Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  She opened a folder and produced a form which she pushed across the desk. ‘Fill that in.’

  It was a request to open an account at the Züricher Aus-fü hren Handelsbank. Mrs Smith said, ‘British politicians may not like the gnomes of Zurich but they come in handy when needed. Your number is very complicated—write it out fully in words in this box.’

  Her finger rested on the form so I scribbled the number in the place she indicated. She said, ‘That number written on the right cheque form in place of a signature will release to you any amount of money up to forty thousand pounds sterling, or its equivalent in any currency you wish.’

  Mackintosh sniggered. ‘Of course, you’ll have to get the diamonds first.’

  I stared at them, ‘You’re taking two-thirds.’

  ‘I did plan it,’ Mrs Smith said coolly.

  Mackintosh grinned like a hungry shark. ‘She has expensive tastes.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ I said. ‘Would your tastes run to a good lunch? You’ll have to suggest a restaurant, though; I’m a new boy in London.’

  She was about to answer when Mackintosh said sharply, ‘You’re not here to play footsie with my staff, Rearden. It wouldn’t be wise for you to be seen with either of us. Perhaps when it’s all over we can have dinner together—the three of us.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said bleakly.

  He scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘I suggest that after lunch you…er…“case the joint”—I believe that is the correct expression. Here is the address of the drop.’ He pushed the paper across the desk, and scribbled again. ‘And this is the address of my tailor. Don’t get them mixed up, there’s a good chap. That would be disastrous.’

  II

  I lunched at the Cock in Fleet Street and then set out to look up the address Mackintosh had given me. Of course I walked in the wrong direction—London is the devil of a place to get around in if you don’t know it. I didn’t want to take a taxi because I always play things very cautiously, perhaps even too cautiously. But that’s why I’m a success.

  Anyway, I found myself walking up a street called Ludgate Hill before I found I’d gone wrong and, in making my way into Holborn, I passed the Central Criminal Court. I knew it was the Central Criminal Court, because it says so and that surprised me because I always thought it was called the Old Bailey. I recognized it because of the golden figure of Justice on the roof. Even a South African would recognize that—we see Edgar Lustgarten movies, too.

  It was all very interesting but I wasn’t there as a tourist so I passed up the opportunity of going inside to see if there was a case going on. Instead I pressed on to Leather Lane behind Gamage’s and found a street market with people selling all kinds of junk from barrows. I didn’t much like the look of that—it’s difficult to get away fast in a thick crowd. I’d have to make damned sure there was no hue and cry, which meant slugging the postman pretty hard. I began to feel sorry for him.

  Before checking on the address I cruised around the vicinity, identifying all the possible exits from the area. To my surprise I found that Hatton Garden runs parallel with Leather Lane and I knew that the diamond merchants hung out there. On second thoughts it wasn’t too surprising; the diamond boys wouldn’t want their accommodation address to be too far from the ultimate destination. I looked at the stolid, blank buildings and wondered in which of them were the strongrooms Mackintosh had described.

  I spent half an hour pacing out those streets and noting the various types of shop. Shops are very useful to duck into when you want to get off the streets quickly. I decided that Gamage’s might be a good place to get lost in and spent another quarter-hour familiarizing myself with the place. That wouldn’t be enough but at this stage it wasn’t a good thing to decide definitely on firm plans. That’s the trouble with a lot of people who slip up on jobs like this; they make detailed plans too early in the game, imagining they’re Master Minds, and the whole operation gets hardening of the arteries and becomes stiff and inflexible.

  I went back to Leather Lane and found the address Mackintosh had given me. It was on the second floor, so I went up to the third in the creaking lift and walked down one flight of stairs. The Betsy-Lou Dress Manufacturing Co, Ltd, was open for business but I didn’t trouble to introduce myself. Instead I checked the approaches and found them reasonably good, although I would have to observe the postman in action before I could make up my mind about the best way of doing the job.

  I didn’t hang about too long, just enough to take rough bearings, and within ten minutes I was back in Gamage’s and in a telephone booth. Mrs Smith must have been literally hanging on to the telephone awaiting my call because the bell rang only once before she answered, ‘Anglo-Scottish Holdings.’

  ‘Rearden,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll put you through to Mr Mackintosh.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘What kind of a Smith are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you have a first name?’

  There was a pause before she said, ‘Perhaps you’d better call me Lucy.’

  ‘Ouch! I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  ‘Is there a Mr Smith?’

  Frost formed on the earpiece of my telephone as she said icily, ‘That’s no business of yours. I’ll put you through to Mr Mackintosh.’

  There was a click and the line went dead temporarily and I thought I wasn’t much of a success as a great lover. It wasn’t surprising really; I couldn’t see Lucy Smith—if that was her name—wanting to enter into any kind of close relationship with me until the job was over. I felt depressed.

  Mackintosh’s voice crackled in my ear. ‘Hello, dear boy.’

  ‘I’m ready to talk about it some more.’

