EQMM, March-April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Finally everyone except the Brigadier was on board. It was my job to see that all was clear and help him out of Room 104 with the parcel we had requisitioned, the most dangerous part of Operation Syringe.

  Trying to look like any other guest, I crossed the foyer and stepped along the corridor. It was now empty of people. I tapped on the door of 104 and immediately realised that there was a fatal flaw in our plan. How would the Brigadier hear my knocking? I tried a second time.

  No response.

  Along the corridor, the door of Haliburton's suite opened and an old man came out. I tried to ignore him, but he said, “Are you waiting for a consultation? It's that room I just came out of."

  I thanked him, but I don't think he heard. I took off a shoe and tried hammering on 104 with it.

  At last the door opened and there was the Brigadier with the parcel in his arms. For the first time since I'd known him he looked concerned. “Take this to the bus and tell the driver to put his foot down."

  "Aren't you coming?” I said.

  "Cunning? Far from it,” he said. “I'm a silly arse. Left my service revolver on the bed and some beggar in a pinstripe picked it up."

  "Leave it,” I shouted into his ear. “Come with me."

  "Can't do that,” he said and made a little speech straight out of one of those war films when the doomed Brit showed his stiff upper lip. “That revolver is my baby. Been with me all over the world. I'm not surrendering, old boy. I'll get back to base. See if I don't."

  I said, “I'm leaving with a heavy heart."

  He said, “Don't be so vulgar."

  No use trying to talk sense into him. He really had need of a decent hearing aid.

  I carried the parcel to the bus. Everyone cheered when they saw it. Then Sadie said, “Where's the Brigadier?"

  I didn't want them to know he'd brought a gun with him, so I said he was hiding up until it was safer to leave.

  The bus took us back to the home and we tottered off to our rooms for a nap after all the excitement. We'd agreed not to open the box before the Brig returned.

  All evening we waited, asking each other if anyone had heard anything. I was up until ten-thirty, long past bedtime. In the end I turned in and tried to sleep.

  Sometime after midnight there was a noise like a stone being thrown at my window. I got out of bed and looked down. There in the grounds was the Brigadier blowing on his fingers. He shouted up to me, “Be a good fellow and unbolt the front door, will you? I just met a brass monkey on his way to the welder's."

  In twenty minutes every inhabitant of the house except the matron and her two night staff assembled in the tea room. The nightwear on display is another story.

  "Open it, George,” the Brig ordered.

  They watched in eager anticipation. Even Briony had turned out. “Ooh, bubble wrap,” she said. “May I have that?"

  "You might as well, because you're not getting a hearing aid, you conchie,” the Brigadier said.

  I unwrapped the first aid. It was a BTE (behind the ear), but elegance itself. I offered it to the Brigadier. He slotted it into his ear. “Good Lord!” he said. “I can hear the clock ticking."

  Everyone in the room who wanted a replacement aid was given one, and we still had a few over. The morale of the troops couldn't have been higher. Even Briony was happy with her stack of bubble wrap. We all slept well.

  At breakfast, the results were amazing. People who hadn't conversed for years were chatting animatedly.

  Then the doorbell chimed. The chime of doom. A policeman with a megaphone stood in the doorway and announced, “Police. We're coming in. Put your hands above your heads and stay where you are."

  Sadie said, “You don't have to shout, young man. We can all hear you."

  We were taken in barred vans to the police station and kept in cells. Because there was a shortage of cells, some of us had to double up and I found myself locked up with the Brigadier.

  "This is overkill,” I said. “We're harmless old people."

  "They don't think so, George,” he said in a sombre tone. “Marcus Haliburton was shot dead in the course of the raid."

  "Shot? I didn't hear any shots."

  "After you left, it got nasty. They'll have me for murder and the rest of you for conspiracy to murder. We can't expect all our troops to hold out under questioning. They'll put up their hands, and we're all done."

  He was right. Several old ladies confessed straightaway. What can you expect? The trial that followed was swift and savage. The Brigadier asked to be tried by a court-martial and refused to plead. He went down for life, with a recommendation that he serve at least ten years. They proved that the fatal shots had been fired from his gun.

