Читать книгу Robbery Without Violence - John Russell Fearn - Страница 5

CHAPTER TWO

Clive Burton, head cashier of the Mackinley Bank, passed a particularly restless night after the events of the day. In con­sequence he arrived at the bank the following morning in an anything but cheerful mood and his usual urbanity down at zero.

As he walked across the wealth of marble-tiled floor toward his office, morosely surveying the empty counters and the bare spaces behind the grilles as he went, he caught sight of the night watchman emerging from his quarters at the farther end of the wilderness.

“Everything all right, Anderson?” he called sharply.

Anderson was due to leave when the first of the day staff arrived, and he had never been known to be late for this appointment. He came shuffling across the tiles, scarf tied about his neck and old trilby pulled down over his eyes.

Immense integrity and the ability to keep awake at night had earned Anderson his post, and nobody had had any reason to complain of his nocturnal vigilance.

“Yes, Mr. Burton, everything’s all right. Noth­ing’s happened all night.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Burton retorted shortly. “Somehow I had rather expected trouble.”

“Trouble?” Anderson looked puzzled. “Why’s that?”

“Hang it, man, don’t you read the papers?” Burton exclaimed. “Don’t you know that fifty million in gold was lodged in this bank yesterday?”

Anderson scratched the back of his neck.

“Aye, now you come to mention it, I did read something about it—but then things are so watertight these days there ain’t nothing to fear.... Well, I’ll be on my way, Mr. Burton. Got to get my kip, you know. Good-day to you.”

* * * *

Burton walked the length of the tiled hall and vanished in the brick-walled region beyond. He finally went down into the basement, switched on all the lights, and finished his trip in front of the giant, impregnable door of the main strongroom.

He waited a moment or two; glanced at the electric clock, then smiled as there came a distinct click from the strongroom door. The time switch had operated dead to the second.

In a matter of moments, Burton had the enor­mous door open. It moved easily on its perfectly balanced hinges.

Again switching on the lights, he moved into the interior of the strongroom and surveyed the steel-walled section where the gold had been stacked the previous day—

Had been stacked?

Burton dragged to a standstill, staring. His common sense said one thing and his brain and eyes said another.

There was no gold! Not a brick, not an ingot, a trace! The steel-walled corner specially used for such deposits was empty.

By very slow degrees Burton found the power of movement He turned and began to run, yelling for members of the staff in general, and for Joseph Mackinley in particular.

A teller arrived first—the chief teller—and he nearly collided with Burton as he came dashing up the basement steps.

“What’s, the matter, Mr. Burton?” he asked in surprise. “Something happened?”

“The—the gold in the vault,” Burton gulped, his eyes staring. “It’s not there!”

“Not there! But that’s impossible!”

“I know it’s impossible, you fool, but it’s hap­pened! At least I think it has.”

“Think it has!” the teller exclaimed, glancing back at the others crowding down the basement steps.

“Maybe my eyes are wrong, or something.” Burton was looking sick. “Go and look, Edwards. Go and look!”

Burton swayed. He might even have fallen if the assortment of tellers and cashiers around him hadn’t supported him. Edwards went leaping down the stairs and a ghastly silence followed.

Then he came back slowly into view.

“Yes,” Edwards said, staring up. “It’s gone! The whole lot of it! It was ceiling-high when it was put in.”

“Where’s Mr. Mackinley?” Burton asked abruptly.

“Not here yet, sir. It’s only a little after nine.”

“Yes. Yes—of course.”

Burton shook himself and tried to get a grip on things. Slowly he went up the remainder of the stairs and then stood in the tiled hall, thinking.

The staff came up behind him, waiting.

“I suppose,” Burton said at last, “that I should send for the police immediately—but I’d better wait and see what Mr. Mackinley says. In the meantime I’ll check if the closed-circuit TV cameras picked anything up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you say, Mr. Burton.”

Everybody was extraordinarily polite, and no­body knew what to make of the situation. Gradu­ally the staff disbanded and moved to their different working positions in readiness for the day’s business.

As for Burton, he was almost deaf, dumb and blind to everything—as well he might be. The gold had been entrusted to him.

Outside Mackinley, he was the only one who knew the combination of the time lock. Whichever way he looked at it, the situation was alarming.

Pulling himself together, Burton let himself into the room containing the closed circuit television monitor screen. Half afraid of what he might see, he fast-forwarded through the recordings from the previous night and early morning.

As he watched, his bafflement and sense of foreboding increased. Apart from the night watchman himself, they appeared to clearly show that absolutely nobody else had entered the bank.

