and Frankie Harris huddled into the driver’s seat miserably, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat.
He was getting old, that was the trouble — too old for this sort of action by night. He seemed to have been waiting there for hours and yet it was no more than forty-five minutes since his three companions had entered the manhole.
His feet were so cold that he could no longer feel them and after a while he opened the door and stepped into the rain. He walked up and down for a minute or two, stamping his feet to restore the circulation, and then paused to light a cigarette, his hands cupped around the flaring match.
He gave a sudden, terrible start as the light picked a face out of the night — a dark, formless face lacking eyes and mouth that could belong to nothing human.
He staggered back in horror, the match dropping from his nerveless fingers, and his throat was seized in a grip of iron.
“Frank Harris?” The thing had a voice. “You’re just out of the Ville, aren’t you?”
The pressure was released and Harris nodded violently. “That’s right.”
“How long?”
“Ten days.”
“You bloody fool.” Suddenly he found himself being jerked round and propelled towards the gate. “Now start running,” the voice said harshly, “and don’t stop. Anything that happens to you after this, you deserve.”
Harris ran along the alley as he hadn’t run since he was a boy and when he reached the end, paused, leaning against the wall.
“Christ Jesus,” he sobbed. “Oh, Christ Jesus.”
After a while he pulled himself together, turned into the main road and started walking briskly in the direction of the Central Station.
Duncan Craig moved rapidly along the tunnel towards the patch of light that streamed in through the broken wall from the cellar. When he reached the opening he paused to examine his watch, wondering if he had timed things right and a sudden, muffled explosion reverberating throughout the basement told him that he had.
He dropped into the cellar and moved out into the passage, a strange and sinister figure in his dark clothing, a nylon stocking pulled down over his face.
A cloud of dust and smoke filtered out through the half open door of the strongroom at the far end of the passage and he moved towards it cautiously and peered inside.
The room was full of dust and smoke and beyond through the half open vault door, he was aware of a vague movement. He stepped back into the passageway and slammed the strongroom door shut, jerking down the handle, the locking bolts clanging into their sockets with a grim finality. Without the key he was unable to actually lock the door, but the important thing was that it would be impossible for it to be opened from the inside. He turned and moved back along the passage.
As he passed the entrance to the service stairs, Fallon jumped on him from five steps up, fourteen stone of bone and muscle driving Craig into the floor.
For the moment, he was winded and as he struggled for air, the Irishman’s massive forearm wrapped itself around his throat. As the pressure increased, Craig rammed the point of his right elbow back hard, catching Fallon in the stomach just under the rib cage. Fallon gasped and again Craig drove his elbow home with all his force. As the Irishman’s grip slackened, Craig twisted round and slammed him backwards with the heel of his hand.
Fallon rolled against the wall, the instinct derived from a hundred street fights bringing him to his feet in a reflex action, but Craig was already up and waiting for him. As Fallon moved in, Craig’s right foot flicked out in a perfectly executed
Ruth Miller waved the last of her guests goodbye and closed the door. She looked at her watch and smothered a yawn. One o’clock. A good party and the clearing up could wait till morning. She started across the hall and the ’phone rang.
Nick Miller and his brother were having a final drink in front of the fire when she looked in. “It’s for you, Nick. He wouldn’t say who he was. I do hope you don’t have to go out.”
“On a night like this? Not on your life.” He went out into the hall and picked up the ’phone.
“That you, Miller?”
“Yes, who is it?”
“Never mind that. Chatsworth Iron & Steel — they usually keep a couple of hundred thousand in their vault on a Wednesday night, don’t they? You’d better get down there quick. They almost lost it.” There was a hoarse chuckle. “Poor old Maxie. Talk about the best-laid schemes…”
But Miller had already cut him off and was dialling the best-known telephone number in England furiously.
The main C.I.D. office was a hive of industry when Grant entered at two a.m. and Miller got up from his desk and went to meet him.
“Well, this is a turn up for the book and no mistake,” Grant said.
“You’ve had a look at Chatsworth’s, sir?”
“Never seen anything like it. Any chance of a cup of tea?”
Miller nodded to a young D.C. who disappeared at once and they went into Grant’s office.
“What about the guard?”
“I’ve just had a ’phone call from the man I sent with him to the Infirmary. Apparently his coffee was laced with enough chloral hydrate to put him asleep for twelve hours so he still hasn’t come round.”
“Who have we got in the bag?”
“Joe Morgan for one.”
“Have we, by George?” Grant’s eyebrows went up. “We certainly don’t need a scratch sheet on him. One of the best petermen in the game. Was Johnny Martin with him?”
Miller nodded. “That’s right.”
“I thought so — they usually work together. Who else?”
“We found a nasty-looking piece of work lying in the basement passageway. He’d taken quite a beating.”
“Is he okay now?”
“Alive and kicking, but making things awkward for us. Jack Brady’s running his fingerprints through C.R.O. now. We found their transport, by the way, parked in a monumental mason’s yard in Brag Alley at the other end of the tunnel which they used to gain access. No sign of a wheelman.”
“Maybe they didn’t use one.”
“Could be — I’ve put out a general call anyway, just in case.”
The tea arrived and Grant drank some gratefully, warming his hands around the cup. “Fantastic, Nick — that’s the only word for it. This thing was planned to the last inch, you realise that don’t you? They’d have been in London by morning. God knows where after that.”
“Except for an elusive someone who shut the strongroom door on Morgan and Martin and left this other bloke lying unconscious in the passageway.”
“Your informer, presumably. And he mentioned Vernon?”
“As far as I’m concerned he did. Vernon’s the only Maxie I know and planning a job like this would be right up his street.”
Grant emptied his cup and sighed. “I suppose you think it’s Craig?”
“I can’t see who else it could be.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Do I pull him in for questioning?”
“On what charge?” Grant spread his hands. “We’d have to think up a brand-new one just for him.”
“What about accessary before the fact? He knew the caper was coming off — he should have passed on the
