Читать книгу The Wicked Mr Hall - The Memoirs of the Butler Who Loved to Kill - Roy Archibald Hall - Страница 12
ОглавлениеI was moved to Pentonville to finish my sentence. By the time I was released, 1948 had given way to 1949, and winter had given way to summer. It was on a bright sunny morning that I walked away from north London’s notorious debtors’ prison. I was a free man again. There were a number of vehicles parked in the street outside the gates. One was a black taxi cab. I passed by without giving it a second thought, for the moment all I wanted to experience was the sense of freedom. As I passed the cab, the back door was thrown open and a voice that I recognised called me: ‘Morning Roy, want a lift?’. The voice belonged to Johnny Collins. We drove to Billingsgate market where the pubs were open early to cater for the market traders. We had some drinks, then went for a large cooked breakfast. From there we booked into the Great Eastern Hotel in Paddington. In the hotel room, I took off the clothes that I had worn as I walked away from the prison, and threw them away. This was a ritual I would observe after every sentence. After luxuriating in a hot bath to wash away the prison stench, Johnny told me of his plan. For professional villains, smash-and-grab raids on jewellers were becoming fashionable. Our smash-and-grab team would consist of three men. The ‘driver’, Dave Perry – a man who could do almost anything with a car; the ‘smasher’, Collins himself, whose job was to break the large plate-glass windows, without injuring us with falling glass or knocking the jewellery pads out of reach; and the ‘grabber’, someone with a knowledge of jewellery who could select what should be taken and take it. I was to be the final man in Collins’ team. I was climbing the criminal ladder.
The first jewellery shop to have their window display rearranged by Messrs Collins, Hall and Perry was the London Goldsmith Co. on Cricklewood Broadway. Dave Perry parked the car, engine running, level with the window. We had already decided earlier in the day what we were going to take. Johnny claw hammered the window at all the right points and the shattering pieces of glass dropped well away from the pads I wanted. The evening pedestrians just stood and stared, as if watching a scene from a gangster movie.
Johnny, hammer in hand, kept a watchful eye on the staring public. Remaining calm and focused, I lifted the pads of jewellery that we wanted and dropped them into a small bag, then we both stepped back into the car. Perry, engine at full throttle, sped off into the London night. Sitting alone in the back seat, I took the jewels out of the display pads and wrapped them in handkerchiefs. Perry, having taken a series of turns in back streets, dropped me off at a designated point. From there I would either take a tube or pick up a waiting vehicle. There was a publican at the Raven in the City of London who acted as our fence. I went directly to him and upstairs away from nosey drinkers, we did our business. The jewels became money and the money was split three ways. Over the next two years, jewellers all over the city and suburbs would be visited by us. The three of us lived the high life – we worked when we wanted and we spent as much as we wanted.
We had separate social lives – Dave lived in Paddington and was a family man; Johnny, whose family all lived around the Cable street area of the East End was a home boy, spending his time at the dog tracks, gambling houses and pubs of the East End. My tastes were a touch more cultured – Turkish baths in the city, first-class hotel bars, theatres and museums. I lived the life of a well-heeled city gent.
A petty criminal from West London, finding himself in a tight spot with the Old Bill, gave information on an aquaintance of his. It was our misfortune that the acquaintance was Dave Perry, our driver. Hours before we were due to go on our latest raid, Perry was nicked and held for questioning at Paddington Green.
