1958 - The World in My Pocket (17 page)

Gypo examined the back of the truck and his heart sank. It was as he thought: this was an expert job. The door fitted so closely there was no hope of blowing it. In the centre of the door was a dial, similar to that fitted to any ordinary safe. By the dial was a tiny window, protected by armoured glass. Gypo could see a number through the glass. He knew if he revolved the dial, the number would change. To open the door he would have to find the exact combination of numbers, and this meant sensitive listening and still more sensitive and above all steady fingers.

‘What’s it look like?’ Morgan asked, corning around to the back of the truck and standing at Gypo’s side.

‘It’s tough all right,’ Gypo said. ‘To hit on the right combination will take time like I said.’

‘Any chance of blowing the door?’

‘No. Look at the stuff it’s made of. That’s not going to blow. Maybe I could cut into it if I had time.’

‘Try for the combination,’ Morgan said. ‘We’ve got another forty minutes before we reach the caravan camp. Start now.’

Gypo stared at him as if he thought he had gone crazy.

‘Now? How can I with all this movement and noise?’ he said feverishly. ‘I’ve got to listen. I can’t hear a thing with all this traffic.’

Morgan made an impatient gesture, but controlled himself.

The pain in his side was getting worse and it worried him. He knew it would be fatal to rush Gypo too soon. His mind moved to the driver in the truck. There were too many complications piling up, he thought as he squatted down on the floor. This job might prove even tougher than he had imagined.

He thumped the steel side of the truck with his clenched fist.

‘There’s a million bucks in here,’ he said. ‘Think of it! Just beyond this goddamn wall! A million bucks! Well, we’re going to get it! If it’s the last thing we do!’

Kitson had been too occupied in holding the Buick to the curves in the road while he was driving fast to the highway to have time to pay any attention to Ginny, but once he had nosed the Buick on to the highway and had the broad straight road under his wheels, he relaxed a little.

Ginny was leaning back, looking out at the faster traffic sweeping past them. She was still very pale, and she kept her hands between her knees to hide the fact that she was trembling. Kitson kept thinking of the man in the truck. It horrified him to think they would have to get into the truck and get his body out. Had he managed to set off the radio signal? Were they driving straight into a police trap?

‘If that guy started his radio signal,’ he said, unable to keep this thought silent any longer, ‘we could be driving into trouble.’

Ginny hunched her shoulders.

‘There’s nothing we can do about it.’

‘No,’ Kitson said, not comforted. ‘Well, I’m glad I’m not travelling in the caravan. It must be pretty rugged in there.’

‘Listen!’ she said sharply.

Kitson felt his heart give a lurch as he heard in the far distance the faint sound of an approaching police siren. The cars moving on the fast lane automatically switched over to the slower lane, clearing the way. The noise of the siren grew louder. Then Kitson saw the first police car coming towards them. It was followed by four patrol cops on motorcycles, then by two more police cars. They blasted their way through the traffic, travelling at well over eighty miles an hour.

Ginny and Kitson exchanged glances.

‘I guess we got off that road just in time,’ Kitson said huskily.

Ginny nodded.

They drove on. After a few miles they became aware that the steady flow of traffic was slowing down, and far ahead of them they could see a long line of cars coming to a crawl.

‘Road block,’ Kitson said, his heart beginning to pound. ‘This could sink us.’

‘Don’t lose your nerve,’ Ginny said.

The cars ahead of the Buick slowed to a crawl, then finally stopped.

There was a long wait, then they began to move again.

Slowly, Kitson crept the Buick behind the long line of cars, his hands clammy. He could see the road block ahead of him. There were two police cars across the road, cutting the up traffic into a narrow stream. Six patrol officers stood by the cars. One of them leaned into each car as it came to a stop. He had a brief word with the driver, then waved him on.

Ginny said, ‘I’ll talk to him. Leave it to me.’

He looked quickly at her, marvelling at her nerve. He wondered what the three in the caravan were thinking. They couldn’t see the road block and they must be wondering why they were scarcely moving. Again he was thankful he wasn’t back there, and he hoped Gypo wouldn’t do something stupid.

Ten minutes later - minutes that stretched Kitson’s nerves to breaking point - they drew up at the road block.

Ginny deliberately pulled her skirt above her knees, crossing her legs. She leaned out of the car window.

