The Winter Rose (77 page)

Seamie had rented a horse and cart earlier in the day from a
rag-and-bone man whose yard was two streets away from the school, paying
him double what he'd demanded in order to keep him from asking too many
questions. It was waiting for them inside the man's stables, hitched
and ready, when they arrived.

The school and its yards were enclosed by walls on three sides. They
drove the cart all the way around the back to where Seamie had seen a
large oak tree. They climbed the tree and dropped down inside the
courtyard. Then they found a basement door with a rickety deadbolt,
which Sid had open in no time.

He shuddered now as he recalled what had happened next. Taking care
to keep themselves concealed, they'd crept about in the deserted
building until they'd found the mortuary. It had been dark in there,
close, and chock-a-block with rotting corpses. They'd sorted through
them by candlelight to find a red-haired one. Sid thought he'd struck it
lucky when the second body he looked at had auburn hair, but when
Seamie pointed out that it also had breasts, they'd had to start again.
They'd finally found a redheaded man. He was heavier than Sid and his
hair was more carroty than auburn, but they couldn't find a closer
match, so they took him, bundling him up in a length of canvas, then
hoisting him over the wall and into the cart.

It had been a long ride to Limehouse. Seamie had wanted to throw him
off Tower Bridge, he smelled so bad, but Sid had insisted on a more
private venue--a landing a few yards past the Grapes, a pub he'd been
known to frequent.

"Sorry, lad," he'd said as they drew up to the landing. "Here comes the hard part."

He'd tied a kingsman around his nose and mouth and unwrapped the
body. Then he took the pistol Seamie had bought for him earlier and
fired a bullet into the corpse's left shoulder. It passed through the
fiesh. The bullet that Donaldson had fired at him hadn't done so, but
the rozzers wouldn't know that. Then he took the bloodstained clothes
he'd worn to Arden Street, clothes he'd had the foresight to save, and
put them on the corpse. Seamie tried to help, but couldn't. He was too
busy retching. When Sid had finished dressing the body, he put his
wallet, which was monogrammed, into the corpse's trousers and put a gold
watch inscribed with his name into its jacket pocket, taking care to
button it.

Then he and Seamie heaved the body into the Thames. They'd watched as
it bobbed on top of the water, then slowly sank beneath the surface.

"Ta-ra, Sid Malone," he said. "He'll rise again in a day or two. Hopefully not till the fish have had at his face."

They'd made it back to Grosvenor Square just before dawn. Sid got all
of three hours' sleep before he was up again, lopping off his ponytail
and dyeing his red hair brown. Seamie knocked on his door at ten with a
breakfast tray.

"That's a very fetching color on you," he said.

"Very funny. I need to do one more job. You game?"

"Where are we going?" Seamie asked.

"To the Albion Bank."

"No kidding! Are we going to rob it?"

"No, Seamie. Jesus! Would I take a risk like that with you?"

"I suppose not," Seamie'd said with a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

"We're going to make a withdrawal. A very large withdrawal. I need you to go along as a decoy. You game?"

"You bet. What's the plan?"

"Sit down, lad, and I'll tell you."

After they'd talked and eaten and dressed, they left Grosvenor Square
a few minutes apart and traveled to the City separately. Sid did not
want Seamie with him in the daylight in case someone recognized him and
nabbed him.

Where the hell is he? Sid wondered anxiously now, still sitting in the pub. From now on everything would depend on timing.

He knew that his plan might well blow up on him. Alvin Donaldson
might have had his bank accounts frozen. He might have seized his safe
deposit box. But Sid was gambling that he hadn't. He was good at
thinking like a rozzer; it had kept him out of jail on many occasions.
He knew that Donaldson was still after him, and he was certain that he'd
leave the money right where it was--as bait. He probably thought that
Sid was the same as every other villain--in love with the dosh. He
didn't know Sid, didn't know he hated the money so much he could barely
bring himself to touch it. Donaldson had probably been in to talk to
Davies, the bank manager, to warn him that Sid would not leave London
without his money, and to be prepared for a visit.

How he hoped he was right.

