Here Comes Charlie M Read online

  When there was still no response, Wilberforce pressed on: ‘We’ll have put the Russians in their place and there won’t be a service, either in the West or the East, who won’t know about it … because I’ve already made damned sure it’s being spelled out, move by move …’

  ‘It’s very involved,’ said Cuthbertson reluctantly.

  ‘And foolproof,’ said Wilberforce. ‘No risk. No danger.’

  ‘There are too many things over which we haven’t any control,’ said Ruttgers, through a tobacco cloud. ‘Charlie Muffin has only got to do one thing we don’t expect and the whole thing is thrown on its ass.’

  ‘But it won’t be,’ said Wilberforce. ‘The jewellery is being taken tonight. Once that goes, everything else follows naturally. It hardly matters what Charlie Muffin does. He’s helpless to affect it, in any way. In fact, that’s exactly what he is – helpless.’

  ‘What about the civil police?’ protested Smith. ‘They’re already involved in the bank robbery. There’s a risk there.’

  ‘We employed a petty crook on that … the same one who will be used tonight. We’ll arrange his arrest, so that most of the stuff taken from the Brighton bank can be recovered and returned to its owners – those not too frightened of any tax investigation to claim it, anyway.’

  ‘He’ll talk,’ said Smith.

  ‘About what?’ enquired Wilberforce. ‘A mystery man called Brown who seems to have an enormous amount of inside information and knowledge?’

  He nodded towards Snare, whose reluctance at the instructions he had been given that night was growing with the objections from the other people in the room.

  ‘The meetings are always arranged by telephone. They’ve only ever met at crowded railway stations. And they’ll part immediately after the Fabergé robbery, just as they separated directly after the Brighton bank robbery. Packer can talk for as long as he likes and it won’t matter a damn. He’s a villain, with a list of previous convictions. Which is exactly why we chose him. We’ve even ensured that during the bank robbery he drank from a mug which was left behind, so there will be saliva contrasts for blood type identification. He’ll be sufficient for the police, especially when they’ll be able to return most of the property. Why can’t you accept that there is nothing that can go wrong?’

  ‘Because I’m not convinced it’s that easy,’ said Smith. He hesitated, then added quietly: ‘So I won’t agree with it.’

  Wilberforce stared back expressionlessly at the other Director. He hadn’t expected an outright refusal.

  Smith stood up, feeling he had to emphasise his reasons.

  ‘Not only is it dangerous,’ he said, ‘it’s stupid. Because it’s unnecessary.’

  ‘I don’t really see that there’s a great deal you can do to stop it,’ pointed out Wilberforce objectively. It was unfortunate he had to be quite so direct, he thought. In many ways, Smith’s growing condescension reminded him of his wife. At least, he decided, he’d be able to make Smith express his regret, later on.

  For several moments, the two Directors stared at each other and Wilberforce imagined the American was going to argue further. Then Onslow Smith jerked his head towards Ruttgers.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  As the men walked to the door of the huge office, Wilberforce called out: ‘I do hope that you’re not severing our co-operation on this matter.’

  Smith halted, looking back.

  ‘It was not I who ended the co-operation,’ he said.

  Neither American spoke until they had settled in the back of the waiting limousine and were heading towards Grosvenor Square.

  ‘We going ahead by ourselves?’ asked Ruttgers, expectantly.

  ‘We bring men in,’ agreed Smith. ‘A lot more than were with you in Zürich.’

  ‘Why?’

  Smith didn’t answer immediately.

  ‘Wilberforce is a sneaky son of a bitch,’ he said, after several minutes’ thought. ‘I’m not going to get our asses in any snare he’s laying for us.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Even when you can control the civil police, as Wilberforce can within limitations on a thing like this, a killing is still a killing. I’m not making a move against Charlie Muffin until I’m convinced that Wilberforce isn’t setting us up.’