The patrol officer who came over to her looked from her face to her knees, and his leathery red face split into an appreciative grin. He didn’t even look at Kitson.

‘Where have you come from, miss?’ he asked, leaning against the side of the Buick, staring at her, admiration in his eyes.

‘From Dukas,’ Ginny said. ‘We’re on our honeymoon. What’s all the excitement about?’

‘Did you see a Welling Armoured truck on the road?’ the officer asked. ‘You couldn’t have missed it if you had seen it. It has a big sign on the back.’

‘Why, no,’ Ginny said and turning, she said to Kitson. ‘We didn’t see any truck, did we, honey?’

Kitson shook his head. His heart was thumping so violently he was scared the cop would hear it.

‘Have you lost it?’ Ginny said and giggled.

The cop grinned, his eyes on her knees.

‘Never mind. You get moving. Have a good honeymoon.’ He looked at Kitson and winked. ‘I bet you do. Move on, bud.’

Kitson sent the car forward and a moment later they were through the road block and heading down the open road.

‘Phew!’ Kitson gasped, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. ‘The way you handled that guy!’

Ginny adjusted her skirt, covering her knees and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

‘Give a man something to look at, and he’s just another sucker,’ she said. She opened her handbag and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you want one?’

‘I guess so.’

She lit the cigarette and gave it to him. There was a smear of lipstick on it, and it gave him an odd satisfaction to know her lips had touched the cigarette before his.

She lit another cigarette for herself.

For the next ten miles they drove in silence, then Ginny said, ‘You take the first on your right. It’s the road that leads to Fawn Lake.’

Kitson nodded. As he looked ahead, he caught sight of a hover-plane coming towards them, flying not more than three hundred feet above the road.

‘Look at that!’

The hover-plane went over the Buick and the caravan with a violent swish of wind.

Ginny said, ‘They’ve moved into action fast enough.’

She looked at her watch. The time was ten minutes after midday. Although only forty-five minutes had elapsed since they had stopped the truck, it seemed to her like a lifetime.

Morgan, Gypo and Bleck also heard the swish of wind from the hover-plane as it passed over them and Gypo cringed down. He knew instinctively the machine was looking for them. While they had crawled through the road block, the three men had crouched on the floor. Morgan had his gun in his hand, determined to shoot it out with any cop who tried to get into the caravan.

They all relaxed as they felt the Buick pick up speed. Morgan opened his coat and looked at the pad Ginny had put on his wound. It was saturated with blood and the wound was obviously bleeding again.

Anxious to ingratiate himself once more with Morgan, Bleck got to his feet. Stepping over Gypo’s body, he went to one of the bunks and took out the first-aid kit that Morgan had insisted on taking along with them.

‘I’ll fix it for you, Frank,’ he said.

Morgan was feeling faint. He was alarmed at the amount of blood he had lost. He nodded, bracing himself against the side of the caravan.

Gypo stared at him with horror, thinking: If Frank goes, what are we going to do? There’s no one like him for handling a tough situation. We’ll be sunk if he dies.

Bleck squatted down beside Morgan and got to work. After some minutes he got a pad on that stopped the bleeding.

‘You’ll be okay now,’ he said and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘How about a drink?’

‘Go ahead,’ Morgan said bitterly. ‘You have every reason to celebrate.’

Bleck made three stiff whiskies and handed the glasses around.

As they were drinking, they felt the Buick swing off the highway and immediately the caravan began to bump and sway as its two wheels bounced over the surface of the dirt road. The three men hastily finished their drinks. Morgan’s mouth drew down into a hard line of pain as he was jerked about on the floor of the caravan.

After a while the Buick slowed down, then finally stopped.

There was a pause, then the back of the caravan swung up and Ginny and Kitson looked in.

‘All right?’ Kitson asked anxiously. He was shocked to see how white Morgan was.

Morgan looked beyond Kitson and saw they had pulled off the road and were in the shadow of a fir forest. The road, about thirty feet away, was deserted. It twisted up hill, leading, after a six-mile run, directly to Fawn Lake.

Overhead, they could hear the drone of aircraft, a sound that warned Morgan of the danger of remaining here.

