Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I’d say it was a man in the London office who told the gang when to pull the jobs,’ Paul said thoughtfully.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I think so, because the police turned up in Harkdale at the time of the robbery. A local man, even a man from Birmingham, could have discovered that the police car went through Harkdale at exactly the same time every Friday afternoon. Gavin Renson would have known, but he obviously took his orders from middle men.’

  ‘You mean this series of jobs was implemented suddenly.’

  ‘Yes. Something happened a month ago, so they had to move into action without the local groundwork which they should have done. That would also account for the way Betty was left in the air.’

  Steve took the empty hamper from the boot of the car and led Paul into the house. Mrs O’Hanrahan had gone home, leaving them a cold chicken supper for the evening. Paul decided they would eat at the Gateway Motel, Banbury.

  ‘Surely,’ said Steve, ‘the police ought to know who the bank robbers are. I mean the ones in the car, the police ought to know which gang they belonged to and who else has worked with them.’

  ‘They do.’ Paul went into the living room and sat in the armchair by the window. The sun had disappeared behind Snowshill leaving a chill reminder that summer was a few weeks off. ‘That was why I had breakfast with Charlie Vosper. They were members of the West London gang.’

  Paul took a pipe from the rack above the fireplace and filled it with tobacco. He smoked the pipe occasionally as a substitute for cutting out smoking.

  ‘The West London gang,’ Charlie Vosper had said as he struck his third match, ‘Desmond Blane was their number two. I wondered what had happened to the rest of them.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘It took me two years, but eventually I got them. I smashed up their operations and most of the gang went to gaol for several years. The boss was Joe Lancing. Did you know him?’ Paul shook his head. ‘Fine bloke, I liked old Joe. He built the gang up from scratch just after the war. He was sentenced to fifteen years.’

  ‘So Blane got off?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Blane was out of the country, and some of the small fry slipped through, people like Skibby Thorne and Ray Norton. But it didn’t matter much, because we’d broken up the gang. That was a year ago now.’

  Charlie Vosper talked nostalgically of his old friend Joe Lancing, of his rough childhood in Shepherd’s Bush and the army surplus rackets, the black market business and street corner betting of his younger days. ‘He was a good lad. Won the DSO in the war. He was the sort of villain you could talk to. But of course the world changed and Joe changed with it. Gambling became legal, the legitimate clubs made Joe’s vice dens seem like pranks in a convent after lights out. He was earning thousands a week without breaking the law!’

  They relaxed over the eggs and bacon. Paul enjoyed listening to Charlie Vosper when he was in this mood. It was probably because the Harkdale robbery wasn’t his case: the bland grey haired inspector talked about his job and the opposition with affection.

  ‘Of course there was protection and a few robberies. But in recent years Joe spent most of his energy with the investment of his loot. He bought property all over West London: office blocks and luxury flats and a couple of perfectly sound businesses. His boys were becoming fed up with the quiet life; they didn’t think it was real money unless they had stolen it, and they resented the lawyers and the accountants who surrounded Joe. So Joe sometimes lent them out to the North London gang. That’s where Skibby and his friends were when we got Joe, they were robbing a factory in North London. That’s how they got off.’

  Charlie sipped his coffee sadly. ‘It was hardly worth locking Joe up.’

  ‘What did you get them for?’

  ‘Fraud and a few tax infringements.’ In Charlie Vosper’s book they weren’t really crimes. ‘But it does go to show,’ he said triumphantly, ‘that we can catch the modern businessmen of the underworld. Did I ever tell you about the crash course I took in accountancy?’

  ‘No,’ said Paul. He poured some more coffee. ‘Was it useful?’

  ‘I’ll say. I discovered how to reduce my income tax by a third. But the mistake you made on television last night was to assume that businessmen are intelligent. They only have to be good at their job, like anybody else.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘You wait until I retire in a couple of years. I’ll go into business myself, and then you’ll see what a copper is made of. I won’t have Joe Lancing’s capital investment to start me off, but I won’t have his gang of dependants either.’