  ‘Are you? Well, come and see me tomorrow at the same time.’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, by the way, have you been to the tailor yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’d better hurry,’ he said. ‘There’ll be the measurements and at least three fittings. You’ll just about have time to get it all in before you get slapped in the nick.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said, and slammed down the phone. It was all right for Mackintosh to make snide comments; he wasn’t going to do the hard work. I wondered what else he did in that shabby office apart from arranging diamond robberies.

  I took a taxi into the West End and found Austin Reed’s, where I bought a very nice reversible weather coat and one of those caps as worn by the English country gent, the kind in which the cloth crown is sewn on to the peak. They wanted to wrap the cap but I rolled it up and put it into the pocket of the coat which I carried out over my arm.

  I didn’t go near Mackintosh’s tailor.

  III

  ‘So you think it’s practicable,’ said Mackintosh.

  I nodded. ‘I’ll want to know a bit more, but it looks all right so far.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Number one—when is the job to be?’

  Mackintosh grinned. ‘The day after tomorrow,’ he said airily.

  ‘Christ!’ I said. ‘That’s not allowing much time.’

  He chuckled. ‘It’ll be all over in less than a week after you’ve set foot in England.’ He winked at Mrs Smith. ‘It’s not everyone who can make forty thousand quid for a week’s not very hard work.’

  ‘I can see at least one other from here,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I don’t see that you’re working your fingers to the bone.’

  He was undisturbed. ‘Organization—that’s my forte.’

  ‘It means I’ve got to spend the rest of today and all tomorrow studying the habits of the British postman,’ I said. ‘How many deliveries a day?’

  Mackintosh cocked his eye at Mrs Smith, who said, ‘Two.’

  ‘Have you any snoopers you can recruit? I don’t want to spend too much time around Leather Lane myself. I might get picked up for loitering and that would certainly queer
the pitch.’

  ‘It’s all been done,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘I have the timetable here.’

  While I was studying it, she unrolled a plan on to the desk. ‘This is a plan of the entire second floor. We’re lucky on this one. In some buildings there’s a row of letter-boxes in the entrance hall, but not here. The postman delivers to every office.’

  Mackintosh put down his finger with a stabbing motion. ‘You’ll tackle the postman just about here. He’ll have the letters for that damnably named clothing company in his hand ready for delivery and you ought to see whether he’s carrying the package or not. If he isn’t you pass it up and wait for the next delivery.’

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ I said. ‘The waiting bit. If I’m not careful I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you—I’ve rented an office on the same floor,’ said Mackintosh blandly. ‘Mrs Smith went shopping and all home comforts are installed; an electric kettle, tea, coffee, sugar and milk, and a basket of goodies from Fortnum’s. You’ll live like a king. I hope you like caviare.’

  I blew out my breath sharply. ‘Don’t bother to consult me about anything,’ I said sarcastically, but Mackintosh merely smiled and tossed a key-ring on the desk. I picked it up. ‘What name am I trading under?’

  ‘Kiddykar Toys, Limited,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘It’s a genuine company.’

  Mackintosh laughed. ‘I set it up myself—cost all of twenty-five quid.’

  We spent the rest of the morning scheming and I didn’t find any snags worth losing any sleep over. I found myself liking Lucy Smith more and more; she had a brain as sharp as a razor and nothing escaped her attention, and yet she contrived to retain her femininity and avoid bossiness, something that seems difficult for brainy women. When we had just about got everything wrapped up, I said, ‘Come now; Lucy isn’t your real name. What is?’

  She looked at me with clear eyes. ‘I don’t think it really matters,’ she said evenly.

  I sighed. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Perhaps not.’

  Mackintosh regarded us with interest, then said abruptly, ‘I said there was to be no lally-gagging around with the staff, Rearden; you just stick to doing your job.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better leave now.’

  So I left the gloom of his nineteenth-century office and lunched again at the Cock, and the afternoon was spent in the registered office of Kiddykar Toys, Ltd, two doors away from the Betsy-Lou Dress Manufacturing Co, Ltd. Everything was there that Mackintosh had promised, so I made myself a pot of coffee and was pleased to see that Mrs Smith had supplied the real stuff and not the instant powdered muck.

  There was a good view of the street and, when I checked on the timetable of the postman, I was able to identify his route. Even without the telephone call Mackintosh was to make I ought to get at least fifteen minutes’ notice of his arrival. That point settled, I made a couple of expeditions from the office, pacing the corridor and timing myself. There really was no point in doing it without knowledge of the postman’s speed but it was good practice. I timed myself from the office to Gamage’s, walking at a fair clip but not so fast as to attract attention. An hour in Gamage’s was enough to work out a good confusing route and then work was over for the day and I went back to my hotel.

  The next day was pretty much the same except I had the postman to practise on. The first delivery I watched from the office with the door opened a crack and a stopwatch in my hand. That might seem a bit silly; after all, all I had to do was to cosh a man. But there was a hell of a lot at stake so I went through the whole routine.

  On the second delivery of the day I did a dummy run on the postman. Sure enough, it was as Mackintosh had predicted; as he approached Betsy-Lou’s door the letters for delivery were firmly clutched in hand and any box of Kodachromes should be clearly visible. I hoped Mackintosh was right about the diamonds; we’d look mighty foolish if we ended up with a photographic record of Betsy-Lou’s weekend in Brighton.