  I got three years for conspiracy to murder—in spite of claiming I didn't know about the gun. Sadie was given six months. The Crown Prosecution Service didn't press charges against some of the really frail ones. Oddly, nobody seemed interested in the hearing-aid heist and we were allowed to keep our stolen property.

  The Never-Say-Die Retirement Home had to carry on without us. But there was to be one last squirt from Operation Syringe.

  One morning three weeks after the trial, Briony decided to sort out her marmalade jars and store them better, using the bubble wrap the aids had been kept in. She was surrounding one of the jars with the stuff when there was a sudden popping sound. One of the little bubbles had burst under pressure. She pressed another and it made a satisfying sound. Highly amused, she started popping every one. She continued at this harmless pastime for over an hour. After tea break she went back and popped some more. It was all enormous fun until she damaged her fingernail and had to ask She-Who-Must-Be-Replaced to trim it.

  "How did you do that?” Matron asked.

  Briony showed her.

  "Well, no wonder. There's something hard inside the bubble. I do believe it's glass. How wicked."

  But it didn't turn out to be glass. It was an uncut diamond, and there were others secreted in the bubble wrap. A second police investigation was mounted into Operation Syringe. As a result, Buckfield, the manager of the Bay Tree Hotel, was arrested.

  It seemed he had been working a racket with Marcus Haliburton, importing uncut diamonds stolen by workers in a South African diamond mine. The little rocks had been smuggled to Britain in the packing used for the hearing aids. Interpol took over the investigation on two continents.

  It turned out that on the day of our heist Buckfield, the manager, suspected something was afoot, and decided Haliburton might be double-crossing him. When he checked Room 104 he found the Brigadier's revolver on the bed and he was certain he was right. He took it straight to the suite. Haliburton denied everything and said he was only a go-between and offered to open the new box of aids in the manager's presence. We know what it contained. Incensed, Buckfield pointed the gun and shot Haliburton dead.

  After our release, we had a meeting to decide if we would sue the police for wrongful imprisonment. The Brigadier was all for it, but Sadie said we might be pushing our luck. We had a vote and decided she was right.

  The good thing is that every one of us heard each word of the debate. I can recommend these new digital aids to anyone.

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Peter Lovesey

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE OLD STORY by Liza Cody

  Art by Mark Evan Walker

  * * * *

  Liza Cody is not a prolific author, but the several novels she has produced over the past quarter of a century have all been significant books, starting with the first, Dupe, which won the John Creasey Award for Best First Novel. Her loyal fans will be glad to know that that first book was brought out in a new paperback edition in 2005 by Felony and Mayhem. The following story is the last of a trio of stories produced for a seminar with fellow authors Michael Z. Lewin and Peter Lovesey.

  It was a sharp, clear autumn day, and as afternoon turned to evening Harold and I met by appointment outside Kwik Save. No sooner had we met than I had my firs
t shock.

  "Move yer wrinkly bum ‘oles,” a kid yelled at us. And I moved, sharpish, pulling Harold with me. I was amazed at the kid's good manners. Normally they skate right through us without warning, like we're fallen leaves scattering in a high wind.

  Harold took a swipe with the wrong end of his cane, trying to hook the board's back wheels.

  Three things about Harold: one, he's hotheaded; two, he won't admit he's as deaf as a bathroom door; and I've forgotten number three.

  The boy whooshed away unharmed and unaware he hadn't even come close to being upended. He zigged and swerved and zagged and curved along the pavement scaring oldies, youngies, and in-betweenies.

  Harold said, “Spotty little turd,” and banged his cane on the ground. “He doesn't know how close he came.” Harold mimed the murder of a spotty little turd. “I could've done for him. He doesn't know who he's messing with."

  "Let's keep it that way,” I said, taking Harold's arm.

  "Huh?” said Harold, and I gave his elbow a pacifying pat. Sometimes I think I'm only included on this enterprise to pacify hot-headed Harold. Because clearly it has been many, many years since I heated anyone's head, and therefore my two old friends, The Gent and Wiggy, gave me the job of keeping him manageable. He boasts that when he was young he ran with one of those famous South London gangs, but neither Wiggy nor The Gent believe him. I'm uncertain. We don't usually work with outsiders.

