joined him. He dropped into the tunnel and they passed down the heavy cylinders for the oxy-acetyline cutter and the other equipment and followed him.
Harris dropped to one knee and Morgan whispered “Replace the manhole, shut yourself into the yard and sit tight. An hour and a quarter at the most.”
The manhole clanged into place above his head as he dropped down to join the others. He switched on the powerful battery lantern he carried and its beam cut into the darkness. In spite of the thick cables, there was room to crawl and he moved off without a word, Fallon and Martin following, each dragging a canvas hold-all containing the equipment.
It was bitterly cold, the insulating jackets of the heavy cables damp with condensation, and at one point there was a sudden whispering like dead leaves rustling through a forest in the evening and a pair of eyes gleamed through the darkness.
“Jesus Christ, rats,” Jack Fallon said. “I can’t stand them.”
“At these prices you can afford to,” Morgan said and paused as his torch picked out the name Chatsworth Steel painted in white letters on the wall. “Here we are.”
“Not much room to swing,” Martin commented.
“Never mind that. Get the bloody gear out and let’s have a go.”
Martin was a small, undersized man with prematurely white hair, but his arms and shoulders were over- developed from a spell of working in the rock quarry at Dartmoor and he lay on his side and swung vigorously with a seven-pound hammer at the cold chisel which Fallon held in position.
When the wall gave, it was not one, but a dozen bricks which collapsed suddenly into the cellar on the other side. Martin grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light of the lamp.
“There’s present-day British workmanship for you. I don’t know what the country’s coming to.”
Morgan shone his lantern into the darkness on the other side and picked out the control panel at once. “Come on, let’s get in there,” he said. “We’re right on time. Let’s keep it that way.”
It was the work of a couple of minutes to enlarge the hole sufficiently to allow him to pass through and he left the others to manage the equipment and made straight for the control panel.
There were thirty-seven boxes on the board, each one numbered, and he had to pull the switch on nine of them. He had memorised the numbers, but checked them from the list Vernon had given him just to make sure.
“Everything okay?” Martin said at his shoulder.
“Couldn’t be sweeter.” Morgan dropped to one knee, located the green cable running along the edge of the skirting board and severed it neatly with a pair of pocket cutters. “That’s it unless Vernon’s made a mistake somewhere, which I doubt.”
When he opened the door, the outside corridor was brilliantly lit by neon light. “What in the hell is the idea of that?” Martin demanded.
“For the television cameras, you fool. They wouldn’t see much in the dark, would they?” Morgan led the way out into the corridor and grinned tightly. “Keep your fingers crossed. If that bloke upstairs is still awake, he’s seen us already.”
“I can’t see any cameras,” Martin said in bewilderment.
“No, but they can see you.” Morgan paused at the foot of the service stairs. “You stay here. Jack and I will go and take a look.”
He went up the stairs quickly. The door at the top had a Yale lock and therefore opened from the inside with no difficulty.
The hall was tiled in black and white and brilliantly illuminated, its great glass doors protected by a bronze security grill. Morgan knew exactly where he was making for. He crossed the hall quickly, found the third door on the right with
The guard had obviously tumbled from the black leather swivel chair in front of the control panel and sprawled on his face. The thermos flask stood open on a small table at one side and Morgan poured a little into the empty cup and tested it.
“Cold — he’s been out for ages.”
“Would you look at this now?” Fallon said in wonder.
There were at least thirty separate screens on the control panel. Not only was every entrance to the building covered, but cameras had obviously been positioned at strategic sites in all the main corridors.
“There’s Johnny,” Fallon said, pointing.
They could see Martin clearly as he stood in the basement corridor, the two canvas hold-alls at his feet.
“Looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Morgan said and leaned forward. “There’s the entrance to the strongroom and that’s a picture of the vault door. Look, they’ve even got a shot of the interior. Would you credit it.”
“It’s fantastic,” Fallon said. “You can see everything from up here.”
Morgan nodded. “Come to think of it, it might be a good idea if you stayed up here, Jack. You’ve got every entrance to the building covered. If anyone did turn up, you’d know in a flash. Johnny and I can manage below.”
“And how will I know when to join you?” Fallon said.
“You’ll see on the screen, won’t you?”
Fallon grinned delightedly. “And so I will. Off you go then, Joe, and God bless the good work.”
Morgan went down the service stairs quickly and rejoined Martin. “Let’s get moving,” he said and picked up one of the canvas hold-alls.
The entrance to the strongroom was at the end of the passage, a steel door with a double padlock that took him exactly three minutes to pick.
He crossed the room quickly and examined the face of the vault door, testing the handles. Behind him, Martin had already got the first cylinder out of his hold-all. He screwed home one end of the flexible hose that connected it to the blow torch and ignited the flame.
Morgan pulled on a pair of protective goggles and held out his hand. “Okay, let’s get to work,” he said.
A few moments later he was cutting into the steel face of the vault, six inches to the right of the locking mechanism, with the precision of an expert.
For something like forty-five minutes, Jack Fallon had a seat at the show that couldn’t have been bettered if he’d been sitting in the front circle at his local cinema. He leaned back in the swivel chair, smoking one cigarette after the other, intent on the drama that was being enacted below.
He was at Morgan’s side when he finished cutting the hole and waited, biting his fingernails, while the explosive was gently poured inside the lock, sealed with a plastic compound and fused.
He heard no noise, but the visual effect of the explosion was dramatic enough. The door seemed to tremble, then a portion of it around the lock seemed to disintegrate before his eyes and smoke rose in a cloud.
He saw Morgan and Martin rush forward, heaving on the door together, swinging it open, and switched his gaze to the next screen in time to see them enter the interior of the vault itself.
He jumped to his feet, excitement racing through him, started to turn away and paused, a cold chill spreading through his body.
He was looking at another screen — the one that gave a view of the passageway linking the cellar by which they had entered the building with the strongroom. A man was moving along the passage cautiously, tall and dark in sweater and pants, gloves on his hands and a nylon stocking pulled over his face.
Fallon cursed savagely, turned and ran to the door, knocking over the chair in his haste.
Beyond the van a monumental cross reared into the night and here and there, marble tombstones gleamed palely. The mason’s yard was dark and lonely, a place of shadows that was too much like a cemetery for comfort
