Tremor

  ‘Someone got killed on that Twickenham job,’ says Big Smith. ‘Awkward accident. You want to avoid that. When folk get killed it makes it all more serious, like.’

  ‘I would not want any of that,’ says Artemis, his eyes yellow behind his glasses, but suddenly alert.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ says Smith. ‘Sure thing not.’

  There is silence for a few seconds. Nimbus clouds of tobacco smoke hover above them.

  ‘Merchant banks,’ says Johnny Carpenter again, folding his long arms, ‘merchant banks never carry that much cash. You can’t expect millions. What can we expect to make it worthwhile? What would you say, Big? It’s your idea.’

  ‘What would you say, Fred?’ Big passes the buck.

  ‘Oh.’ A shrug. ‘ Couple of hundred grand.’

  ‘You seen it?’ demands Garrett.

  ‘How can you expect him to have seen it?’ Big is exasperated. ‘It’s always a bit of a toss-up, as you’ve just said yourself.’

  ‘One good thing.’ Johnny Carpenter sniffs. ‘These merchant places, security’s not so tight. And they do have some cash. Often gold. What have you seen, Fred?’

  ‘I know there’s plenty about. I seen the empty bags. And the bands. Often as not they’re thrown out with the waste.’

  ‘Bands?’

  Johnny sighs patiently. ‘You never seen used banknotes in packets, Greg? Course you have; what about Bournemouth? Those brown-paper bands says fifty-pound notes, and then the number in the packets. Makes ’em easier to deal with and count. That’s what you meant, Fred?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Right.’

  They all listened to a sports car accelerating up the hill.

  ‘Might come round tomorrow,’ says Garrett. ‘See for myself.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What about guns?’ says Big. ‘You arrange that, Mr Artemis?’

  ‘I would prefer not.’

  ‘Then Greg can, I know. Greg’s got his own estate, Greg has. Shoots his pheasants regular. Aside from his Twickenham doorman.’

  Greg says: ‘Keep your wit for them as appreciate it.’

  ‘If more of you want to come round in the morning, come,’ says Prosser. ‘But I wouldn’t want to wait long.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Zenith Cleaning rotate their cleaners. Never been more’n three months on any one job.’

  ‘Are you the only cleaner?’ Mr Artemis asks.

  ‘Yes, sir. I work a five-day week, like the rest of the bank.’

  After another silence Big Smith says: ‘ If it’s up to me I’d go in as soon as poss. Any more questions? What about you, Joe?’

  ‘I’m for going in. But it’ll be a long wait.’

  ‘Could be. I suppose we could go in at eight. Cut the waiting.’

  ‘Nah,’ Prosser says. ‘Postman comes about eight. Bachelor signs for the letters. Must be inside before that. Anyways, I’m supposed to leave at eight thirty. Bachelor shows me out. The doorman comes just after.’

  ‘So who’s going to take in the letters when the postman comes? We got to handle him as well?’

  ‘You can’t. He’s got a mate in his van. But you won’t need to. It’ll take no time to deal with Bachelor after the postman’s been, and I can be trussed up in two minutes dead.’

  ‘Or not dead, as the case may be.’

  ‘You will have your fun, Big,’ says Prosser uneasily.

  Mr Artemis takes off his glasses and looks at the little man more closely.

  ‘Have you got any form, Prosser?’

  ‘Form? Me? No, not on your life!’

  ‘They’ll grill you, you know.’

  ‘Oh, a bit. But not, I reckon, if I’m tied up proper. Why me more than anyone else?’

  ‘He don’t look like a robber, I must say,’ Johnny Carpenter says with a mocking grin. ‘More like the type that gets robbed.’

  Big Smith says: ‘I can bring in Ron Oller for the cars. You can rest on him.’

  ‘The cars will be seen to,’ says Mr Artemis. ‘I don’t think we need to split off another share.’

  ‘OK.’

  Johnny Carpenter is staring at the small stiff figure of Garrett. ‘But if Greg don’t like the deal …’

  ‘Course he does. Or will when he’s seen the territory. Who’ll go with him tomorrow?’