  Paul realised the man was being quite serious.

  ‘Talking of dependants,’ said Paul, ‘there was a man called Arnold. About sixty, tall, with a northern accent. Was he one of the gang?’

  Charlie Vosper thought not.

  Charlie was not able to help much further, but he suggested a trip out to Coulsden open prison to see Joe. The West London gang no longer existed, and nobody had taken over from the old boss. ‘But Coulsden is on your way back to Broadway,’ said Charlie, ‘you’ve nothing to lose except half an hour of your time.’ The new brain behind the robberies was a stranger, probably a newcomer to crime. Charlie Vosper had admitted that such people were more difficult to identify than the usual villains who were merely difficult to arrest. But that was as far as he would go with Paul’s thesis about change in the structure of crime.

  Charlie Vosper had made the open prison sound like a Butlin’s holiday camp, and the layout was similar. The main hall had a barred door which the Chief Warder unlocked from the familiar bundle of keys on his belt. The cream and green colour scheme and the flagstone floors, the range of furniture and the grey crumpled uniforms were much the same. It was open plan rather than unconfined.

  ‘I’m Warder Druce,’ said the officer. ‘Inspector Vosper rang that you were coming.’ The door clanged ominously shut behind them. ‘Come through to the visitors’ room.’

  Paul followed him down the corridor and round the three sides of a square upon which the administration block was built. He peered curiously into the rooms off, such as the recreation room, the television room, the gymnasium and a hall with a curtained stage. Just like a holiday camp. The prisoners whom they passed spoke with a slightly false cheerfulness and Druce bullied them into more vigorous effort.

  ‘This seems a happy enough place,’ Paul said politely.

  ‘Oh yes. A happy prison is an efficient prison.’ He led the way into a waiting room, with half a dozen chairs round a small central table. It was the room in which visitors were received and entertained. ‘Of course most of the prisoners are out at work now. They work out on the farms, and some go in to Coulsdon town to work in the factories. The ones you’ve seen on the premises are the new boys.’

  ‘Is Joe Lancing regarded as a new boy?’

  ‘Oh yes, he only came four months ago.’ Druce chuckled indulgently. ‘But he nearly runs the place already. He soon found his way about.’

  Joe Lancing didn’t look like a millionaire. He was about five feet six inches tall, and he had overgrown grey hair and bushy sideboards – the mark of a prisoner big enough to make his own rules. The red face of the heavy drinker explained the sagging figure: he should have had an overhanging stomach, but since he had been inside his girth had slumped. He was a scruffy, comfortable and amiable man.

  ‘How’s my old friend Vosper?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Does he still keep my photograph above his bed, like Montgomery did with Rommel’s photograph?’ He shook hands, a large firm handshake that inspired confidence. ‘Sit down, make yourself comfortable.’

  Paul sat in an uncomfortable chair. He offered Joe a cigarette, but Joe insisted they smoke his.

  ‘We have all your novels in the prison library,’ said Joe. ‘They aren’t bad, except that all your villains are pretty unpleasant characters, and that isn’t lifelike. I must introduce you to some of my friends. You’ll like them.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Paul. ‘Actually i
t was one of your friends whom I wanted to ask you about. Desmond Blane –’

  ‘Why don’t you come and give a talk to our Literary Circle? They’re a keen group of lads, some of them write thrillers and several are engaged on their autobiographies. I’ll make that my price for any help I can give you.’

  Paul laughed and heard himself saying that of course he would be delighted to talk to the Literary Circle.

  ‘That’s agreed then. Now what were you saying about Des?’

  ‘I wondered whether he was running your old outfit.’

  ‘Des?’ Joe laughed appreciatively. ‘Des couldn’t run his own life. He’s an old fashioned heavyweight who beats up the people you point him at.’

  ‘Somebody,’ Paul said carefully, ‘has been pointing him in the direction of three banks.’

  Joe stared in disbelief. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because two of your men were killed getting away, Skibby Thorne and Larry Phillips, and another is critically injured in hospital. It seems as if Desmond Blane was their supervisor.’

