Vernon nodded approvingly. “That’s a good choice. I remember Fallon. He’s got brains, too.”
“Okay — now that’s settled let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the pitch?”
“Chatsworth Iron & Steel down by the river. Only five minutes from where we are now as a matter of fact. Nine thousand workers and the management are still daft enough to pay them in cash. It takes the staff two days to make the wages up, which means there’s never less than two hundred thousand, sometimes as much as two hundred and twenty in the vault Wednesday and Thursday, depending on earnings of course.”
“Isn’t there a night shift?”
“Only for the workers. The admin. side closes down at five-thirty on the dot. It’s housed in a brand-new ten-storey office block between the factory and the river and they’ve installed just about every kind of alarm known to man.”
“Bound to with loot like that lying around. How do we get in?”
“About a hundred yards from the factory there’s a side street called Brag Alley. I’ve marked it on the map I’m giving you. Lift the manhole at the far end and you’ll find yourself in a tunnel about three feet in diameter that carries the Electricity Board main cables. You’ll know when you’ve reached Chatsworth Steel because they’ve been obliging enough to paint it on the wall. There’s a single-course brick wall between you and the cellars of the office block. If it takes you longer than ten minutes to get through that I’ll eat my hat.”
“What about the alarm system?”
“I’m coming to that. When you get into the cellar you’ll find a battery of fuse boxes on the far wall and they’re all numbered. I’ve numbered the ones you’ll have to switch off in your instructions, but the most important thing to remember is to cut the green cable you’ll find running along the skirting board. It looks innocent enough, but it controls an alarm feeder system in case the others fail.”
“Are the vaults on the same level?”
“That’s right — at the far end of the corridor.”
“What about night guards?”
“They only have one.” Morgan raised his eyebrows incredulously and Vernon grinned. “I told you they’d installed every gadget known to man. The whole place is rigged for closed-circuit television, which is operated by one man from a control room off the main entrance hall. The moment you leave that cellar and walk down the passage you’ll be giving a command performance. All he does is lift the ’phone and the coppers are all over you before you know it.”
“Okay,” Morgan said. “The suspense is killing me. How do we sort that one out?”
“They run a three-shift system and our man takes over at eight. He always stops in at a little cafe near the main gates for sandwiches and a flask of coffee. On Wednesday night he’ll get more than he bargained for.”
“Something in his coffee?”
Vernon grinned. “Simple when you know how.”
Morgan looked dubious. “What if he hasn’t had a drink by the time we arrive. We’d be in dead lumber.”
“I’ve thought of that. You won’t break in till midnight. That gives him four hours. If he hasn’t had a drink by then, he never will.”
There was a long silence as Morgan sat staring into the distance, a slight frown on his face. After a while he sighed and shook his head.
“I’ve got to give it to you, Max. It’s good — it’s bloody good.”
“See you tomorrow night then,” Vernon said calmly and passed him the briefcase. “Everything you need is in there. Your train leaves at five o’clock. You’ve got twenty minutes.”
He watched Morgan disappear into the side street in the far corner of the square and nodded. So far, so good. The sun burst through the clouds, touching the fine spray of the fountain with colour and he smiled. There were times when life could really be very satisfying. He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and strolled away.
Duncan Craig watched him leave from the rear window of the old Commer van which was parked on the far side of the square. He, too, was smiling, but for a completely different reason. He turned and patted the chromium barrel of the directional microphone mounted on its tripod and started to dismantle it.
CHAPTER 12
It was raining hard when the van turned into Brag Alley and braked to a halt, the light from the headlamps picking out the faded lettering of the sign on the wooden doors that blocked the far end.
“This is it,” Morgan said. “Right — let’s have you, Jack.”
Fallon, a large, heavily built Irishman, jumped out, a pair of two-foot cutters in his hands that sliced through the padlock that secured the gates like a knife through butter. The gates swung open and Harris, the wheelman, took the van into the yard and cut the engine.
Fallon was already levering up the manhole in the alley and Morgan and Martin unloaded the van quickly and