  Prosser said: ‘ Two’s company, three’s a crowd. I’m not sure—’

  Mr Artemis interrupts. ‘ I think if Big has seen it, that should be enough. I wouldn’t want too many of you hovering around. People might see you going in and out. If Greg’s agreeable I think you should go in tomorrow or Friday.’

  ‘OK,’ says Greg, pulling down his waistcoat. ‘I reckon I’ll go along with that.’

  II

  Benson & Benson were a small but influential private bank whose offices in St Mary’s Gate were on the ground and first floors of a narrow concrete building put up during the boom after the war. The offices followed the fashion of the day, with concrete pillars, inside too, lots of glass, black square-shouldered vinyl furniture, flush doors, ficus and palms, and discreet trellis work. The firm had moved here after being bombed out and had maintained its reputation as one of the solid, old-fashioned merchant banks that could be relied on to uphold the reputation of the City. On the floors above them were corporate financiers and insurance brokers; and, on the top floor of all, John Bachelor, the caretaker, and his wife had a small flat.

  Double doors led into the ground-floor reception hall and office of Benson & Benson, and to the stairs and the lift. A small desk left of centre in the hall was occupied by Higgins, the porter general and receptionist.

  St Mary Gate is only five minutes from Liverpool Street Station, but at six thirty on Friday the 26th of February the daily rush had not begun. The latter part of February had been mild, with a lot of rain, but today was dry and windy. A man walking here and there, an occasional car accelerating down the street, were the only signs of the traffic to come.

  No one took special notice of a white Ford Zodiac Estate that parked a hundred yards down the street, leaving its sidelights on to welcome the approaching day. There was room enough in the back of the car for Greg Garrett and Joe Rooney. Johnny Carpenter was driving with Big Smith beside him. From here they had a clear view in the semi-dark of the alley running beside the bank, in which the side door was situated.

  Presently Fred Prosser walked down the street, having come from the station, pressed the bell of the side door, was examined through the grille and allowed in.

  It was the signal for the four men to reach behind and take out stocking masks. Then a roll of sacking was pulled forward, unwrapped, and the sawn-off shotguns distributed. Johnny Carpenter alone carried a French Army revolver. They did not at once put on the masks, but sat and waited. Big Smith whistled through his teeth. He whistled ‘ Mighty Like a Rose’. When he was a boy he had seen a play in which the murderer whistled ‘Mighty Like a Rose’ before his next killing.

  No one had any intention of killing anyone if it was possible, but if you went in feeling like killing someone it gave you just that extra frightfulness. They were all on Benzedrine.

  It wasn’t long before the side door swung open and then closed again. That was the signal. One by one they pulled on their stocking masks and slid quietly out of the car, across the street in the half dark, down the alley, to find the door ajar, edged in. The last of them closed the door behind them.

  Big Smith led the way along the passage into the entrance hall, thence to the ladies’ lavatory. The four men, two of them very big, filled the room.

  It had been arranged that as soon as the mail came and Bachelor had signed for it and put it on the porter’s desk, Fred Prosser should tap on the lavatory door to say they could come out. But time went on and the tap did not come.

  It was hot and uncomfortable standing here. They were all wearing heavy sweaters so that they should look bigger and more frightening. Greg Garrett wore built-up heels. For
tunately they could relieve themselves, even though it was forbidden to pull the plug. At ten past eight the door opened an inch and Fred Prosser hissed: ‘ Post’s late.’

  In a straggling chorus, necessarily hushed, they cursed the Royal Mail. The first of the staff, the doorman, Higgins, was due at eight thirty. It was cutting it fine.

  ‘Not sure whether we shouldn’t call the whole thing off,’ snarled Garrett, always the one to panic, the one most likely to blow up in an emergency.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Big. ‘We got twenty minutes.’

  ‘For Chrissake,’ muttered Rooney. ‘We got to move soon.’

  The stocking masks had been half lifted so that they could smoke. Johnny Carpenter took a flask from his pocket and handed it round. At eight fifteen the tap came. They burst out.