  ‘Who’s injured?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Ray Norton. I gather they were your goon squad.’

  Joe had risen to his feet and his face was flushed with ineffectual rage. ‘The silly buggers! I left them perfectly well provided for! Who put them up to it?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Paul murmured.

  ‘Bloody cowboys,’ Joe said as he sat down again. ‘You can’t let men like that out of your sight before they’re up to some mischief.’ He shook his head with patriarchal resignation. ‘I can’t help you, Mr Temple. You would know more about their antics than I would. I only hear whispers in here, and I haven’t heard any whispers about my boys robbing banks. They must have met somebody since I was sent down, fallen under a bad influence.’ He noticed the trace of a smile cross Warder Druce’s face and snapped angrily, ‘No man was ever killed working for me, Mr Druce.’

  The smile vanished.

  ‘What,’ he asked Paul, ‘were your ideas?’

  Paul explained as tactfully as he could that he thought there was a new number one on the London scene. ‘Obviously I wouldn’t ask you to help me catch him, Mr Lancing, that wouldn’t be appropriate. But I thought you might tell me a few things about your old organisation.’

  Joe was silent for several moments, and then he murmured, ‘Well?’

  ‘Desmond Blane ran your goon squad, didn’t he? I wondered whether he had a protection racket going, against the London clubs?’

  ‘After a fashion,’ said Joe, ‘but there was nothing systematic about it. I allowed him to work the clubs just to keep the boys occupied.’

  ‘There’s a club called the Love-Inn. Was that on his list?’

  ‘No.’ The exiled boss shook his head and smiled. ‘I remember the Love-Inn, it’s owned by an American. He told Des to do his worst. I think he was drunk at the time.’

  ‘What was Desmond Blane’s worst?’

  ‘The last I heard he was going out with one of the dancers there. Des was always easily diverted.’

  Paul described the man called Arnold, but he received no further information. Paul knew, of course, that Joe would avoid giving him any direct answers; Joe had other means than the law to keep order. But Paul thought he would be able to read the conversation behind the words. Joe Lancing did not know a man called Arnold. He had not heard of a new number one.

  Which implied somebody who called in a few gangsters as required, rather than an empire builder of the old school. Joe had enjoyed his power, whereas the new man was out for the money.

  Paul left the sprawling barracks of a prison feeling sad for the old man. There was a feeling of waste; he reminded Paul of a tiger in a zoo or Napoleon on St. Helena; it was a waste of his talent to be running a comfortable open gaol.

  ‘How do you envisage the super-brain behind this crime?’

  It was nine o’clock on the B 4035 to Banbury and Paul had been silent for the past half hour. Steve was driving the car. She pursed her lips unhelpfully.

  ‘Do you envisage him as a kid from the Salford backstreets who cheated at the eleven plus and went to grammar school? A tough little kid who never got caught, passed his five GCEs and then studied to be an accountant at evening classes? I expect we’ll find he’s about twenty-six and came into the scene as a financial adviser.’

  ‘Name of Jonathan Wild,’ Steve laughed.

  They swung through the large illuminated entrance of the Gateway Motel, past the long bungalow shaped building and into the car park.

  Chapter Seven

  The Gateway Motel had been open for about six months. The owner was a sprightly little Scotsman called Angus Lomax. He had made his money by following the principle that what happens in America happens five years later in England, but the principle hadn’t operated for motels. He came into the restaurant and looked at the sparse crowd with some apprehension.

  Paul saw him ask the young manageress whom the Rolls outside belonged to. She nodded towards their table in the corner and added something which Paul couldn’t read from her lip movements. Mr Lomax came hurrying across to them.

  The menu had a tendency towards the barbecue, with hot dogs and hamburgers featuring prominently, words like french fries and apple pie, but the waitress had looked relieved when Paul had ordered a rare steak with mashed potatoes. It was all a façade. When Steve had put on the juke box everybody had looked up in astonishment, including Paul.

