Murder Among Thieves (C.I.D Room Book 3)

by Roderic Jeffries

  Murder Among Thieves

  Roderic Jeffries

  © Roderic Jeffries 1969

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1969 by John Long Limited.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  The five men met for the first time in that part of South London which consists of slums and tired housing about to become slums. Robert Glenton greeted each man on arrival, had a quick word, and then led the way through the hall to the sitting room. Croft, Weston, and Holdman came in cars, Riley — who watched the pennies — walked from the nearest tube station.

  The sitting room was barely furnished and obviously not much used. Its smell was stale. A round, battered table was set in the centre and on this were bottles of gin, whisky, tonics, a syphon of soda, a dozen tins of beer, two packs of cigarettes, and two packs of cigars.

  Glenton was a well-built man with a face whose strength was marred by lines of brutality and whose mouth was thin. He was balding, with a hairline that was receding to leave a widow’s peak. He studied each of the four who were seated round the table. “Have you got what you want?”

  They didn’t answer, having all helped themselves to drinks without being asked.

  “I’ve a job lined up,” said Glenton.

  No one answered. This was hardly news. They did not imagine they had been called together to discuss politics.

  “It’s big.”

  “What size big?” asked Croft. He was large, with the solid compactness of real physical strength. He was handsome, had brown curly hair and blue eyes, was married, but ran after the women. There was not a car lock he couldn’t force inside twenty seconds, nor any car he couldn’t drive, from a vintage Bentley to an Iso Grifo.

  Glenton, who had not sat down, walked over to the window from which the paint was flaking and stared out at the tiny garden that was a jungle of overgrown grass and weeds. “Over a hundred grand, maybe a hundred and twenty.”

  Weston, slightly older than Croft, ran his tongue over his thick, fleshy lips. “That’s fair.” An expression of cupidity crossed his long, surly face and a gleam came into his watery blue eyes.

  “That’s a lot of dough,” said Holdman loudly. “A real man-sized load of cabbage.”

  Riley, Croft, and Weston, stared at Holdman and unbeknown to them in each man’s mind was the same question; why was Holdman there? They were experts at their various trades, Holdman was… what? They had never heard of him before and even so short a time as ten minutes had convinced them that he was loud mouthed, brash, and cocky. Could he be an expert at anything but talking?

  “For that sort of cabbage,” went on Holdman, totally unaware of the impression he had made, “I’ll take anything, anytime, anywhere, any ’ow.” He laughed.

  Riley ignored him with open contempt. At 51, Burner Riley was one of the three top oxy-acetylene and thermic lance men in the country — perhaps the top one. He was almost bald, small, perky, and had the face of a pleasantly mischievous gnome — ironic, this, since he was always ready to be as vicious as the circumstances warranted. His right cheek bore the pitting and black speckling of a premature gelignite explosion that had almost killed him.

  Glenton turned round from the window. “There’s a factory that closes down for the summer holidays. All the workers get two weeks’ holiday money on top of their normal wages on the last pay day.”

  “Now ain’t they some lucky guys!” exclaimed Holdman. “Paid for doing nothing. That kind of a job would do me a treat.”

  “Why don’t you…” Croft cut short the words. He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of irritation then drained his glass and poured himself out another whisky.

  Glenton spoke easily, as if totally unaware of the dislikes already generated. “The money for three weeks will come to over a hundred grand: like I said, maybe as high as a hundred and twenty.”

  “What kind of split are you offering?” asked Riley. He ignored the cigarettes and cigars on the table, took a battered tin from his pocket, and rolled himself a very thin cigarette.

  “I’ve been casing the job for months,” said Glenton, “and its cost. I want fifty-five grand for a hundred, sixty-five if it’s over a hundred and ten. All expenses on me.”

  Croft, Riley, and Weston considered the terms. Glenton wanted a lot, but with a job like this there were always heavy expenses. At the very least, they should have forty-five thousand to share out amongst themselves and that came to over eleven thousand each. Even with inflation, eleven thousand sounded nice.

  Holdman spoke with loud belligerence. “You’re reckoning to do all right, ain’t you? Fifty-five grand for you when it’s all of us doin’ the work? I says equal shares, with the expenses shared out.” He stared at the men round the table, seeking support. He found none.

  Riley’s home-made cigarette had gone out. He struck a match and re-lit the cigarette and a quarter of an inch of it disappeared in a quick burst of flame. “Let’s ’ear some more about the job.”

  Glenton left the window, walked over to the table, and sat down in the free chair. He poured himself out a gin and tonic. “It’s going to be tough.”

  They were hardly surprised. They had not expected the hundred thousand to be left lying about.

  “It’s an armoured truck job.” He tasted the drink and added some more tonic. “The money’s collected at the bank and driven out of town to the factory.”

  “Where’s the job done?” asked Croft. “Outside the bank?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s outside the factory?”

  “No.”

