The Great New Zealand Robbery

by Scott Bainbridge

  In February 1957, Percy Scott, proprietor of the Salutation Hotel in Thames, told police during a visit that a customer had handed him a scorched £1 note and it was the second he had produced over a few days. Unfortunately, both were busy days and he couldn’t identify the customer.

  In April, a checkout assistant from Farmers Trading Company rushed into her manager’s office to inform him a customer had asked to change a burnt £5 note. She had asked the customer why it was burnt and he shrugged, saying he had got it from a Mr Fowler. While the manager rang police, the girl returned to the checkout but the customer had gone. He was tracked down to Papatoetoe and sheepishly admitted his wife had received money from her solicitor and, during an argument, it was thrown on the gas stove and partially burned before it could be quickly retrieved. The serial number wasn’t within the sequence of the stolen notes.

  Several weeks later, Mr Gothard, manager of Samuel Parker Limited, contacted police saying a customer named Victor Wasmuth had called in to settle his account, cashing £110 in crumpled, soiled and scorched £10 notes. The serial numbers recorded were not part of the sequence of known stolen notes but their condition was suspicious enough for Detective Schultz to take a ride out to Bethells Beach (Te Henga) to seek an explanation. Mr Wasmuth was amenable enough and explained he had withdrawn the notes sometime earlier because he distrusted banks. He stored his money in a hole beneath the dwelling he was living in, which was still under construction and—to judge from the mess—probably always would be. In his summary, Schultz commented that Mr Wasmuth seemed to be ‘slightly eccentric but harmless enough’. Six years later, Wasmuth went on a rampage and shot four people, killing detectives Wallace Chalmers and Neville Power.31

  By the end of June 1957, the number of notifications from banks had dried up. Only occasionally would diligent bank staff alert police to the fact that suspicious banknotes had appeared, but they were invariably discounted. Enquiries seemed to have reached a dead end. Detective Sergeant Walton was of the belief that, while many banks were diligent in their scrutiny, there would no doubt be many others who weren’t checking and probably never had been. For many months the police memorandum was restricted to branches in the Auckland region and the main branches in Wellington and Christchurch, so there was also the possibility that the money had been taken out of Auckland. The robbers may have been freely spending it in smaller or remote centres, where there was little chance of coming under suspicion.

  In a memorandum to Detective Superintendent Aplin on behalf of the controller-general and for dissemination amongst any interested government agencies, Detective Sergeant Walton reported that ‘at the present date the offenders who robbed the Waterfront Industry Commission of £20,000 [sic] have not been apprehended and remain at large. No information has been forthcoming for several months now. Whilst the enquiry team has been scaled back, Auckland Police will maintain vigilance and apply pressure on the criminal fraternity to bring matters to conclusion. The amount of money will be making it difficult for criminals to move and I am certain the identities of one or more of the offenders will come from someone within that circle for whatever motivation for want of the reward.’

  The detectives on the Waterfront payroll robbery investigation team returned to their normal duties. Les Schultz and his Shop-breaking Squad continued to apply the pressure to the criminal fraternity and to squeeze informants, but it seemed either no one knew anything or no one was talking. All police were instructed to occasionally call in on anyone they might harbour suspicions about, to see if their fortunes had suddenly improved; with that amount of loot, even the hardiest of mugs would scarcely be able to resist turning up with a new car or flash clothes. Parsons would be out the next July, West the year afterward, and MacDonald and Newman were down for another four years. Superintendent Haywood was good at keeping an ear to the ground at Mount Eden and generally knew who was saying what; he promised to pass on any information gleaned from the prison grapevine.

  ‘It is only a matter of time,’ Aplin concluded, ‘before one or more of these men plays his hand.’

  — — —

  Friday the thirteenth is ominous to the superstitious, but boredom loomed larger than bad luck for Maureen Stewart on that day in September 1957. Maureen had left school several months earlier to work in her father’s home appliance store, Hill and Stewart Limited, at 176 Broadway in Newmarket, and was thrilled to be placed in the music section. It was a shrewd move on Mr Stewart’s part. He reckoned that having someone young and hip who knew about this new ‘rock ’n’ roll’ bunkum would attract more of the younger generation to the store. The elderly Mr Lambert, who ran the section, strongly preferred gentle classical music.