  I kept walking and wondering why the three of us had fallen for Harold's pitch. It isn't as if he's charming and clever like The Gent or clever and funny like Wiggy. And it wasn't as if it were a particularly good plan. In fact, it was downright crude when you consider the slickness of our usual operations.

  But when I say usual ... I have to admit that nowadays we don't plan much and the last operation was Wiggy's—for nasal polyps.

  Speaking entirely for myself, I wonder if my reluctance is due to the technicalities of modern banks and building societies. All the intelligent work is done with computers. Modern operators who want to rob a bank only have to flip a switch and rattle around on a keyboard; they don't even have to visit the premises anymore. As Wiggy said, “You can rob without even leaving your own home. All you need is your own five-fingered girlfriend."

  "And a little more know-how than we possess,” confessed The Gent.

  I kept my mouth shut: Technical stuff confuses me and I don't even own a computer. My contributions to our joint enterprises used mainly to be in the planning stage, and as a distraction when the operation went live. I could scream or faint or suffer epi-fits better than any RADA-trained actress.

  "Elsie's scream is world-famous,” The Gent used to say. But it hasn't been employed for nearly five years and my skill in planning is thwarted by security and surveillance I no longer understand.

  Which explains why, on a sharp, clear autumn evening, I was calming Harold, and walking as fast as his hip would take us towards Preston's betting shop at the corner of Grosvenor Road and High Street. My hand was firmly in the crook of Harold's elbow. Our reflection in the coffee shop window showed me that we looked frighteningly like an old married couple.

  We should be retired and living by the seaside, I thought. But how do you retire from a business like ours? There isn't a company pension. Besides, The Gent is having to remortgage his house because his son's in debt again. As is my daughter, but I try not to think about it. And early this month Wiggy was released from his last vacation at Her Majesty's pleasure to find that his precious Airstream had been repossessed by the finance company. During his absence his sister, who should have been dealing with the payments, took a dippy turn and handed all his money to a donkey sanctuary. So often, in our insecure lives, the three of us have found ourselves starting from scratch. We are all, in our separate ways, dogged by the choices we made when we were young and thought we could always stay ahead of the game.

  My recollections were interrupted by someone calling, “Mrs. Ivo. Hey, Mrs. Ivo!" I would have walked on, but Wiggy appeared from the Bell pub doorway, and said, “Oh, bloody hell, she's forgotten her own code name. Elsie, you'd forget your family if you didn't carry photos."

  "You pronounced it wrong,” I said stiffly. “It's Ee-vo. You said Eye-vo."

  "Ee-vo, Eye-vo, Nee-vo, Nye-vo, let's call the whole thing off."

  "Eh?” said Harold. “No one's calling nothing off."

  "It's just one of Wiggy's jokes,” I said, patting his arm. “What are you doing here?” I asked Wiggy. “We were supposed not to meet until..."

  "Come inside,” Wiggy said, looking past my shoulder. “Hurry, the CCTV camera's swinging in this direction."

  "Huh?” said Harold. Wiggy took one arm, I tugged the other, and we whisked him into the pub before he became visible and bellicose.

  "We've run into a problem,” Wiggy explained, pointing to the slumped figure of The Gent at a table in a dark corner of the barroom.

  "I'll have a pint since you're offering,” Harold said. “One won't hurt."

  I hurried over to The Gent.

  "It'sh my tooth,” he said, covering the lower part of his face with his hand.

  "Not his wisdom tooth, obviously,” Wiggy said. “He was supposed to go to the dentist last week but he funked it."

  "I don't think I can do the job,” The Gent said. And indeed, he looked yellowish and extremely unwell.

  "Oil of cloves,” I said, rummaging in my handbag.

  "Now's not the time for your portable pharmacopoeia,” Wiggy said. “He's already rattling, the number of pills he's necked since lunch."

  "I don't want to hold you back,” moaned The Gent. “I really am sho shorry."

