The Great New Zealand Robbery

by Scott Bainbridge

  John Jones, an Epsom panel beater, reported a break-in that same night. Jones complained that the offenders had used a screwdriver to break the Yale lock on the front door of his premises, and they had stolen a half-full bottle of acetylene, a full oxygen bottle, a welding torch, welding goggles, an acetylene gauge and a gas-bottle key. At McCombe’s invitation, Jones viewed the equipment recovered from the commission and held in police storage. He positively identified the acetylene gauge and gas-bottle key as those taken from his premises.

  Less than a week after NZIG and Jones were knocked off, a shed belonging to engineers Mason Brothers Limited in Freemans Bay was burgled. Mason Brothers had several depots around Auckland, but stored welding and cutting equipment in a locked shed on a barge moored adjacent to a vacant section off Halsey Street. In the early hours of 6 November, the day after their Freemans Bay premises were burgled, offenders entered the Halsey Street property, by breaking one of the wooden boards at the rear of the shed, and made off with a gas-cutting torch. The Masons were quite specific in their description. The torch had distinctive twin all-brass barrels, with brass nipples fitted at the end of each barrel, an oxygen lever fitted at the top of the barrel, two adjusting valves on the bottom of each barrel (one for oxygen, the other for acetylene) and the nozzle was fitted with a Cut Master cutting tip. Also taken were two Meco oxygen-regulating brass gauges. The offender or offenders had left no clues and the burglaries remained unsolved. The torch stolen from Mason Brothers was a positive match for the torch recovered from the scene of the Waterfront heist, by virtue of the all-brass barrels and nipples.

  It was all very well to match items used in the Waterfront heist with items stolen in other, unsolved crimes, but McCombe had high hopes for the unusually shaped brick bolster left behind at the scene. This one had been modified with an extension to the handle. The building industry wasn’t large, so it was thought that running an image of the bolster in The Auckland Star might spur someone to recognise it and connect it with its owner. Following publication of the image, a number of builders came forward who swore they recognised it from somewhere. Trouble was, none of them could remember who they thought might own it.

  Then Arnold Ryan got in touch. He owned the firm A. R. Ryan Limited in Freemans Bay, which specialised in engineering and welding work. Around four months earlier, a man had called in and presented a bolster, asking whether Ryan could fashion an extension to the handle from 12 inches (30 centimetres) to 16 inches (41 centimetres) in length. Ryan fossicked around in a pile of steel off-cuts and showed the customer a piece of 1-inch-diameter steam piping. He demonstrated how the handle of the bolster could be inserted into the pipe and welded in place, making a sturdy extension. There was a flange at the other end of the pipe and Ryan indicated that this could be cut off to make the job neater. The customer insisted the pipe would be fine, flange and all. Ryan thought this strange because he had done similar modifications before and builders generally preferred the flange to be removed.

  The customer left the bolster with him and returned that afternoon to pick it up, paying cash for the job. Ryan described him as European, about 35 to 38 years old, 5 feet 8 inches tall, of slim build, tan complexion and with dark hair. He wore a fawn cardigan but no hat.

  Ryan’s employee William Burgoyne had actually performed the modification. When shown the bolster, he was confident it was the same one, not only because of the flange on the end of the pipe, but also because he was certain the welding was his own handiwork. He had not sharpened the blade, but, at the customer’s request, he had tapered the pipe at the bolster end. This had struck him as slightly unnecessary if, as the customer claimed, it was intended for cutting bricks, because a brick would shear long before the haft of the blade was engaged. He’d done as he was asked, tapered the pipe and, for good measure, ground the blade sideways on an emery wheel. Looking at it now, he could see little sign that it had been used on masonry since he’d done the work.

  Both men believed they would recognise the customer again if they saw him.

