Tangier Bank Heist

by Sean McLachlan

  “I don’t think he would have liked Gerald nearly as much as he liked you. You have much better legs.”

  “Shut up!”

  I clambered my way to shore without much more trouble. Once I got there, I went over to give her a hug. She slapped me.

  “What was that for?”

  “For being crude.”

  “Dames. No sense of humor.”

  That earned me another slap.

  Luckily for my face, she turned her attention to the corpse at our feet.

  “That’s not Pieter Vlamin,” she said.

  “You sure?” It looked like it had been in the water for a while. The body was bloated and the skin and clothing had been abraded so much by the rocks that the features were unrecognizable. One arm was missing at the shoulder. I figured it had gotten jammed in some crevice in the rock and the action of the waves had been working to pry it off. My pulling on the body was the last bit of force it needed. I looked out into the water. The arm must still be out there.

  “It’s not him,” she said again. “Vlamin was taller and dressed better.”

  She had a point. From what little I remembered of him, he had been a smart dresser. His photography studio had been quite successful before he had gotten into the banking business. This fellow was dressed like a working man. He had brown canvas pants and a loose white shirt, both torn to shreds. The shoes were gone, but one thick woolen sock remained.

  I bent down and looked at the collar of the shirt. Working men often wrote their names inside their collar so they could take their shirt off during hot days on the job without worrying about someone stealing it.

  It turned out the collar did have some writing on it, so worn and faded I had trouble reading it. I turned it toward the light so I could see the pale black ink better and still couldn’t make out the letters.

  Then I realized why—the letters were Greek.

  Melanie let out a little gasp.

  “Nikolas,” she whispered.

  “You knew him?”

  “No, I can read the letters.”

  “I didn’t know you got a Classical education.” Melanie could surprise you like that.

  “My brothers did. My father saw no point in spending the money for me to get the same. I used to look at their books, though.”

  I studied the body at our feet. “How much you want to make a bet this is one of Demitrios’s crew?”

  “I won’t take that bet. You’ll win.”

  We examined the body for wounds. It took a while because of the decay and abrasions, but we eventually found a tidy bullet hole in the center of the back.

  “I wonder who shot him, Ronnie or Pieter?” Melanie said.

  “Or even someone else. This is getting complicated. Now let’s find that phone and call Gerald. Maybe an autopsy will tell us something useful.”

  It was a long hike down the sea road before we came to a village with a single phone in the town square. I put in a call to Gerald and within half an hour he had shot out of town with two police cars, picked us up, and got us back to the cave.

  “You’ve done us a good turn, Kent,” Gerald said after I told him all we’d been through. He nodded at Melanie. “And you too, Mademoiselle Durand, for putting up with this chap.”

  “You have no idea,” she said.

  We came to the cave and I was relieved to see the body still there. I’d half suspected it would be gone when we got back. This case was getting to be like that.

  Gerald studied him a moment and then gestured to a pair of Moorish policemen to pick him up.

  “Careful, boys, he’s frisky,” I told them.

  That got me a slap from Melanie. The Moors gasped to see a woman hitting a man. They carried away poor Nikolas, snickering under their breath.

  “You’re making me look bad in front of the natives,” I told her.

  Melanie smiled at me. “How do you Americans say, ‘tough nuts’?”

  We took Gerald up to the little plateau and showed him the burrs and cigarette butts.

  “Well, my good man, it certainly does look like you’re right. Ronnie the Pusher was up here. I’ll take the body over to the morgue and have that bullet extracted. Ronnie owned a .32. We’ll see if we get a match. As you observed yourself, all the chambers were full and the gun was clean, but he could have reloaded and cleaned it after shooting the Greek. Now I have something to show you.”

  We headed back to the cars and he opened up the trunk of one of them. Inside was a thin wooden crest, warped and damp, with the words “South Continental Bank” emblazoned in gold lettering.

  “It’s the bank’s crest!” Melanie cried. “The one that hung over the door!”