  "What's wrong with him?” Harold sat down heavily, slopping his pint.

  "Tooth rot."

  "Huh?"

  "Forget it,” Wiggy said. “The only way I can see out of this is if The Gent waits in the car and does the driving instead of Elsie, Elsie is lookout instead of Harold, and Harold comes up to the betting shop with me instead of The Gent."

  "Huh? Say again."

  "The Gent waits in the car..."

  "Shut up,” I said, “anyone could hear you.” Except Harold.

  "So what's going on?" And that's another thing about Harold—even before his hearing failed he never listened.

  "Are you quite sure you want Harold on shtage with you at showtime?” The Gent was speaking through considerable pain.

  "Huh?"

  "Do we have any alternative? Or should we just abort?"

  I would have pressed for standing us all down—it's what any sensible woman would have done. But I didn't want to spend the rest of my life eating lunch at the YMCA cafeteria. I'd rather go back to chokey, I thought. At least there, bad food comes free. Because when times were good, Wiggy, The Gent, and I had often lived high in the sky in foreign cities where hotel suites were more spacious than English houses. Rhubarb and custard at the YMCA isn't the worst thing life can throw at you, but if I thought it was all life had to offer from here on in, I think I'd want to top myself.

  As it turned out, I went on stage with Wiggy, The Gent waited in the car, and Harold kept his job as lookout. It wasn't possible to explain a change of plan to him without a bullhorn. And shouting your plans through a bullhorn when you're making changes to a heist on a betting shop is not advisable.

  "Take my coat,” The Gent said, “the mashk ish in the left pocket, the plashtic gun ish in the other."

  Wordlessly I took the coat and gave him my small bottle of oil of cloves in return. Wordlessly, Wiggy handed over the car keys. “Show time,” The Gent said with a brave smile. “Shparkle, guysh. I know you'll be shplendid."

  We left him in the car park behind Cristettes Kitchenware and Novelties. The great thing about Cristettes is that the main door opens onto the High Street and you can walk all the way through to the car park at the back. The shop is hugger-mugger with too many shelves and stacks and there are no surveillance cameras. It's a great place if you want to get off the st
reet in a hurry.

  Preston's is a small betting shop above a newsagent at the corner of Grosvenor Road and High Street. We reached the newsagent five minutes before the betting shop was due to close and left Harold pretending to read the small ads in the early evening paper. He seemed edgy.

  Halfway up the narrow flight of stairs Wiggy and I paused to put on our masks and raise the hoods of our coats. It was only then that I realised how much condition Wiggy had lost on his last spell away. For a big man he was always fit and pretty fast, but now he sounded like a hinge that needed a squirt of oil.

  "What's up?” I muttered, trying to make the coat of a much taller man zip over a much fuller bosom.

  "Just an allergy,” Wiggy wheezed back. “These stairs haven't been swept.” His mask was an elaborate affair that could have graced a Venetian ball.

  "Decongestant?"

  "Not now, Elsie,” he said patiently. Which was just as well, as I'd left my bag in the car with The Gent.

  The Gent's mask was a simple but elegant thing his wife had knitted especially for him from a silk and wool mix. I pulled it over my head and topped it with the hood.

  "Let's get this over with,” I said. “The hood's ruining my hair."

  "Let your coat hang open,” Wiggy wheezed. “You still look too much like a woman."

  "And you look like a real hunk,” I snarled back.

  "Let's go. And leave the talking to me."

  But after climbing to the top of the stairs he didn't have enough breath to blow out a birthday candle, and the staff behind the grilles didn't even look up as he stood there panting and swinging his baseball bat. So I took over.

  "Everybody freeze!” I yelled. Instantly everyone stopped what they were doing. Oh, the power! No one had taken this much notice of me since my daughter was too small to talk back.

  "The money!” I shouted. “Give us the money and no one gets hurt."

  "The gun,” Wiggy hissed, his chest heaving. “It's still. In your. Goddamn pocket.” To cover for me he strode to the counter and whacked the baseball bat against the grille. The man and the woman behind the counter cowered in shock. The manager started towards the back.