  ‘More delays,’ moaned Ruttgers bitterly. ‘We’re giving the bastard a chance.’

  ‘But we’re not making any mistakes,’ said Smith. He’d already made too many, imagining there was safety in letting Wilberforce take the lead. It was time, thought Smith, that he started looking after himself. And that was what he was going to do.

  Back in the Whitehall office, Cuthbertson stared at the Director’s desk he had once occupied.

  ‘They forgot to take the money with them,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ said Wilberforce confidently.

  Contacting Rupert Willoughby by telephone, instead of going personally either to his flat or City office, was probably a useless precaution, decided Charlie. But it might just reduce the danger to the younger man. So it was worth while. It was right he should feel guilt at compromising Sir Archibald’s son, he knew.

  ‘Warn me?’ queried the underwriter.

  ‘The robbery must mean they’ve found me,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s very easy for the department to gain access to bank account details. If they’re aware of the meetings between us, they’ll know the £50,000 inheritance has been moved from deposit. And probably guessed the other money came from me, as well.’

  ‘Couldn’t the robbery just be a coincidence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a guaranteed way to get me back here … where they can do what they like, when they like and in circumstances over which they’ll have most control.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Willoughby softly.

  Very soon, thought Charlie, the man would appreciate it really wasn’t a game.

  ‘I’ve already had to involve you,’ apologised Charlie. ‘I’ve had to make a statement to the police and I gave you as a business reference.’

  ‘They’ve already contacted me,’ confirmed Willoughby. ‘I think I satisfied them.’

  Law was very thorough, Charlie decided.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I had little choice, did I?’ said Willoughby.

  The attitude was changing, recognised Charlie.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked the underwriter.

  ‘I don’t understand enough to do anything yet,’ said Charlie. He stopped, halted by a thought If Wilberforce were the planner, he’d get perverse enjoyment moving against the son of the man he considered had impeded his promotion in the department.

  ‘Has anything happened to you in the last few weeks that you regard as strange?’ Charlie continued. ‘Any unusual business activity?’

  There was a delay at the other end of the line, while the man searched his memory.

  ‘No,’ said Willoughby finally.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive. Whatever could happen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re not very encouraging,’ protested Willoughby.

  ‘I’m not trying to be. I’m trying to be objective.’

  ‘What should I do?’ asked the underwriter.

  ‘Just be careful,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re bastards.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be the one taking care?’

  Charlie grimaced at the question. Wilberforce was using him like a laboratory animal, he thought suddenly, goading and prodding to achieve an anticipated reaction. When laboratory tests were over, the animal was usually killed. When, he wondered, would Wilberforce’s experiment end?

  ‘I am,’ promised Charlie, emptily.

  ‘When are we going to meet?’

  ‘We’re not,’ said Charlie definitely.

  ‘Let’s keep in touch daily, at least.’

  The concern was discernible in the man’s voice.


  ‘If I can.’

  ‘My father always said there was one thing particularly unusual about you, Charlie. He said you were an incredible survivor,’ recalled Willoughby.

  But usually he’d known from which way the attack was coming, thought Charlie. Willoughby had meant the remark as encouragement, he recognised. To which of them? he wondered.

  ‘I still am,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so,’ said the underwriter.

  ‘So do I,’ said Charlie. ‘So do I.’

  FIFTEEN

  Because the northern extension of the Tate Gallery had once been the Queen Alexandra Hospital, occupied by hundreds of people, the sewer complex immediately beneath it was much larger than the other outlets that served the area. They had gone in through a manhole in Islip Street, Snare leading. He was still ahead, guiding the safebreaker, the miner’s lamp he wore perfectly illuminating the huge cylindrical passageways.

  ‘What a bloody smell!’ protested Johnny. He moved clumsily, feet either side of the central channel, trying to avoid going into the water.

  ‘In Paris, visiting the sewers is considered a tourist attraction,’ said Snare. The man was right; it did stink.