If anything, this increased Burton’s nervousness. If nobody had entered the bank during the night, then how had the gold been stolen?

But even with fifty million in gold missing, business carries on—on the surface—as usual. It did so at Mackinley’s Bank, and Mackinley him­self certainly saw nothing unusual when eventually he arrived toward 10:30.

Within five minutes, however, the blow had fallen.

Mackinley had barely settled himself at his desk, about to select his first cigar of the day, when there came a heavy knock on his door.

Before he could answer, the door burst open, and Burton came into the room.

Mackinley lost the expression of pleasant benevolence, but checked the angry expostulation on his lips as he caught sight of Burton’s strained features.

The chief cashier sank down, uninvited, into a seat near the desk. He leaned forward, gulped nervously, and said:

“The gold’s gone! Every bit of it—”

Mackinley’s heavy features registered a range of emotions as he listened to Burton’s halting account of the events. Anger gave way to sheer disbelief.

“But—but it’s fantastic!” he declared flatly, as a genuinely frightened Burton finished telling him of the facts. “Absolutely fantastic! It couldn’t happen!”

“But it did, sir. And as I’ve said, I didn’t rely on my own judgment. I had others look as well. There’s no doubt about it. The gold has gone.”

Mackinley finally lighted his cigar and then looked at the glowing end broodingly. The disbelief on his face had changed to grim worry.

“Have you told Scotland Yard?” he asked briefly.

“I haven’t told anybody but you, sir. I wanted your suggestions.”

“Get Scotland Yard immediately! In any case, the staff knows about it, and with all respect to their vows of secrecy, one of them will let the cat out of the bag. We’ve got to get action. Once this news hits the papers I’ll be ruined!”

“Surely not, sir—­”

Mackinley banged his fist on the desk. “Look here, Burton, would you trust a bank that lets fifty million in gold slide out of its strong vault? I wouldn’t, and that’s flat!”

As Burton dithered, the magnate added: “Never mind, I’ll get the Yard myself.”

Mackinley whipped up the telephone; then glanced again at the distraught Burton.

“Pull yourself together man, and get back on the job. And not a word more about this: it’s up to the police to handle it. At all costs we must try to keep it out of the papers— Hello, that Scotland Yard? This is Joseph Mac­kinley speaking—”

And so Mackinley set the wheels turning. Within fifteen minutes Chief Inspector Hargraves was on the spot, accompanied by Detective Sergeant Harry Brice and a couple of ordinary constables. They arrived un­obtrusively and were admitted to the bank by a rear door.

They were met by Mackinley and Burton, and as Mackinley nodded to him the head cashier again related the facts.

The main points had already been given by the magnate in his telephone call, but Hargraves listened without interruption until Burton had finished his personal account.

“And you say you’ve examined the bank’s closed-circuit television recordings—which showed nothing?” Hargraves asked sharply, looking at the hapless Burton.

“Well, just briefly, Chief Inspector. I’ve only fast-forwarded through them: there hasn’t really been time....”

Hargraves turned to one of his constables. “Better take a closer look, Harkins.” He looked back enquiringly at Burton. “Can you fix that?”

Burton glanced at Mackinley, who nodded his assent. As Burton and the constable left the group, Hargraves turned back to the magnate.

“Now I’d like to see the strongroom for myself, Mr. Mackinley,” he said, and the other nodded grimly.

“Of course. Follow me, gentlemen.”

He led the way down the basement steps, and thence to the basement itself and the still open strongroom.

Sergeant Brice made a swift examination of the door lock, being careful not to touch it. Then he looked back at his superior. “Absolutely no sign of forced entry sir.”

“Naturally,” the chief inspector said, as Mackinley stood beside him, “I remember the gold being placed here since I had a detail of men on guard duty during the process. And now the gold has obviously gone. Right!”

Mackinley did not say anything. He felt too sick with worry.

Hargraves frowned as a thought struck him. He dropped to one knee and examined the floor. It appeared to be solid metal.

“Could someone have dug a tunnel underneath here and taken out the gold that way?” His tone betrayed the fact that he did not really think this was a possibility.

Mackinley shook his head impatiently. “Not a chance. The foundations are solid concrete and you can see for yourself that the metal floor is completely intact.”

Feeling slightly foolish, Hargraves straightened up and tried another tack.

“You say there was a watchman on duty all night?” he questioned. “Where can I get hold of him?”

Mackinley made a bothered movement. “It will be in the files. I’ll see you have his address and phone number.”