  Happy as she was, Maureen found Fridays a drag. It was late-night shopping, and Maureen had to work until 8 pm knowing her girlfriends would be heading out to a party or the movies while she was stuck arguing over the price of a gramophone with cantankerous farmers, or keeping the loutish milk-bar cowboys in check and out of the listening booth. All she had to look forward to was spinning some of the 45s that were on the hit parade.

  All that was hours away. Right now it was Friday morning, and it was just as slow as usual. In fact, at 9.30 am, there was only one customer: a sickly sort of rooster, around 30 years old, gaunt and pale, wearing a fawn cotton gabardine overcoat—the trench-coat style, with double shoulders—and a blue-grey slouch hat. He looked out of place in the music department.

  Maureen wandered over. ‘May I help you?’ she asked politely.

  He shot her a quick glance and quickly averted his eyes. ‘What are the latest records you’ve got?’

  ‘We’ve got most of the hit parade numbers, sir. Is there one in particular you would like to hear?’

  The man started flipping his way through another rack. ‘What’s popular? I mean, what’s at number one?’ he said curtly.

  Maureen forced a smile. ‘“Old Cape Cod” by Patti Page is the number one this week. It’s just over here. Would you like to hear it?’ ‘No, that’ll do. I’ll buy that one.’ He shoved a £10 note towards her and she rang the sale up on the till.

  The record cost only 6s.6d. Maureen frowned at the cash drawer in her register.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have anything smaller?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me one moment, I don’t have enough change.’ Maureen went out to the office to change the note. When she came back, the man was still standing at the desk, fidgeting. She put the vinyl record in a paper bag and handed it over. He snatched it from her and hurried from the shop.

  An hour later, Maureen headed out for her morning-tea break. She walked along Broadway to meet up with her old school chum, Noeline Strong, who worked at Storkline toy store. They met, as usual, down an alley popular with a number of the young shop assistants in the area, and lit their cigarettes.

  ‘Busy morning? Noeline asked.

  Maureen told her about the rude customer. ‘I mean, why on earth would you buy a record you’ve obviously never heard? And he must have been in a real big hurry, because he had ants in his pants. I mean, it wasn’t my fault I didn’t have change for a tenner.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Noeline. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Some joker came in just after we opened. He walked around for ages as if he couldn’t make up his mind. I asked if he needed help and he just ignored me. Then he came up to me holding this tiny teddy bear and asked how much it was. I told him it was nineteen-eleven and he gave me a tenner! I had to go to Miss Buckley to get some change but she didn’t have enough, either. She had to rush out to break it. We had to pay him in pound notes and as soon as I gave him his change he just grabbed it off me and walked straight out of the store with the teddy bear under his arm. No “thank you”. Nothing.’

  — — —

  As they were gossiping, a man aged about 35 years, darkish complexion, average height, slight build and wearing a fawn cotton gabardine overcoat—the trench-coat style, with double shoulders�
�and dark-blue felt hat walked into E. P. Liddell Limited, Outfitters at 190 Broadway and asked to buy two soft handkerchiefs. He was served by the branch manager, Brian Wallace. The total cost was 8s.3d. and the customer produced a £10 note. Wallace muttered that they’d only just opened and he hadn’t had a chance to get to the bank yet. There wasn’t enough money in the till, so he made up the change with money from his own wallet. This left the shop with no change whatsoever, Wallace reflected ruefully, which meant he would have to pop along to the bank at morning tea. The man didn’t want his handkerchiefs wrapped, and left the store quickly.

  E. P. Liddell had a branch further along Broadway, and at around 10.30 am, Douglas Graham arrived from there to relieve Wallace while the latter did the run to the bank for change.

  ‘How’s business down your end?’ Wallace asked Graham.