  ‘So’s eating frogs,’ sneered Johnny. Like Snare, he was wearing a hiker’s rucksack, bulging with material it had again taken over a week to purchase. In addition, he hauled a collapsible sledge upon which was strapped the drilling motor and heavier equipment. The light from Snare’s lamp was sufficient for them both, so Johnny hadn’t bothered to turn his on. There was a sudden sound of scurried scratching, and Johnny grabbed out for Snare.

  ‘Rats,’ the larger man identified the noise, shrugging the hand away.

  Johnny snapped on his light and in his anxiety went in up to his ankle in the water. Snare smiled at the outraged gasp.

  ‘Can’t stand rats,’ said the safebreaker. He shivered. ‘Let’s hurry up and get out of here.’

  Snare ignored the other man, trying to play his light on to the Department of the Environment plan he’d taken from the sidepocket of his bulging pack. The gallery extension had meant there had been a lot of plans available, he thought gratefully. The sewer route had been marked on the chart in red, with notes on the alarm system and precautions installed overhead.

  He heard another splash, an immediate curse and then felt Johnny pressing close to him. Snare pulled away, recalling a medical record he had studied in one of the police files and the assessment why Packer’s downfalls invariably involved burly young men of limited intelligence.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Johnny, looking over his shoulder. ‘Never worked with anyone who managed to get hold of the stuff you do … it’s like a bloody guide-book.’

  ‘Grot a friend,’ said Snare. It was the sort of remark the man would remember when he’d been arrested. Might even cause further embarrassment to Willoughby’s firm if the man talked about drawings of the sort that insurers might possess.

  The tunnel surround began to get smaller and they had to proceed at a crouch.

  ‘Now we’re right beneath the original building,’ said Snare. Positioning Packer where the narrowing began, Snare carefully measured along the slimy wall, making a mark where he had to begin digging and then insisted on measuring again, to avoid any miscalculation.

  He brought another plan from the rucksack, a detailed diagram of all the alarm installations and wiring.

  ‘Where the hell did you get that?’ exclaimed Packer.

  ‘Same friend,’ said Snare. Confidently he traced their entry hole on to the sewer wall.

  ‘We’ll have to work cautiously,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘There are some vibration alarms in the flooring.’

  Snare operated the drill, as he had in Brighton. Again the tool was rubber cushioned, reducing both the noise and the recoil. The man worked very gently, discarding the bits the moment he thought they were becoming blunt and needed a sharper edge to cut into the concrete and brickwork. Frequently he referred to the wiring plan, using a rule to measure the depth of his hole. After about thirty minutes, he put aside the drill, chipping instead with a chisel and rubber-headed hammer, constantly feeling in and scraping away rubble and plaster by hand.

  He found the first cluster of wires after an hour. Then he rejected even the hammer, scratching an inch at a time with just the chisel head. When sufficient room had been made, he clamped the carefully prepared bypass leads, with their alligator clips, at either side of the wire cluster and then cut through.

  Johnny sighed.

  ‘No sound,’ he said.

  ‘There wouldn’t have been,’ Snare answered. ‘This alarm only operates in the Scotland Yard control room.’

  Because the adhesive tape they had used for the purpose at Brighton would not have stuck to the slime of the sewer walls, Snare knocked securing hooks into the bricks to hold the bypass leads out of the way.

  He used the drill again now, still stopping every few minutes for measurement. It was a further hour before he turned the drill off and began gently prodding at the hole. Suddenly there was a clattering fall of bricks and concrete different from the rest and Snare turned, smiling at the other man.

  ‘The floor,’ he said. ‘We’re through.’

  It took thirty minutes before the hole was big enough for them to clamber up, hauling the equipment behind them.

  ‘Thank Christ we’re out of there,’ said Johnny sincerely. The revulsion shook his body.

  Snare motioned him to silence, then checked his watch.