  “It was found on a beach just east of Tangier,” Gerald said. “Given the current it was probably dumped somewhere to the west of town and got carried east until the tide brought it ashore. I suspect that our chap Demitrios either reneged on his deal and dumped the bank’s furniture overboard or Pieter asked him to in the first place in order to get us off the scent.”

  “You mean that he might not have fled after all?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” Gerald said, lighting a cigarette. “When the bank’s contents disappeared, everyone naturally assumed he had moved his enterprise elsewhere. Perhaps he only wanted us to think that.”

  “But why would he stay in the International Zone with so many people hunting him?” Melanie asked.

  “Excellent question, and one for which I have no answer,” Gerald conceded.

  “He was showing some interest in Tunis,” I said. “Maybe he bolted there.”

  “We’ve contacted the French and Spanish colonial authorities all over North Africa. They’re on alert,” Gerald replied. “But my instinct tells me he’s closer than that. With all these complications to his plan I think he hasn’t made it far.”

  “I think Demitrios betrayed him and dumped the bank and him in the water. At least that’s what I hope happened,” she said.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Gerald said. “We have his boat under observation. We’ll wait until the crew gathers at dusk to prepare for their usual nighttime fishing run and then grab them all together.”

  “I want to be there,” I said.

  “Me too,” Melanie added.

  “It’s no place for a woman,” Gerald said. “You’re most welcome, Kent, as long as you behave yourself.”

  “I always behave myself,” I objected as Melanie looked daggers at him.

  We headed back to town and a police doctor patched up my cuts and bruises while the coroner examined the body. Melanie went back to her cafe in a huff, frustrated that she couldn’t be part of the fun. The war changed a lot of women, especially those who had to deal with occupation. Back in the Thirties you couldn’t find many dames who would volunteer for a gunfight.

  When I met Gerald later in the afternoon in his office, he already had the coroner’s results. While the state of the body made it difficult to determine if Nikolas had been beaten up before he was killed, the cause of death was obvious—a single bullet in the back that grazed the spine, punctured the right lung, and caused massive internal bleeding. The bullet had been a .38.

  “A .38? You sure?” I asked.

  “Quite, and the make is different than the bullets Ronnie the Pusher owned. Unless he had another gun we don’t know about, he was not the killer.”

  “That means Pieter’s probably our man,” I snapped my fingers. “Wait! How about this? So Nikolas and Pieter were supposed to meet at the cave. For some reason Pieter plugs him.”

  Gerald interrupted. “We discovered through inquiries that Nikolas was Demitrios’s first mate.”

  “Even better. So Nikolas was representing his boss. Pieter hires him to load the bank furniture onto the boat, either to take out of the zone or to dump. Whichever way it was supposed to play, Demitrios dumped the stuff. There’s a spot to the west of town where the fishing boats dump their catch. It’s deep and most of the bank furniture like the safe and
the marble desks were heavy enough to sink straight down. That crest is just a flat piece of wood, though, so it floated away.”

  “But why shoot Nikolas?”

  I scratched my jaw and noticed I needed a shave. “Either Pieter shot him for dumping the stuff, or shot him so he couldn’t talk. Ronnie knew about the meeting and came to the cave to see them. He waited in ambush for a while but never saw Pieter. One of the Egyptians talked to him briefly as Ronnie walked back to town, and Ronnie griped that he couldn’t find him and wanted to kill him.”

  Gerald thought for a moment. “I have a slight variation on that story. Ronnie wasn’t hiding in ambush, he was only hiding out of sight waiting for his partner in crime Pieter. Ronnie had been seen down by the docks and knew smugglers. He introduced Pieter to the Greeks, so perhaps they were all going to meet so Nikolas could lead them to a secret rendezvous from which Pieter would be taken to safety. Pieter was coming with a payment and never showed, hence Ronnie’s anger.”

  “Then who killed Nikolas?”