“Very good.” Hargraves considered a while, a tall, lean-faced man, not easily moved. “And you yourself, Mr. Mackinley. Where were you last evening?”

“Where was I?” the magnate frowned. “Does that matter?”

“With deference, sir, yes. It matters where everybody was, but you in particular, and Mr. Burton. You are the only ones who know the combination of the safe time lock.”

Mackinley seemed about to protest at what he took to be a slur on his character, then he relaxed.

“Hmmm, I see what you mean,” he admitted. “I can’t answer for Mr. Burton, of course, but I was at home all evening—and I can prove it.”

The inspector’s eyes strayed to Burton, who had just rejoined the group, leaving P.C. Harkins to study the CCTV tapes.

“Can you account for your movements last night, Mr. Burton?”

“I can, yes. I went to a political meeting at the city hall.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?” Hargraves questioned.

“Yes. I met several friends while I was there, so they’ll be able to verify the point.”

“Quite so.” Hargraves gave a disarming smile. “Don’t misunderstand me, gentlemen. I have to treat everybody alike in this matter. And I don’t think you have yet realized how extraordinarily difficult this business is.”

Mackinley said abruptly: “It’s the utter impos­sibility of this business that gets me down! How could all that gold be taken from this vault? How could it? And without anyone being seen or heard?”

“On the face of it, it just couldn’t happen,” the chief inspector replied. “But it did! And as long as there is a reason it’s our job to find it. I’ve already sent for fingerprint men and photographers. Once we have something to go on we’ll swing into action. Meanwhile, I shall not need to trouble you gentle­men further for the moment.”

Mackinley took the dismissal with good grace and returned to his office with Burton trailing silently behind him.

Hargraves detailed the remaining constable to join his colleague checking the closed-circuit TV recordings. “And report back to headquarters as soon as you can, and bring the recordings with you, as evidence.”

He lit a cigarette and dragged on it thoughtfully.

“Evidence?” Sergeant Brice asked dryly. “Of what, sir? Any ideas?”

“If my name were Merlin I might have. As it is, I’m completely stumped....”

Now entirely alone in the strong vault, the two men continued to stare unbelievingly at its blank, metal-lined expanse. Then Sergeant Brice spoke again.

“I’ve come up against a few things in my time, sir, but none of them was like this. There isn’t the vaguest hint of a clue, and usually there’s at least something.”

He was on the point of speaking again when the fingerprint men and photographer arrived. They came into the strongroom with something of an air of wonder.

“Morning, boys.” Hargraves gave a brief nod. “And what’s the matter with you? Never seen the inside of a strongroom before?”

“It’s not that,” the photographer said, setting up his reflex. “We’ve heard the story of the vanish­ing gold and we’re just beginning to wonder if somebody didn’t dream the whole thing.”

“Nobody dreamed anything,” Hargraves said grimly. “It’s all hard, relentless fact. And I’ve more than a sneaking suspicion that we’re going to be up against it. However—do your stuff.”

For a long time there was silence as powder and insufflator came into operation. Hargraves stood in deep thought during the process, juggling the problem in his mind.

When eventually the fingerprint man had finished Hargraves looked at him questioningly.

“Well? Any joy?”

“Plenty of fingerprints, chief inspector, but from the look of ’em I’d say they’re the sort of prints you’d expect to find from members of the staff. They’re in the same place—a complete jumble of them—and there isn’t a clear impression in the lot of ’em.”

“Nothing on the walls?”

“Not a thing.”

“Where are these prints you mention?”

“Around the door edges and on the lock, the sort of prints you would inevitably get by unlock­ing the door and then grabbing hold of it.”

“Mmm—which doesn’t tell us much. Even if there were clear prints, the law doesn’t entitle me to check the bank staff’s prints for comparison.”

Hargraves looked at the photographer. “Got your stuff, Terry?”

“Usual views,” Terry replied phlegmatically. “A strongroom has no glamour angles anyhow.”

“Okay. Leave the prints in my office when they’re done.”

The photographer and fingerprint man both nodded and then went on their way. Hargraves sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

“Frankly, sir,” Sergeant Brice said, “I just don’t know where to start. Usually there’s always some­thing—”

“So you said before,” Hargraves remarked testily. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do here,” he decided. “We’d best get back to the office and decide our plan of campaign from there.”

As they went up the basement steps, Hargraves added:

“You had better pick up that night watchman’s address from Mac­kinley, and at the same time have somebody check on Burton’s alibi.”