  III

  Higgins, an ex-sergeant in the Military Police, whose daily job it was to unlock the main doors, came in by the side door at eight twenty-nine. As he closed it behind him he was confronted by two big masked men brandishing shotguns. A wise soldier knows when the odds are against him, and he did not put up a fight. Bound and gagged, he was dragged sack-like into a corner of the reception hall and dumped alongside Prosser, the cleaner from the Zenith company, and Bachelor, the caretaker. Wide-eyed, he stared around. Men with shotguns everywhere. In his testimony later he said there were at least seven of them. (The testimony of others reduced it to five.)

  Waiting in robberies can sometimes be the greatest strain – waiting interspersed with sudden bursts of violence. Fifteen people had to come. But was it just fifteen? And which was which? Prosser couldn’t be consulted, or it would blow his cover. All would have to be in their offices before ten, when Benson & Benson were officially open to do business. There were six or seven – Prosser could not remember – for the firms on the upper floors, but they came in through a separate entrance.

  A man called Davies was the next to arrive. His first job was to sort the mail and take it to the various offices. When he came in he saw that Higgins was not at his desk and that the mail, an unusually heavy one, had slid onto the floor. As he went across, tut-tutting to himself, something was thrust into his back and he turned to see a masked figure urging him to submit quietly. He submitted quietly.

  Next two typists. One gave a little squeal and almost fainted; the other, quick as a flash, turned and darted for the door. But Johnny Carpenter was there to grab her and stuff a cloth into her mouth. She was then passed back to Joe Rooney, whose special talent was tying people up without strangling them.

  Another wait. Then came Mr Leeds.

  He was treated like the others, but more gently, for he carried the keys. As they were taken from him he had the defiance to say: ‘They won’t do you any good.’

  ‘We know that, cock. Waiting for Mr Railton now, aren’t we.’

  ‘You won’t get in even then. You’d best give it up.’

  ‘What’re you on about?’

  ‘Collins is needed as well.’

  ‘Who’s Collins?’

  ‘The cashier. He’s not here yet.’

  A gun was shoved in his face. ‘What the hell does he do?’

  ‘He’s got the third set.’

  ‘So what? You mean one lot won’t work without the others?’

  ‘That’s right. You’d be better to go now before somebody raises the alarm.’

  ‘I’ll blow your bloody head off!’

  ‘Ask anyone here. Ask Railton when he comes. I’m only telling you the truth!’

  When Railton came – and he was early – they took his keys and tried the two lots together, but the safe doors did not budge. Irritatingly the keys were stamped ONE and THREE.

  Settle to wait, silently cursing Prosser while careful not to look at him.

  Settle to wait. Not easy in a large reception hall with not much cover and seven – eight – ten – eleven trussed-up bodies in the alcove beside the lift.

  Traffic increasing now. The reluctant daylight had arrived and showed up the long narrow street outside. From here you could just see the Zodiac with its sidelights on. Other cars were stopping near; a taxi discharging its occupants.

  One of the girls began to moan and retch, and Johnny Carpenter was compelled to go over and loosen her gag. He waved his revolver and put its cold muzzle against her temple. ‘ One scream and I’ll do for you.’ She rolled her eyes and stayed very quiet, glad only to be able to swallow again.

  Five more men, rapidly and efficiently dealt with.

  But Collins was late.

  His train to Broad Street had been held up with a points failure. He didn’t hurry, for he was a phlegmatic man. He had no special expectation that his keys would be needed in the first fifteen minutes of business. As he turned out of Bishopsgate into Camomile Street a first flurry of rain came round the corner spraying him like an impudent child. He stopped to raise his umbrella. February Fill Dyke. But they had had enough. His garden, which was on heavy clay, was waterlogged.

  Young Benson, barely fifty, senior partner since his father died, was off skiing, and had left it all to the other two, also youngsters in Collins’s perspective. All the partners were too much like whiz-kids these days. Old Alfred Benson had been the ballast, the stabilizing influence, the upholder of the firm’s tradition for solidity and careful judgement. Collins thought: I’ve only five years to go. A fair pension, of course, and I’ve put a tidy bit aside. Just have to tell Mavis to draw in her horns. Sometimes she frittered money; nothing to show for it; just frittered.