  “Perhaps someone else. A shipmate having a falling out over shares. Nikolas hadn’t been reported missing. Or perhaps Pieter came early, shot Nikolas, and left before Ronnie arrived.”

  “So why was Ronnie killed? I don’t think Ronnie would have let Pieter into his apartment without getting his gun first, and it looked like at least two people did him in.”

  “Thugs are easy enough to hire in Tangier and I’m sure Pieter knew that, but you’re right, if Pieter or a stranger came to the door, Ronnie would have retrieved his gun.”

  “Maybe the Greeks did it, thinking he plugged Nikolas.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. Do you have your gun?” he asked as he took his service revolver out of his desk.

  “Of course. I always have my gun.”

  “Good, then it’s about time to pay the Greeks a visit.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The light was fading when we got to the port. A steady drizzle fell from a gray sky and the sun, already low to the west, was visible only as a faint brightening of the clouds over the Atlantic. I spotted a couple of plainclothesmen I knew lingering around, and a few others who looked like they could be. Gerald was smart and hadn’t brought any uniforms along. We had come in an unmarked car with tinted windows and parked near the port where the fishermen had their boats. Some were just coming in after a long day at sea, while the larger vessels were preparing to depart for deep sea fishing at night.

  We didn’t get out of the car just yet.

  “There they are,” Gerald pointed. “Third boat down on the right-hand pier.”

  I looked where he indicated and saw a large, fine boat painted a sky blue with an eye painted on the prow to avert the evil eye. About a dozen Greeks were working on or around the boat. We’d made it just in time. It looked like they were just about ready to shove off.

  I spotted one grizzled older Greek heave a small box off the deck. The way he moved it, it looked heavy. He wrapped it in a coat and walked down the pier.

  “You see that?” I asked.

  “I did. He’ll have to pass close by us. Let’s wait until he’s near and trail him.”

  We never got the chance. As soon as the guy stepped off the pier, Chason shot out of nowhere and ran up to him, flashing his badge.

  “Stop in the name of the law!”

  “Aw, Christ,” I said, leaping out of the car with Gerald.

  Too late. The fisherman took a step back, probably more from surprise than anything else, and Chason tackled him. While I can’t stand the guy, I have to hand it to him. He downed that Greek like he was sacking a quarterback at the Army-Navy game. The Greek landed with a thud and the box crashed to the ground, opening up and spilling out some sort of white powder.

  I didn’t stop to look. Demitrios and his men were jumping into the boat and two of the fishermen got busy unwinding the mooring ropes.

  The engine roared to life as I sprinted down the pier.

  “Wait for me!” I shouted. “I’m running from the cops too!”

  I didn’t think they’d believe that, but it did buy me half a second as one of the guys at the mooring ropes paused to give me a confused look.

  It turned out that half second saved my life.

  The two Greeks still on the docks cast off and jumped in the boat as it started pulling away. I put on some more speed, got to the end of the pier and took a long flying leap.

  I did track and field in high school. Never won a trophy. While I was a pretty fast runner I couldn’t do the jumps very well. My legs were too short.

  All those failed jumps in high school flashed through my mind as I made a flying leap off the pier and sailed across the open water for a boat that seemed impossibly distant.

  I saw the startled faces of the Greek fishermen staring at me, and I thought that would be the last thing I’d see before I went into the drink, but to my surprise my front foot hit the gunwale. I pushed off it and landed face first right on the deck.

  “Did you see that?” I said, struggling to my feet. “I could have been a contender!”

  The nearest fisherman slugged me.

  I landed back on the deck, my nose spouting blood.

  Rough hands grabbed me by the wrists and ankles. They lifted me up and moved toward the gunwale.

  “Oh no you don’t!”

  I yanked a foot free and kicked the guy at my legs in the groin. That got him off me but I ended up in a wrestling match with the guy who had my hands. He fell on top of me, which at least kept his shipmates from helping out, and we struggled for a moment before I head-butted him.