  — — —

  Detective McCombe visited Kenneth Parsons (no relation to Gus), who worked in the Motor Accessory Department of the Para Rubber Company in Newmarket. McCombe showed him a 2-yard (1.8-metre) portion of the green rubberised sheeting that had been used to black out the window, and Parsons had no hesitation in identifying it as Wigan cloth, which Para Rubber carried. In fact, Parsons went one better. He instantly recognised the cloth as part of a lot he had personally sold. He remembered this particular sale, because it had struck him as unusual. Hunting back through his dockets, he was able to produce a slip that related to a cash sale on 12 November.

  ‘The man seemed to be in a hurry,’ he recalled. ‘He made his order and appeared in no mood to chat. Right or wrong, he wanted ten yards [nine metres] of the material. We don’t usually sell this material in lots that big. It’s not the usual retail line, either. It’s more in the manufacturing line, and even then, we usually sell two yards, tops. Sales are few and far between. In fact, we’ve had no retail sales for this type of material since.’

  The specific measurements were such that it required a second person to help pull on and straighten the material from the roll so that it could be precisely measured and cut. Parsons had assumed the customer would pop around the counter to assist, but he had just stood back out of the way and allowed Parsons to call for another staff member to help.

  Parsons provided a very detailed description of the customer: he was a man aged between 25 and 30 years, dark hair, about 5 feet 8 inches, of poor complexion with sallow, colourless skin, high cheekbones, of a light build and not a pleasant type of person.

  ‘He was not refined,’ Parsons sniffed. ‘He might have been a factory hand, or something like that.’

  McCombe was so impressed with Parsons’ recollections that he asked Gordon Minhinnick, the cartoonist from The New Zealand Herald, to make a sketch based on the description given. Parsons agreed the completed sketch was a good likeness, and so too did Ryan and Burgoyne when it was showed to them. Copies were made and distributed to every policeman in Auckland for comparison with criminals they knew. It was a radical idea—being many years in advance of the adoption by New Zealand Police of the Smith & Wesson Holding Corporation’s Identi-Kit imaging techniques—although what part this man might have played in the heist was unknown.

  — — —

  Around Christmas, a further memorandum was published reminding people to keep an eye open for suspicious-looking banknotes. While it was probably the most appropriate time for such a press release—people spend money more freely at that time of year than at others—it brought a flood of calls from people ringing in to say that they had received brand-new or stained or scorched notes and they were worried they might be connected to the robbery. All calls were followed up and most discounted. There were just as many calls reporting suspicious-looking characters peddling dodgy jewellery or flashing wads of cash around.

  Several days before Christmas, Devonport police began hearing rumours that a fellow was flaunting a large bankroll in local hotels and joking it was from the Waterfront payroll robbery. A man named Eric Ward came forward, saying he was enjoying the evening at home with his fiancée in Devonport when his mother and her friend arrived home with two strange men, all of them the worse for liquor. Ward set about making a cup of tea, and returned to find his fiancée in tears. When asked what was the matter, she replied that the older of the two men offered her £300 cash to have sex with him. When Ward challenged the fellow, he laughed and said it was true. He produced a roll of fifties and began peeling notes off it. Ward invited him outside to ‘put up his dukes’, but the man laughed again and said he was leaving. Ward and his fiancée estimated the bankroll was about 3 inches (8 centimetres) thick and could have contained as much as £5000. The man was described as being around 40 years old, with white hair, olive complexion, heavy-set and—distinctively—had earrings in both ears. Police immediately recognised Warr
en Light from the description. Light was a known fencer who had also committed several thefts in the North Shore area. Light was then working at the Mangakino Power Project but was regularly in Auckland, where he boarded at the Harbourview Private Hotel. Enquiries revealed Light had been staying there from November 1956 to 15 January 1957.

  By the time he was located, Light had returned to Mangakino. He cheerfully denied any involvement in the Waterfront job, but police weren’t entirely satisfied. He was known to be a stealthy burglar who could break into and enter premises without leaving a trace, so it was thought he might well have been a participant in the heist. But the consensus was that he didn’t have the juice to have been the organiser. Local police were asked to monitor his spending habits and report back if there were any more suggestions that he had suddenly acquired great wealth.