  ‘Dead,’ Graham replied. ‘Just one customer, and all he wanted was three hankies. And he wanted to pay with a bloody ten-pound note!’

  ‘That’s weird. I had the same thing. Guy wants two hankies and pays with a tenner.’

  They were standing at the entrance and they looked along the street to see if they could spot the man. Wallace popped next door to Lornie’s Paint Store and learned that someone who sounded very much like the same man had bought a paint brush worth 5s.9d. with a £10 note. This seemed odd enough to the salesman that he wrote down the serial number of the note on his card before the banking was done at 10 o’clock.

  The serial number was 4/F 879706.

  Wallace called into Haggards Book Shop and learned the man had there purchased a People magazine with a £10 note.

  By now, Wallace was highly suspicious. He returned to his store.

  ‘Douggie, you’d better phone the cops, I reckon. I’m going to have a shufti to see if I can spot this joker.’

  Wallace hurried along Broadway. He ran into Mr North, manager of Price’s Tailors, walking towards his store.

  ‘There’s this fellow going shop to shop, buying bits and bobs with tenners,’ Wallace said. ‘Better watch out for him. I reckon he’s up to no good.’

  Mr North nodded and carried on to Bell’s Tobacconist to buy cigarettes. The assistant was busy with another customer.

  ‘You don’t happen to have anything smaller, by any chance?’ the assistant was saying.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ the man replied brusquely.

  North leaned over and noticed the customer holding a £10 note. He discreetly left the shop.

  ‘Brian! It’s him. He’s in Bell’s, waving a tenner at Derek.’

  The men loitered near the tobacconist, trying to act natural. They saw the man leave the shop, stuffing a handful of notes in his pocket. He seemed wrapped up in his own world and didn’t appear to notice that he was being watched. He walked into the shop next door.

  ‘What d’you reckon we do now?’ Wallace asked North, but North nudged him and pointed to a traffic officer.

  ‘Not often you’re glad to see one of them,’ North said.

  Traffic Officer Ken Waterman was on patrol in Newmarket when he was buttonholed by Wallace and North. Waterman agreed the man’s behaviour sounded suspicious and, as police had already been notified, he suggested they go back to their respective shops while he tried to find and follow the dodgy character. As he was walking towards the tobacconist’s, he stopped Maureen Stewart walking the other way and asked her if she had seen a strange man. He gave her a quick description.

  ‘Well, he sounds a lot like a rude man I had to serve earlier this morning,’ Maureen told him. ‘Paid for a six-bob record with a tenner, and then he gets iffy with me because I had to get some change.’

  ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’ Waterman asked.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied.

  The pair walked along the road together. Not a minute later, she stopped and pointed to a man coming out of the Town and Country Store. They followed at a safe distance and watched as he walked into Cook’s Tobacconist. As they were standing there, Waterman recognised a plain-clothes policeman who happened to be walking towards them. Waterman stopped him and quickly explained the story, asking if he could stay and help watch until the detectives arrived in case the chap became suspicious and ran away.

  — — —

  ‘I had only just graduated from Police College at Trentham the previous month,’ Murray Gallagher recalls.

  I was on mobile patrol with my sergeant when we heard this report on the car radio. We were close to Newmarket and so were probably the first to attend the call. We parked the car and took one side of Broadway each. I quickly found a small group of people on my side of the footpath who were craning their necks to look ahead and they pointed out the suspect to me when he came out of the shop some distance ahead. I kept the suspect in my sight from a distance until detectives arrived and took over.

  The man walked out of the shop and along to Nicol’s Tobacconist, apparently unaware there was a small crowd watching him closely. While he was inside, two detectives arrived.