‘He’s still alive,’ he said to Kitson and jerked his thumb towards the truck. ‘We’ve got to take him. This is as good a place as any. Shut the caravan and leave it to us. You take the wheel off the Buick as if you’ve got a flat. If you see a car coming, bang on the side of the caravan. Ginny, you sit by the edge of the road. Take the food basket. Act like you’re preparing a picnic. Get moving.’

His face set, Bleck handed out the food basket.

Kitson looked shocked.

‘What are you going to do with him?’ he asked.

Morgan’s mouth moved into a ruthless smile.

‘What do you think? Shut the caravan and do what I say!’

‘Wait!’ Gypo said, his voice shrill. ‘I’m getting out of here! I’m not having anything to do with this! This isn’t my job! I’m here to open the truck.’

‘Shut up!’ Morgan snarled and his gun jumped into his hand, threatening Gypo. ‘You’re opening that goddamn shutter! You do what I say or I’ll damn well kill you!’

The expression on his face terrified Gypo.

‘You wouldn’t do that to me, Frank!’ His hands waved imploringly. ‘Let me out of here!’

Morgan looked at Kitson.

‘Do what I tell you! Shut the caravan and work on that wheel!’

Pale and shaky, Kitson shut the back of the caravan. He was breathing hard and fast as he opened the trunk of the Buick and took out the jack.

Morgan was saying to Gypo in a flat, deadly voice, ‘Listen, Gypo, from now on you start to earn your share of the loot. You’ve had it soft up to now, but from now on, it’s going to be rugged, so make up your mind to it! Get that goddamn shutter open!’

His breath whistling through his nose, Gypo approached the shutter and stared at it.

Bleck watched him, his eyes flickering from Gypo to Morgan and back to Gypo again.

Gypo saw the shutter wasn’t difficult. It didn’t fit tightly: it wasn’t in the same class as the door at the back of the truck.

Morgan was also quick to see that.

‘Get a tyre lever and a hammer,’ he said. ‘We can bust this one.’

Gypo flinched. He was thinking of the moment when he had prised open the shutter.

‘That guy in there will be waiting,’ he said hoarsely. ‘As soon as he sees me, he’ll shoot me.’

‘Get on with it!’ Morgan snarled.

Gypo opened the tool cupboard, took a tyre lever and a hammer from one of the racks. His hands were shaking so badly he could scarcely hold the tools.

‘Come on! Come on!’ Morgan shouted furiously. ‘What’s scaring you, you fat jelly?’

‘If he shoots me, who’ll open the truck?’ Gypo panted, playing his trump card.

Morgan drew in a long, exasperated breath.

‘Give me the tools, you creep!’ he snarled. ‘But I’ll fix you and I’ll fix your pal, Ed, too! If you two imagine you’re going to get your full share, you’ve another think coming!’

Right at that moment Gypo would have gladly given up the whole of his share if he could have been transported from this horrifying caravan to his little shed he called his home. He backed away as Morgan snatched the tools out of his hand.

Holding the end of the tyre lever against the gap between the steel shutter and the window, he hammered it home. The lever sank between the frame and the shutter, forcing the shutter back slightly.

Morgan continued to hammer until he had driven four inches of the lever out of sight, then he dropped the hammer and looked at Bleck.

‘You going to be yellow too?’ he said.

Bleck pulled his .38 from his shoulder holster and moved up close to Morgan.

‘When you are ready, I am,’ he said, his face set, his eyes determined.

Morgan grinned crookedly at him. ‘Trying to save your share?’

‘Skip it, Frank. Go ahead. I’m ready to take him.’

As Morgan was about to throw his weight on the lever, there came three quick thumps on the side of the caravan that stopped him dead.

‘Someone’s coming,’ he said. ‘Hold it!’

Bleck moved to the window and peered through the curtain. A car, towing a caravan, had stopped within a few yards of where Ginny was sitting by the side of the road. A middle-aged man whose jolly fat face was burned red by the sun, was getting out of the car. There was a woman and a young boy in the car, looking towards the Buick and the caravan.

Bleck heard the fat man say, ‘Hey, miss, can I help? Looks like you’ve got a flat.’

Ginny smiled at him.

‘It’s all right, thank you. My husband can manage. Thanks all the same.’

‘You’re going up to Fawn Lake?’ the man asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘So are we. I was there last summer. Have you been there before?’