  — — —

  In January 1957, Walton received an anonymous hand-written letter.

  Quizz [sic] Charlie White. You will learn who pulled the 20,000 job. Charlie borrowed 2000 from a Dally [Dalmatian] bookie when he was not looking. Charlie was in Ausie [sic] for a while, came back broke. Charlie borrowed 200 boss of the Vulcan. Very pleased two pals again Charlie is very rich man nowadays.

  Charles White was well known to detectives, but wasn’t considered amongst the top echelon of criminals and certainly didn’t feature prominently on the list of likely suspects. White was a bookie and fencer, and he often worked in tandem with George ‘Knucklehead’ Walker extorting average Joes. White and Walker were regarded as little more than nuisance criminals. White was interviewed and couldn’t recall his whereabouts on the night of the robbery. When told about the letter, he said he believed he knew who it was from and that it was a joke. He wouldn’t divulge who he thought had written it.

  Anna Hoffmann was an eighteen-year-old Bohemian who had become friends with Knucklehead Walker a year earlier. ‘I wouldn’t put it past George to have written that letter,’ she recalled.

  He and Charlie White were always falling out over some racket. You had the feeling that although they worked together they didn’t entirely trust each other either. I don’t think George would have meant to fit Charlie up, but did it only to get him back for some perceived wrongs. Both of them were big-noters and to have some association to a crime of that scale would have enhanced their reputation. I always knew George as a big softie but with a facade of being a tough mobster, and this is what led to his downfall. [Walker was one of the men shot dead during the Bassett Road machine-gun murders.] He collected protection money from meek shop owners on K[arangahape] Road. But to blow a safe? No, I don’t think so, but he would have been pleased to think he was in the frame.

  Motivated by the desire to claim the £500 reward the insurance company was offering, many came forward and it was difficult to sort well-meaning truth from self-interested lies. One such was a dishonest drunkard who habitually wasted police time. He presented with information that he insisted was true, but it wasn’t until February 1957—almost three months after the robbery had been committed and leads were getting hard to come by—that police reluctantly agreed to hear his story. The man claimed to have been drinking in the Waiuku Hotel with Thomas Shortcliffe, who became drunk and confided that he and Harold Kendall had committed the Waterfront payroll robbery. It was Kendall’s name that piqued detectives’ interest: nobody other than the police knew that Kendall was in the frame. Perhaps there was an element of truth, after all?

  The man told them that Shortcliffe had claimed he met Kendall through a mutual associate and was on the lookout for someone reliable to take on a ‘big job’. The drunker Shortcliffe became, the more panicky he grew. Shortcliffe said he couldn’t sleep at night for the worry he would be arrested, because he feared he had left fingerprints all over the office. When the informant asked about the loot, Shortcliffe replied that his share was hidden in the tyre of the road grader he drove during his day job working on the Great South Road improvements. Shortcliffe said he had nobody he could trust and asked the informant to retrieve the money and hide it if he was collared. The informant agreed to do this, but his reluctance grew over the next few days, as he feared he would be fitted up for the job if found in possession of the money.

  Thomas Shortcliffe was aged 35 and hailed from Northland. He had served with distinction overseas during the war, but had been aimless since he returned home. He fell in with Eric Kostanich and the pair moved down to Auckland. During October 1945, they broke into a number of homes stealing money and jewellery until they were caught by fingerprint evidence. After doing his time, Shortcliffe managed to get work in various public works schemes but continued to have a hand in occasional burglaries on the side. His arrest on a minor charge in 1954 put him within the three-year ambit of Bob Walton’s list of offenders to interview. Shortcliffe was routinely seen on 30 November and denied knowing anything about the Waterfront payroll robbery, let alone being involved.