The plan was for Seamie to pose as him. He would go into the bank and
ask for access to Sid Malone's safe deposit box. The clerk would
certainly know that Malone was a wanted man and dangerous. He would
check the passbook Seamie was carrying to confirm his identity, then
lead him to the vaults. Then he'd call the police. Sid doubted he'd be
brave enough, or foolish enough, to attempt to collar a murderer by
himself. Seamie, meanwhile, was to get the box out, take it to the
private viewing room, dump the money into one of the bags he was
carrying, and kick the bag under the table. Then he was to get out of
the bank as fast as he could, head east on Cornhill Street, toss away
his jacket, and do his best to lose anyone following him in the narrow
streets that led from the City into Whitechapel. He made Seamie run
through the whole plan twice, then warned him that no matter what, he
was to leave the passbook and key in the bank. If the police picked him
up with those on him, he was done for.

The rest would be up to Sid.

Timing, luck, the stone walls of Albion, and a whole city of gung-ho
rozzers stood between him and his money. Between him and redemption.

Sid took another sip of his porter, then he saw it. A flash of red
hair. The mustard-colored jacket. Seamie was walking up the steps to the
bank right on time. He had a battered Gladstone bag in his right hand.
Sid knew there was another bag inside it.

At a quick glance, Seamie looked very much like him. The hair. The
clothes. Even the walk. It hadn't come right away, though, the walk.
They'd had to work on it. The lad was wiry, his movements quick.

"Walk around the room," Sid had ordered.

Seamie had.

Sid shook his head. "Get off your toes, lad. Walk like the weight is your own."

Seamie tried again, but to no avail. Sid could see that he didn't have an ounce of wide boy in him.

He thought for a few seconds, then said, "Do you have an enemy? A
bloke you don't like? Pretend he made a play for your girl. And then you
hit him. Laid him out right in front of his mates."

Seamie digested this. Then he walked around the room once more,
getting the walk exactly right. Watching him, Sid realized with a deep
pang of sadness that there must indeed be a girl. Who she was, he'd
never know, for he'd soon be out of his brother's life again. Forever.

He'd forced himself to smile. "Much better," he'd said.

Sid watched now as Seamie disappeared through the bank's front doors.
He waited until five minutes had passed, then he put a few coins on the
table and left the pub.

He crossed Cornhill Street and climbed the steps to the bank, pulling
an envelope out of his pocket as he did, ready to play the part of a
working man, awed and befuddled by a grand bank.

But the second he stepped inside he could tell something had gone
wrong. The bank's usual security guard, a reedy old geezer who looked
like he'd blow over in a breeze, was gone. There were two burly men in
his place. The bank manager was talking to them in hushed, agitated
tones, pointing toward the back of the bank where the vaults were. He
realized, with a sick feeling, that the manager must have put the new
guards on in case Sid Malone came calling. Of course he had. Christ, how
stupid could he be? He hadn't even thought of that. He'd meant for
Seamie to lead the police on a wild goose chase, but he couldn't do that
if he didn't make it out of the bank.

"Excuse me, sir," Sid said, walking up to the manager and tugging on his hat brim, "where do I go to open meself an account?"

"Over there," the manager said, gesturing impatiently toward the tellers.

"You see, I've me wages here, and I want to--"

"If you'll just walk that way, sir," one of the guards said.

"Sorry? You'll have to speak up. I've only one good ear."

At that very second Seamie came up the stairs from the vaults and into the foyer.

"Out of the way!" the second guard snapped, pushing Sid behind him.

The guards immediately advanced on Seamie. He saw them and stopped dead.

Keep moving, lad! Sid thought. It's your only chance.

But Seamie didn't.

He's panicking. He doesn't know what to do. He's too green, Sid
thought. He took a deep breath, readying himself to take on both bulls.
He was ready to fight them to the death if it meant Seamie could get
out, but before he could take a step, Seamie's hand went to his jacket
pocket. He pulled out a pistol.

Fucking hell! Sid thought. It was the pistol he'd used to put a
bullet hole in the corpse. Had he thought his brother had no wide boy in
him? He had plenty.

"Think, gentlemen," Seamie said, in an impeccable Cockney accent.
"Think real hard. I've nothing to lose. Nothing at all. Can you say the
same?"