  Before I left I telephoned Mackintosh and he answered the telephone himself. I said, ‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Good!’ He paused. ‘You won’t see me again—apart from the hand-over of the merchandise tomorrow. Make a neat job of that, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Got the wind up?’

  He didn’t answer that one. Instead, he said, ‘You’ll find a present awaiting you at your hotel. Handle with care.’ Another pause. ‘Good luck.’

  I said, ‘Give my sincere regards to Mrs Smith.’

  He coughed. ‘It wouldn’t do, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps not; but I like to make my own decisions.’

  ‘Maybe so—but she’ll be in Switzerland tomorrow. I’ll pass on your message when I next see her.’ He rang off.

  I went back to the hotel, picked up a small package at the desk, and unwrapped it in my room. Nestling in a small box was a cosh, lead-centred and rubber-padded with a non-skid grip and a neat strap to go round the wrist. A very effective anaesthetic instrument, if a bit more dangerous than most. Also in the box was a scrap of paper with a single line of typescript: HARD ENOUGH AND NO HARDER.

  I went to bed early that night. There was work to do next day.

  IV

  Next morning I went into the City like any other business gent, although I didn’t go so far as to wear a bowler and carry the staff of office—the rolled umbrella. I was earlier than most because the first postal delivery of the day was before office hours. I arrived at Kiddykar Toys with half an hour in hand and immediately put on the kettle for coffee before inspecting the view from the window. The stallholders of Leather Lane were getting ready for the day’s sales and there was no sign of Mackintosh. I wasn’t worried; he’d be around somewhere in the neighbourhood keeping an eye open for the postman.

  I had just finished the first cup of coffee when the phone rang. Mackintosh said briefly, ‘He’s coming.’ There was a click as he hung up.

  In the interests of his leg muscles the postman had put in a bit of time and motion study on this building. It was his habit to take the lift to the top floor and deliver the letters from the top down on the theory that walking downstairs is easier than climbing them. I put on my coat and hat and opened the door a couple of inches, listening for the whine of the lift. It was ten minutes before I heard it go up, and then I stepped out into the corridor, carefully drawing the office door closed but not quite shut so that the least push would swing it open.

  It was very quiet in the building at that hour and, as I heard the postman clattering down the stairs to the second floor, I retreated down the flight of stairs to the first floor. He hit the second floor and turned away from Betsy-Lou’s door to deliver the post to other offices. That was his usual routine and so I wasn’t worried.

  Then I heard him coming back a few steps at a time, the intervals punctuated by the metallic bangs of swinging letterbox flaps. Just at the right time I came up the stairs and headed for the Kiddykar office which brought me facing him. I stared at his hands but there was no little yellow box to be seen.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ He went past at a quick pace and I fumbled my way into the office, faking the opening of the door with a key. As I closed it behind me I found that I was sweating slightly; not much but enough to show that I was under tension. It was ridiculous, I suppose—I had only to take a little box away from an unsuspecting man, which should have been the easiest thing in the world and no occasion for nerves.

  It was the contents of that box which set up the tension. A hundred and twenty thousand quid is a hell of a lot of money to be at stake. It’s rather like the man who can walk along a kerbstone unconcernedly and never put a foot wrong, yet let him try the same thing with a two-hundred-foot drop on one side and he’ll break into a muck sweat.

  I walked over to the window and opened the casement, not so much to get fresh air as to signal to Mackintosh that the first delivery was a bust. I looked down into Leather L
ane and saw him in his appointed place. He was standing before a fruit and vegetable stall prodding tomatoes with a nervous forefinger. He flicked his eyes up at the window then swung around and walked away.

  I lit a cigarette and settled down with the morning papers. There was quite a while to wait before the second post.

  Two hours later the telephone rang again. ‘Better luck this time,’ said Mackintosh, and hung up.

  I went through the same routine as before—there was no harm in it as this would be a different postman. I waited on the landing just below the second floor and listened intently. It would be more difficult now that the building was inhabited and a lot depended on whether I could catch the postman alone in the corridor. If I could then it was easy, but if there was anyone else present I would have to grab the box and run for it.

  Steady footsteps warned me that he was coming and I trotted up the stairs at the critical moment. I swung my head back and forwards like someone about to cross a street, and found that all was clear—no one in the corridor except for me and the postman. Then I looked at his hands.

  He was carrying a bundle of letters and right on top of the bundle was a little yellow box.

  I stepped right in front of him as he drew abreast of the Kiddykar office. ‘Have you anything for me?’ I asked. ‘I’m in there.’ I pointed to the door behind him.

  He turned his head to look at the name on the door and I hit him behind the ear with the cosh, hoping to God he hadn’t an unusually thin skull. He grunted and his knees buckled. I caught him before he fell and pushed him at the door of the office which swung open under his weight, and he fell over the threshold spilling letters before him. The Kodachrome box fell to the floor with a little thump.

  I stepped over him and hauled him inside, pushing the door closed with my foot. Then I grabbed the yellow box and dropped it into the innocuous brown box that Mackintosh had had specially tailored to fit it. I had to pass it on to him in the street and we wanted no flash of that conspicuous yellow to be seen.