  ‘An hour and forty minutes before there’s any guard tour,’ he whispered. ‘But I don’t want any unnecessary sound.’

  He’d turned off his miner’s headset, using now a large hand-torch with an adjustable cowl, so that the light beam could be accurately controlled. Another plan came from the rucksack.

  ‘The Duneven room is above us and in that direction,’ indicated Snare, to his left. ‘The photographic room and restaurant is to the right and the stairs up to the ground floor should be immediately behind you.’

  Johnny turned, using his own torch, but Snare stopped him.

  ‘Don’t forget the bags,’ he said.

  From the sledge they were leaving near the hole, Johnny took a number of plastic containers, then walked towards the stairway.

  At the bottom he paused, awaiting Snare’s lead.

  ‘The first six are pressure activated,’ said Snare.

  He reached past the other man, laying a retractable plank stiffened at either edge by steel rods up to the eighth step.

  ‘Be careful,’ he warned.

  Hand lightly against the hand-rail for balance, Johnny inched up the ramp. The door at the top was locked and Johnny knelt before it, torch only inches away.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ he declared. From his pack he took the dentist’s pliers which he had modified since the Brighton robbery, so that the jaws could be locked. Into them he clamped a key blank and impressed it into the lock. Against the impressions he sketched a skeleton and within minutes had shaped a key from steel wire. The lock clicked back on his second attempt.

  ‘Alarm at the top,’ cautioned Snare. He pushed past, the magnetised bypass already in his hand. He slipped it over the break and then eased the door open. From his pack he took a wooden wedge, driving it beneath the door edge to prevent it accidentally slamming and disturbing the leads.

  Just inside the main hall, Snare went to a panel set into the wall, gesturing for Johnny to follow.

  ‘The first of the two alarm consoles,’ he said. ‘Open it.’

  Johnny used a wire probe this time, easing the tumblers back one by one.

  Snare had a plan devoted entirely to the wiring system that suddenly cobwebbed in front of them. He made Johnny hold it, freeing both his hands, and for fifteen minutes worked intently, muttering to himself, fixing jump leads and clamps.

  ‘There,’ he said, finally. ‘Castrated.’

  ‘You said two?’ queried Johnny.

  ‘This is the obvious one,’ said Snare. �
�The other one is identical but independently wired and concealed.’

  It was a floor panel, just inside the cloakroom.

  ‘Clever,’ said Johnny, admiringly.

  ‘Unless you know the secrets,’ smiled Snare. Practised now, it didn’t take him as long to neutralise the second system.

  ‘What now?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘Now,’ said Snare. ‘We just help ourselves if not to the actual crown jewels, as near as makes no difference.’

  He paused, checking the time.

  ‘And there’s still forty minutes before the attendant patrol.’

  The Russian collection was in the main exhibition room, every piece under glass. They stopped, as the torches picked out the jewels of the Fabergé reproductions.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Johnny.

  ‘A miniature jewelled train,’ said Snare. ‘It’s usually kept in the Armoury, in Moscow, along with those Easter egg ornaments in the next case …’

  ‘Imagine those in a necklace,’ said Johnny, wistfully.

  ‘Beautiful,’ agreed Snare. Pity you’d never have a chance to wear it, he thought, cruelly.

  ‘What sort of people have jewelled trains and Easter eggs?’ mused Johnny.

  ‘Rich people,’ said Snare. ‘Very rich people.’

  ‘Didn’t they all get killed though?’ queried Johnny.

  Snare frowned at the qualification.

  ‘Only because they were too stupid to realise the mistakes they were making,’ he said.

  He moved forward, gesturing to Johnny for the bags he had taken from the sledge. Against the side of each exhibition case he affixed a handle, with adhesive suckers at either tip, then sectioned the glass with a diamond-headed cutter. Gently, to avoid noise, he placed each piece of glass alongside the stand, put each exhibit into a protective chamois leather holder and then, finally, into a bigger container.