  There was a traffic jam as he came into St Mary Gate; it started into motion again as he went up the three steps and walked into the offices of Benson & Benson, as he had done man and boy for the last thirty years.

  They were waiting for him, this strange reception committee. They treated him with less courtesy than they had the early arrivals. Bruised and shaken, he joined the assembled group of twenty people lying on the floor. Only Mr Leeds and Mr Railton had been given the dignity of chairs. Hands reached in his pockets, rudely searching, keys withdrawn. Lying on his face, he could only guess what was now going to take place.

  IV

  It didn’t take long then.

  Mr Leeds alone was taken down and forced to supervise the opening of the vaults. Big Smith and Johnny Carpenter ransacked them, while Garrett and Rooney stayed in the reception hall standing guard over the prisoners and on the qui vive if anyone else came in. Rooney’s nose had begun to drip as it often did in a crisis, and he kept sniffing and raising his arm to wipe his mask on his sleeve.

  Five minutes they’d reckoned, once the vaults were opened. Into the waiting bags everything that was likely to be of negotiable value. Much cast aside at a glance, but when in doubt take and sort later. Some drawers in the second vault were full of money; grab those, empty those; urge to be gone.

  Five full bags they carried up the stairs. Greg Garrett had been searching the safes, contents in another bag.

  Big Smith said to the prisoners: ‘Listen, you lot. Nobody’s going to get hurt so long as you do what I say. Right?’

  No one answered.

  Smith said: ‘ We gonna leave you now. One of us is gonna stay outside the side door to make sure we get clear. If someone gets in our way we shall shoot ’ em down. Right? So it’s five minutes by that clock. When the clock says five to, you can move. Not before. If you move before, if we hear any screamings or trying to set the alarm off, my mate will come in again and empty his gun at the lot of you. That’s a promise. As God is my judge we’ll do for the lot of you. Right?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Here, you,’ Smith said to Leeds, who’d been thrust back on his chair. ‘You’re manager so you’re responsible. If anyone sets up a racket my mate’s been told to finish you off first. Right? Understand?’

  Leeds nodded. Then from between parched lips he muttered: ‘Yes.’

  Two of the men had gone. Big jerked his head at Johnny, who was locking and bolting the front entrance. ‘On your way.
’

  It had been a long time since they went in. A street crowded with cars, inclining down towards traffic lights at the end. People, chiefly men, pushing along the pavements, hurrying to work.

  As each man came out he pulled off his mask and, carrying their dark bags, they sauntered out into St Mary Gate, mixing unremarked with the rest, crossed the street to the waiting car. The boot was not big enough for six bags, so two went on to the back seat with Garrett and Smith following.

  At that moment a woman called Elsie Wardle, who was selling flags on behalf of the Red Cross, approached them. She was an enthusiastic collector and had reasoned that by being out early she would catch a lot of people going to work.

  ‘Support the Red Cross?’ she said, rattling her tin and smiling.

  They took not the slightest notice of her until Big Smith, stepping back to open the rear door, trod on her toe and nearly upset her tray of flags.

  ‘Well, really!’ she shouted. ‘Some people! Some people haven’t got the manners of pigs!’

  Johnny Carpenter was driving, and as he saw a gap in the traffic he prepared to pull out. Big Smith was sliding into the back, and as Miss Wardle was somewhat in the way he gave her a shove in the chest.

  ‘Go stuff yourself, dear,’ he shouted.

  V

  Make towards Houndsditch, then south with the flow, cross Aldgate and turn into a car park in the Minories. There they changed cars for a Mark 9 Jaguar, thoughtfully provided by Mr Artemis, and left the Zodiac in its place. Mr Artemis had insisted that all the cars they used should be ‘clean’, so there was no risk of being held up at some embarrassing juncture. In the Zodiac they left masks, some clothing, what was left of the rope, rubber gloves, etc. The guns were too precious to abandon. Greg Garrett, who had provided them, said he could cope with them. It was not as if any of them had been fired.