Johnny and I were uneasy about the situation. We were sure that Dave could be trusted but, even so, it was risky to do anything local. On a whim, I told Johnny about a single-windowed jewellers in Buchanan Street, Glasgow. That afternoon we drove north. We checked the surrounding area for a suitable escape route. Buchanan Street was patrolled during the night hours by a mounted policeman wielding a long riot stick. To park outside the shop would undoubtedly attract his attention and was out of the question. After some thought, we decided to park in an adjacent street. There was a warehouse door that, if we could gain access, would give us a short cut from Buchanan Street to our parked car. After playing with the lock, we gained entry. The door leading to our car was unlocked and ready. Both doors were small entrance doors, housed within the much larger warehouse doors – far too small for a man on horseback to follow. We watched and waited. The mounted patrolman ambled from one street to the other rhythmically tapping the hard, dark stick on his highly polished riding boot. We watched him time and time again. We noticed that not once did he turn around and look behind him. The only noise was the echo of the horse’s hooves on the concrete and the almost indiscernible tap of stick upon boot. As he neared the end of the street, we quietly moved into position. On this occasion for speed’s sake, we would both smash and both grab. The horse was as far away from us as possible and we prepared for action. I took two folded canvas bags from my pocket and laid them on the ground, Collins took out two claw hammers, one from each pocket. With hammers raised, we listened to the clatter of the horse’s hooves in the clear night. As the animal reached the end of the street we struck. Our hammers hit the glass in unison, the blows were deliberate and precise. The window fell away. At the other end of the street, the once ambling equine member of the Glasgow police force was being jockeyed into a gallop. On its back, stick swinging, voice screaming, a red-faced Glaswegian police officer bore down upon us. Our hands grabbed the jewels in a controlled frenzy, we took everything. With hammers still in our hands, we ran for our freedom. With each step we took, the sound of the hooves and the screams of the patrolman grew ever nearer. We hit the warehouse door on a skid, changing direction from north to east in a lurch of our bodies, motivated by pure fear. As we bundled through the small door, I could hear the snorts of air blasting from the horse’s nostrils.
Tired but elated, we began the four-hundred-mile journey back to London. We drove through the night, taking turns, one sleeping, one driving. By daybreak we were back in the capital. Collins and I were quite a team. We took thousands, and we took it from right under people’s noses. I have never ‘grassed’ in my life, and when villains turn Queen’s evidence on other villains, it makes me nauseous. Before we had time fully to savour our triumph in the Buchanan Street dash, I was paid a visit by the police. At the same time, in the East End, Collins was also picked up. Information had been given. Some low life criminal we had been stupid enough to confide in had given us up. So much for honour among thieves.
I got three years and Johnny, being older, got four. It was back to Wandsworth. On my last sentence I had been treated as an ordinary category prisoner. Now, my leap from the train had been added to my file and I was regarded as an escape risk. The last time I had been in prison, the E men (escape risk prisoners) had smallish yellow patches on their blue trouser legs. The yellow patches had increased in size, almost covering the whole leg. One blue leg, one yellow leg – I looked like a clown!
I have always accepted what I am – I am a criminal. I’m not a sex case, I don’t rape people or interfere with children, I am a professional thief. I had always been good and, with the passage of time, would get even better. I believe in dignity. If my professional ‘calling’ is outside the law, then so be it. Loss of liberty and privacy were prices I accepted I had to pay. However, being made to look foolish was completely unacceptable.
On my very first time out on exercise I took off those ridiculous trousers and threw them with all my might over the prison wall. Immediately, I was grabbed by warders and marched in front of the Governor. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would comply with regulations. I nodded in tacit agreement. The next day while out on exercise I did the same thing. This time other cons followed my lead. A dozen pairs of yellow and blue trousers landed on the free streets of South West London. Let the public see what the Home Office was expecting us to wear.
There was now some tension between the E men and prison staff. We were confined to our cells and, come the next morning, more of the same – no exercise, no work details. We sat in our cells, wondering what the penal system had in store for us. Just before noon the next day a dozen of us were taken down to reception. John Wooton was one of the number. We were transferred to Winchester.
The atmosphere there was considerably easier. We were again put into patches, but this time the old smaller ones. Something that irked me about this E business, was that I had never actually escaped from a prison. I had absconded from police custody while on a train, but this was a completely different matter to escaping from a secure prison. I pleaded my case with the Governor. Eventually he relented. I was taken off the E list and reverted to ordinary category prisoner. I went to work as a painter. When I wasn’t working, I would spend many hours reading about jewellery, porcelains and antiques. For the first time I read a book about being ‘In Service’ – butlering, to be precise. As prison time goes, this was quite an easy sentence. I got my full remission, and was released in the spring of 1952.