  Constable Frank Parker of Auckland CIB had taken the call from Doug Graham and, with Acting Detective Lionel Hammond, drove straight to Newmarket. They arrived on Broadway at 11 am. They located Waterman and the constable standing together, looking towards a shop across the road. They all watched as the man left the shop and hesitated a few seconds before continuing up Broadway in the direction of Khyber Pass Road. He went into electrical goods supplier J. Henderson and Company, was seen to pay at the counter and then walk out, tucking a record down the front of his trench coat. As he came out, he brushed past Parker, who approached the counter and quietly asked if that customer had paid with a £10 note. When the assistant confirmed he had, Parker asked to have a look at the note. It wasn’t old, but it appeared to have been discoloured with water or oil in a deliberate attempt to make it look older than it was. Outside, he gave Hammond the nod and the pair walked quickly to catch up with the man—but not so quickly that they would alert any accomplices the man might have—and once they had him in sight, they followed at a discreet distance.

  The man must have sensed he was being followed, as he stopped and turned around. The policemen saw in his face that he had spotted them for what they were.

  ‘Could we have one or two words with you, sir?’ Hammond asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, obviously caught on the hop.

  They walked towards the police car, but as the immediate shock of being stopped wore off the man began dragging his feet.

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ he asked, a note of defiance in his voice.

  ‘We just want to know why you’ve been spending so many ten-pound notes on small purchases today,’ Hammond replied.

  The man folded his arms. ‘Well, that’s my fucking business. I don’t have to tell you anything.’

  He was growing more agitated by the minute. He was jittery and kept looking over towards Remuera Road, as if he was afraid of someone, or was looking to cut and run.

  Sensing this, Parker stood in a position to block him if he did. ‘What is your name, sir?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I’m not telling you anything.’

  Traffic Officer Waterman and the constable had followed at a safe distance and now stood a few feet away. Hammond motioned for the two to help watch the man while he went to J. Henderson’s to uplift the last £10 note the man had spent. When he returned, Hammond informed him he would be taken to CIB for questioning. The man leaned against a tubular railing as if he was about to collapse. He was pale and perspiring heavily.

  ‘Are you all right, sir? Are you ill?’

  ‘Got the flu, haven’t I? And nothing for breakfast but a couple of bloody whiskeys.’ He rallied. ‘I’m not answering any more questions, so don’t bother asking.’

  — — —

  Hammond and Parker returned to Auckland Central Police Station around 11.30 am. Chinese whispers: word had already spread around the station that the pair had collared one of the Waterfront payro
ll robbers. The front office began crowding with police officers eager to catch a glimpse of the man—or one of them, at least—who had eluded the entire force for ten months.

  The station was buzzing, but a hush fell as the chuffed-looking Hammond and Parker came in with their catch between them. The man was dishevelled, but when he realised all eyes were on him he lifted his chin and returned their stares with a smirk of staunch defiance. The desk sergeant glared at him and said, ‘I’m going to book you. Tell me your name.’

  Silence. The man swept the room with his gaze then returned it to the front desk.

  ‘Get fucked,’ he added.

  There was pandemonium. Hammond and Parker violently jerked their prisoner forward. Les Schultz pushed his way through the crowd, grabbed the man firmly by the arm and guided him through the ‘staff only’ door and up to the first floor. He frogmarched him into an office where Detective Seargeants Tom Irving and Bob Walton were waiting.

  Outside, there were backslaps and handshakes all round.

  CHAPTER 8

  BUILDING A CASE

  Hammond cleared his throat.‘Constable Parker and I were in Parnell when we responded to a radio call-out saying a bloke was spending ten-quid notes on small, cheap items. As a result, we apprehended this fellow shortly afterwards. Since he has been in our custody, he has been polite—mostly polite—but largely uncooperative, in that he refuses to answer any questions or divulge his name.’

  Schultz frowned as he fish-eyed the man, searching for something—anything—about the man that might ring a bell, but there was nothing. He knew many of the hard cases, but he didn’t know this fellow. He gestured for a sergeant to pat him down. The man’s coat and trouser pockets were bulging and he offered no resistance. Parker pulled out fourteen £10 notes and rolls of smaller denominations totalling £235. From his inner pockets, a magazine, bottle of perfume, bottle of hair cream, a small box containing a brooch, a record, a jug, a jar of apricot jam and two pink ties were produced, as well as a Waterfront Union card bearing the name Trevor Edward Nash.