  Now a proper head-butt requires precision and finesse. It’s as much an art as a science. To be done effectively, you have to smash your forehead on the weakest part of the face—the nose. But with all the flailing and struggling that wasn’t how it turned out. My aim was off and instead of getting him in the nose I smashed my forehead into his mouth. His mouth was open and I ended up making him bite me right above the eyebrows.

  That created another source of flowing blood on my face, but at least it got him off me. He rolled away, clutching his broken teeth, and I used the opportunity to draw my gun.

  I thought the fight was over. Most people freeze when they see a gun.

  Not a crew of Greek fishermen on their own boat.

  Someone kicked me in the side while another picked up a boat hook and jabbed at me.

  I rolled out of reach and got to my feet.

  Just as I was leveling my gun, I saw we were passing another pier on our way out of the harbor. Gerald was at the edge with a rope in his hand, one end secured to a bollard and the other formed into a lasso. He twirled the lasso around his head and let fly.

  The lasso landed around the back bollard of the gunwale and tightened as the ship kept moving forward.

  The boat jerked to a stop, pulling everyone off their feet, including yours truly.

  This was the third time I’d landed on deck in less than a minute and I have to say it was getting pretty old. At least I kept a hold of my gun as the boat’s engine strained against the rope. I heard a creaking from the gunwale and saw little cracks appear on the wood around the bollard. The Greek in the cabin revved up the engine.

  A bullet through his window put a stop to that. I didn’t shoot to hit, but he got the message clear enough. The engine cut off.

  Getting to my feet, I swept my gun slowly to aim at each man I could see.

  “Enough is enough,” I snapped, wiping the blood from my eyes. “Bring this tub back to the pier.”

  The man at the helm said something to me in Greek that I wouldn’t translate even if I could, and put the boat into reverse. Within a minute the pier was crammed with policemen and the ship was securely moored.

  As the cops swarmed aboard, I got back on the pier. Gerald helped me off.

  “Where did you learn to throw a lasso like that?” I asked.

  Gerald gave me an abashed smile. “We all did that when we were boys.
I was a great fan of Tom Mix. We practiced all the time.”

  “Come on, Gerald. I’ve been to London. There aren’t any cattle there.”

  “We practiced on the school swot.”

  “I don’t know what a swot is, but I’m glad I’m not one of them.”

  “Jumping and fighting like that you certainly aren’t.” He handed me a handkerchief. I pressed it against my nose.

  Chason strutted up to us.

  “Thanks a million for warning them,” I said.

  “That box contains packets of uncut cocaine hidden under a layer of salt,” he said triumphantly. “We can arrest the lot of them.”

  I shrugged. That was good news, at any rate. Now we had something to hang over their heads.

  Back at the station we put them into the grinder. Gerald was good at the grinder, having gotten lots of practice in London and then as a military policeman in Italy. He’d spent most of the war disciplining deserters and looters, and then got the job of pacifying Trieste. The Allies had rolled in, kicked out the Krauts and the few Italians still willing to hold a rifle, and left a lawless town in its wake. Gerald’s job was to fill the vacuum with civilization. He’d done it in record time and even got a medal for it. Must be nice to have medals from governments that still existed. All of mine were from the Spanish Republic.

  His first step was to spread the Greeks around the three holding cells the police station had. Break them up and keep them from working on an alibi together. Demitrios and the guy with the cocaine, who we soon found out was the new first mate, weren’t put in holding cells. They were handcuffed to chairs in different offices well away from the rest of the Greeks.

  Now a holding cell in a Tangier police station is not a pretty place. Considering what’s allowed in this town, anyone who ended up behind bars had to be a nasty customer. These Greek fishermen, for all their drinking and brawling and smuggling, were pretty square guys. They had homes. Families. Spending the night locked up with Italian pimps and Moorish murderers was not their idea of a night out on the town. One of them would break and talk soon enough.

  But first Gerald wanted to work on the really tough customers—Demitrios and the first mate. They’d know the most.