  “Are you reckoning to take it on the journey?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the toughest time,” said Riley slowly, stating the obvious.

  “Of course. But because it’s the toughest, it’s the simplest.”

  “What the bleeding ’ell’s that mean?” demanded Holdman excitedly, his face flushed.

  Glenton fidgeted with the knot of his carefully tied dark grey tie. He was a smart dresser, who always wore suits that cost over eighty guineas. “The toughest time is also the time when they logically least expect trouble.”

  “They maybe won’t be expecting it, but they’ll still be ready for it,” said Holdman.

  Weston leaned forward across the table. “What’s the pitch? I ain’t coming in on anything mad.”

  Glenton smiled briefly. “The truck that’ll be used carries four guards, armed with gas pistols. The truck is only six months old and the body is made out of specially toughened steel. Two guards ride in the compartment, two in the cab. The compartment is quite separate from the cab, except for a small communicating grill which is closed from the inside.” Glenton paused as he watched their faces. “The rear loading doors are secured from the inside and the only way of forcing ’em is to burn ’em.”

  “How thick’s the steel?” asked Riley.

  “Three-eighths, with a sandwich of copper in the middle to carry off heat.”

  “That ain’t going to burn open easy.”

  “Even you, Burner, can�
��t do the job in under twenty minutes.” Glenton took one of the cigars out of its pack and lit it, with a care more appropriate to a Corona Major.

  The day was hot and the room had become stuffy and smoke-filled, but no one suggested opening the window. The four waited for Glenton to continue.

  “The two guards inside have a radio transmitter and receiver. They keep in constant touch with their own people and in an emergency they’re allowed to use police wavelengths to call for help.”

  “That’s fun, that is,” said Holdman loudly. “One sign of trouble and they’re squawking on the blower loud enough to call up every cozzpot for miles.”

  “That’s right.”

  Holdman’s voice rose. “Then if we try to take the truck on the journey, these guards’ll call up the law before we’ve ’ad time to melt the paint.”

  None of the other three said anything, but each man was tense and his expression was a mixture of doubt and suspicion.

  “I haven’t finished with the alarms yet,” said Glenton. He spoke easily and confidently, as if the difficulties were of no practical consequence. “There’s an alarm on the roof which can be set off from the cab or the inside. They say it can be heard for a couple of miles in a gale.”

  Weston stood up and kicked back his chair. He stepped away from the table, then changed his mind, came to a halt, and jammed his hands in his pockets. “So what are you are going to do about that? Start whistlin’ and ’ope no one ’ears?” His voice was high, as it always was when he became excited or annoyed.

  “I’ll tell you what happens when I’ve finished with the difficulties.”

  “Don’t bother goin’ on, mate. You’ve told us enough to — ”

  Glenton interrupted, speaking in the same calm, slightly mocking voice. “The cab doors are locked throughout every trip and the cab windows are kept shut and it doesn’t matter what happens, unless the truck crashes the windows and doors stay shut. The doors are extra tough and the windows and windscreen are bullet-proof glass. There’s also an engine immobiliser which the driver works merely by flicking down a switch.”

  Riley ran the palm of his right hand over his balding head. “Bob, I ain’t come ’ere for a giggle.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I ain’t stoppin’ any longer.”

  “Then you’re not interested?”

  “I ain’t interested in a million quid if it means getting busted by the law as soon as I starts work. The job ain’t on.”

  “Why not?”

  Riley bobbed his head forward and the sunlight, streaming through the window, cut neatly across his head so that half was brightly lit up and half was in relative shadow. “The job’s impossible.”

  “I can’t see that.” Glenton was amused. Riley became angry as he suspected he was being made to look a fool. “You say I can’t burn through them doors for twenty minutes. So what ’appens when I start, even if we manage to stop the truck? The guards get on the blower and the law gets me, along with you.”

  Croft also spoke angrily. “And ’ow d’you get the truck to stop? And once it’s stopped, ’ow d’you get at the blokes inside the cab if the doors are locked and the glass is bulletproof?”

  “We aren’t going to get them,” replied Glenton.

  “You’re just leaving ’em to sit there all the time whilst we’re tryin’ to burn through the back?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And no one else won’t be interested in what’s goin’ on?”

  “Right again.”

  “And the blokes inside won’t be on the blower, shoutin’ to the cozzpots?”

  “They’ll be shouting.”

  “It’s bloody daft,” snapped Weston, his voice still higher.

  Glenton sipped his gin and tonic. He drew on the cigar and then, conscious how closely he was being watched, carefully tapped the ash into the ashtray.

  No one moved. They had declared the job to be impossible, which it obviously was… Yet… yet Glenton was a smooth operator who’d pulled off some good jobs, even if none had been as big as this. Nor was he the kind of fool who’d blindly jump into disaster… But how could he begin to believe it possible to hijack the armoured truck and rob it?