  ‘I only do it to keep you young,’ she explained to Paul. But she knew the records had been out of the hit parade since the motel opened.

  There was one advantage to the place. If it were a meeting place for bank robbers Angus Lomax wouldn’t be able to claim that he hadn’t noticed them.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Temple. My daughter tells me you’d like a word.’

  Paul shook hands with him and invited him to sit down. He could hardly say he was busy. ‘This is Steve, my wife.’ The man sat down.

  ‘You have a very pleasant motel, Mr Lomax,’ said Steve. ‘And a good chef. I’m surprised you aren’t crowded tonight.’

  Those were the words to start Lomax talking. He relaxed into a long description of his troubles.

  ‘Why don’t you call this a hotel with ample parking accommodation?’ Paul asked. ‘Then at least people would come for the food.’

  He shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t attract the American visitors.’

  ‘I don’t see any American visitors.’

  ‘It’s a slack period,’ Lomax confessed unhappily. ‘But you didn’t ask me across to hear about my problems. How can I help you, Mr Temple?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace the movements of a friend of mine,’ said Paul. ‘I think she stayed here the night before last.’

  ‘What’s the name of your friend?’

  Paul described Betty Stanway and explained that he thought the girl was probably in trouble. He could see from the way Angus Lomax was reacting that he was sympathetic, but he was no help.

  ‘I’m absolutely sure she didn’t stay here on Friday night.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I’m positive, because there wasn’t a single member of the fair sex staying in the house on Friday. There were only three men.’

  Paul believed him. ‘Thank you, Mr Lomax,’ he said quietly.

  The man shook hands and went away with apologies for not being more help, hoping to see him at the Gateway again. Paul nodded and picked up another book of matches to remind himself.

  ‘You’re disappointed,’ Steve murmured.

  He nodded. ‘I thought we had a lead.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  Paul put the matches in his pocket. ‘Let’s go home.’ He signalled to the waitress and paid the bill.

  They were in the hall when Steve remembered her handbag. She laughed and went back to fetch it. Paul waited, deep in thought. He watched his wife walk across the restaurant with the black patent leather handbag. He had an idea.

  ‘Is Mr Lomax still in the building?’ he ask
ed the young manageress.

  ‘I believe so.’ She knocked on one of the doors off the hall and poked her head into the office. ‘Hello, Daddy. Will you have another word with Mr Temple?’

  Steve came into the hall in time to be left behind. ‘I shan’t be a minute, darling. I’ll see you in the car.’ She looked surprised, but she went out to the car park.

  Paul explained to Angus Lomax that he had probably been too specific in his enquiry. Maybe Betty Stanway hadn’t spent the night there – motels weren’t only for sleeping, were they? He described Desmond Blane, and for good measure he mentioned the sixty-year old northerner called Arnold. This time he was lucky.

  ‘I know Arnold Cookson,’ said Lomax. ‘He’s been here for lunch half a dozen times in the past six months. There is usually a man of about thirty, a big smartly dressed man, he could be Desmond what’s-his-name. But he isn’t local. Anyway, what is this? What are they supposed to have done? Shipped unsuspecting Midlands girls to London?’

  While Paul explained that a series of bank robberies had taken place and, as the formula had it, the police wanted to interview these men in connection with their enquiries, Angus Lomax swung round to look out of the window. He was looking at the row of sleeping cabins.

  ‘The big one,’ said Paul, ‘the one we’re assuming to have been Desmond Blane. Did he ever come here with anyone else apart from Cookson?’

  ‘Only once. And I’m pretty hopeless with descriptions of people.’

  It was a delicate situation, and Paul could sympathise with the man; he had invested a lot of money and most of his life in this motel; and already, without any scandal attaching to the place, it was failing. Mr Lomax had his own problems with the banks.

  ‘In your experience, Mr Temple, does a reputation for running the ideal meeting ground for bank robbers lead to increased business or ruin?’

  Paul laughed. ‘All publicity is good publicity. Where do I find Arnold Cookson?’