  Shortcliffe was part Māori but could quite easily pass for an Italian or Dalmatian, like the second man whom Eric Thomas had described. He was of similar build and age to the description; the only snag was that Thomas was adamant he had heard the man talking in a distinctly foreign accent.

  Detectives Hoy and McCombe arranged to meet Mr Bettany, engineer of the Franklin County Council, who discreetly moved Shortcliffe’s road grader to a yard in Pukekohe, where it was searched by the detectives. The six wheels were taken off, the tyres removed and the tubes and inside walls of the tyres searched. Nothing was found. The foreman who was assisting believed the wheels had not been tampered with recently. The rest of the machine was also searched, but still nothing was found.

  The detectives visited Shortcliffe again at his home in Waiuku. He was plainly stunned to see the detectives and was nervous when they searched his car.

  ‘Why so worried, Tom?’ Hoy asked.

  ‘I don’t have many mates,’ Shortcliffe replied. ‘I’m worried someone might be trying to fit me up for the Waterfront job.’

  ‘You didn’t do the job, did you, Tom?’

  ‘No, I bloody did not!’

  ‘We’ve heard that you were saying you did it down at the Waiuku Hotel.’

  ‘Shit, did I? I don’t remember saying that. I might have said it. I goof a bit of bullshit when I’m pissed. Ask anyone.’

  Shortcliffe insisted he had been straight for a few years and had no intention of returning to a life of crime because he feared jail. Mr Bettany affirmed that Shortcliffe was reliable and one of his best workers.

  When asked why he had specifically mentioned Harold Kendall, Shortcliffe said he had heard through the grapevine that Kendall was responsible.

  ‘Do you know Kendall?’

  ‘Nah, never met him. But I know him, you know, by reputation.’

  — — —

  Since the very large majority of cars on New Zealand roads were English, American cars tended to stand out. Residents of Ponsonby reported an expensive-looking blue Chevrolet apparently abandoned on College Hill in Freemans Bay. Even though Eric Thomas didn’t get a close look at what he believed to be the Waterfront robbers’ getaway car, he thought it was blue or black and probably American. The car parked outside number 13 College Hill fitted this description to a tee. A check on the plates revealed it was registered to Atlas Motors. The address was a known safe house used by transient criminals hiding out before ring-bolting, or by crooks who had business to discuss. Covert surveillance established that it was occupied, because a man was seen to arrive with groceries and liquor and quickly leave. The man was soon identified as Charles ‘Bubs’ Magoon who, along with his brother, Owen, was a known stand-over man. Both had criminal ties and were now in the scrap-metal business, which checks revealed was financed by Percy Over, who had taken over as co-director of Atlas Motors while Parsons was in stir.

  An early-evening raid found Magoon, James Dunsford—who had been deported from Fiji for house-breaking offences—and George Tunstead, a safe blower. All three men were
startled when police arrived, and offered no resistance. Detectives threatened to arrest all three unless they gave up someone. They admitted it was their intention to plan a crime, but were holed up in the house as they didn’t want to be associated with the Waterfront job. They had decided to wait until the heat was off. Magoon added he intended to employ the other two in the scrap business. Tunstead claimed to own the blue Chevrolet and said it had broken down. The men were warned and told that, if a job were done over the next few weeks, they could expect to be shopped for it.

  CHAPTER 7

  BREAKTHROUGH

  The fact that none of the banknotes had surfaced suggested that either the accountants had it wrong or the robbers were sitting tight. The longer the robbers left before spending it, the harder it would be to launder without drawing attention—unless they had immediately taken it out of the country. This was a real possibility. If the money had already been laundered, then banks should be reporting finding amounts here and there. Bank staff and many businesses remained vigilant in scrutinising banknotes bearing similar serial numbers to the numbers of the stolen notes. Often bank managers would send police summary reports of suspicious notes that had been tendered. Any burnt or scorched-looking note that was occasionally found was immediately passed on. More often than not, the notes were easily traceable to a customer who could provide a plausible explanation as to how the banknote came to be in their possession or in that condition.