  “Are any of you still interested?” asked Glenton. He stood up and his well-cut, conservatively checked suit moulded his strong frame.

  They waited. It wasn’t easy to turn down a share in a hundred grand.

  Chapter 2

  Weaver, branch manager in Fortrow of the Moxon Security Company, searched amongst the papers on his desk. “I know it’s here somewhere,” he said, in his thin, often querulous voice.

  Fish waited in front of the desk. He was pleased to observe such rank incompetence.

  “Ah, here it is! This is next week’s schedule and you’re on Monday through to Friday. Make a note that you’ve a very big job on the Friday.”

  Fish was unimpressed. To him, the amount of the money he carried made not a scrap of difference — whilst he was in charge nothing could go wrong because he observed all the rules conscientiously, intelligently, and diligently. Twenty years in the army had taught him how to do that.

  Weaver looked up, peering at Fish over the tops of his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. “I said, you’ve a very big job. You’re drawing the holiday pay and wages for the Arcoll factory.”

  “I’ve done it before,” replied Fish in his deep voice, as always speaking a shade louder than was necessary so that his words tended to boom.

  “You mustn’t forget to indent upon the bank in good time.”

  Had he ever forgotten? Wasn’t the money always waiting and ready, as it was supposed to be? “Head office must be notified the moment the money’s aboard.”

  “So you’ve said before.”

  The manager became annoyed and tried blustering and illogically to accuse Fish of not listening to anything that was said. Fish maintained a haughty silence, not bothering to deny so absurd an accusation.

  Fish left the office and went down the rickety wooden stairs to the courtyard around which the armoured trucks were garaged. One of the trucks was over by the washing bay and a man, in shirt-sleeves, was using a hose with attached brush to wash it down. “Have you nearly finished, then?” asked Fish.

  “Have I what?” Young stood up and eased his back. “You know something? There’s more to washing down one of these trucks than just standing back and watching. You ought to try it some time, mate.” Young’s temper and irritability were of the kind traditionally associated with his red hair.

  “I was cleaning tanks twice this size before you were out of the cradle.” Fish failed to lighten his words with the touch of humour that might have stopped the other from taking further offence.

  “That’s the first time I knew there was tanks at Mafeking.”

  Fish, head erect, walked on. He didn’t understand the modern generation — which included Young, even if 35. They wanted everything for nothing, a full wage for a half-day’s work. Take his son: long-haired, smudgy beard, wild meaningless talk about nirvana and world revolution, training to be an architect yet acting like some half-wit: two years in the army would have taught him that hard work was more important than mouthing the ridiculous rubbish he did.

  *

  In the C.I.D. general room of eastern division H.Q., Fortrow Borough Constabulary, D.C. Kerr stared down at the form and wondered if the man who had dreamed it up was finally satisfied he had made certain the greatest possible time would be wasted over the most trifling matter. He had applied for twenty-seven shillings expenses — money spent on an old lag in return for some information — and now he had to answer innumerable questions before the D.I. could O.K. the sending of the form to the divisional superintendent for his O.K. to repayment.

  Welland, doing his six months as C.I.D. aide, looked up from his desk. “Who’s on this Saturday afternoon?”

  “All of us,” replied Kerr.

  “Come off it, chum.”

  �
�Want to bet that something won’t break and we’ll all be on duty throughout the whole weekend?”

  “You can be a real grave-digger when you try.” Welland grinned. He had the look of a man who could never be truly mournful, no matter how depressing the circumstances.

  Kerr sighed. “I’ve just discovered I haven’t got a favourite aunt who can die and leave me twenty thousand quid so I can go and live in the Bahamas.”

  “Why the Bahamas?”

  “Why not?”

  “I suppose you think the beaches there are loaded with lovely crackling?”

  “Who’s worried about that?”

  Welland laughed boisterously. “The day you’re not concentrating on women you’re either very ill or dead. Your only cure is to get married.”

  “Nuts,” replied Kerr, but he wondered whether Welland wasn’t right. Probably it was because he was getting old, but the thought of marriage was beginning to attract him since life in the police hostel was not exactly a home from home. Also, it was only three days since Helen had casually said she was going out with a bloke called Phineas. Phineas! What a hell of a name! Why was she going out with a guy called that?

  He lit a cigarette. A married policeman in the Fortrow force was given a nice house rent free so that it was possibly true to say that two could live almost as cheaply as one.

  Welland leaned back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly from his weight. “When’s your summer holiday?”

  “Not long now — unless something turns up to scupper it,” added Kerr, with another untypical moment of pessimism.

  “Going anywhere special?”

  “I thought of France for a few days, but they say it costs so much now that you can eat or drink, but not do both.” Kerr sat back from the table that served him as a desk. “What d’you reckon it’s like to be rich?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  Welland smiled. “Think of all the ulcers you’d grow from worrying about staying rich.”

  “They’re the kind of ulcers I could do with growing.” Kerr began to daydream about wealth.