"Mother of God!" Sid cried. "It's him! It's Sid Malone!" He raised
his hands. The manager, the guards, and a few frightened customers did
the same.

"Get away from the door. All of you," Seamie ordered.

Sid moved toward the left side of the foyer where the tellers were.
He heard whispers coming from behind him. "What the devil's going on?" a
man said. He moved to block their view. The others followed him. As
they did, Seamie moved closer to the doors.

"Slide the keys to me," he said.

The guard hesitated.

"For God's sake, man, do as he says!" Sid cried. "He's killed two people already!"

The guard unhooked a key ring from his belt and slid it across the
floor to Seamie. Seamie put his bag down, never taking his eye off the
guards. He picked up the keys and dropped them into his pocket, then
picked up his bag again.

"Back up now," he said. "That way. Toward the vaults."

Sid, behind the others now, did as Seamie said. He walked backward
quietly and quickly, blessing his brother's quick mind. The guards'
eyes, and the manager's, were trained on Seamie. Sid slipped away toward
the vaults as Seamie slipped out of the bank's front doors, locking
them behind him.

"The key! Get me another key!" Sid heard the manager shout. He ran
downstairs and was almost in the viewing room when a woman--a
pigeon-breasted, no-nonsense clerk--stopped him.

"Your passbook, please!" she said.

"There's a man robbing the bank," he said breathlessly. "He's threatening to shoot everyone. Run, missus! Hide!"

The terrifled woman ran off with a gasp. Sid shot into the viewing
room, looked under the table, and saw the battered satchel Seamie had
left. He grabbed it and ran back upstairs, heading for the doors, but
when he reached the foyer he stopped short and spun around. Alvin
Donaldson stood in the doorway, flanked by three constables. The
agitated bank manager had gotten the door open. He and the guards were
telling him what had happened. Frightened tellers and customers had
gathered at the foyer's perimeter and were talking excitedly. Sid fell
in among them and edged toward the doors. He could hear Donaldson over
the din.

"How the hell did he escape? There were three of you!" he said
angrily. "I was right upstairs where I've been for two bloody days!
Couldn't one of you have fetched me?"

Sid's heart nearly stopped.

"He threatened to kill us!" the manager said indignantly.

"Are you certain it was Malone? What did he look like?"

"Red hair. Green eyes. Waving a pistol..."

"Good Christ," Donaldson said disgustedly. "We could have had him.
Fan out," he barked at his men. "Go after him." The constables were out
the door and down the steps in no time.

The manager tried to reassure his staff and his customers, telling
everyone it was business as usual. He told the guards to get back to
their posts. Before they could, Sid ducked behind a pillar, skirted the
foyer, and ran out of the door. He trotted down the steps, searching for
Seamie, but there was no sign of him. No sign of the three constables,
either. More would probably be on the way, however, and he wasn't going
to wait around for them. He and Seamie had planned to rendezvous back at
Grosvenor Square, and after seeing him in action, he was sure Seamie
would make it. The lad had more bottle, more brains, than most of the
villains he knew.

He wondered, however, if he would make it.

He saw a hackney trolling for customers and flagged it down.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked as he climbed in.

"King's Cross," he replied. He planned to hole up in a cheap hotel
there until after dark. He couldn't let himself back into Fiona's house
until after the cook had left and the maids had gone to sleep.

The cab lurched off. Sid put the heavy bag on the seat next to him
and looked inside it, at the fat bundles of hundred-pound notes.

Blood money, India had called it.

He was going to wash the blood off now. Even if it cost him his life.

Seamie stopped outside a stationer's shop, ripped his bag open, and
pulled out a cap. He slapped it on his head, took off his mustard
jacket, and

stuffed it inside the bag--ensuring that any constable looking for a
red-headed man in a yellow tweed jacket wouldn't look at him twice. He
glanced over his shoulder, closed his bag, and kept on walking.

"Head east out of the City as fast as you can," Charlie had told him.
"Get to Leadenhall and take it to the High Street. There's a market on
today. Lose yourself in the crowd. Keep going until you reach the London
Hospital. You can pick up a hackney cab there. Take it back home."