Red Herring (14 page)

“Only two weeks ago?” said Red. “Seems a lot longer.”

Red had been sent to beef up the alarm. There was a branch manager — a Pom about fifty, soft — and two girls, Greek locals he thought. A couple of provosts had arrived with document satchels while Red was stringing wire, and the Pom had unlocked the grille in front of the vault and opened the vault itself, which had a combination lock. A table in the middle of the secure room was chocker with cash, just sitting there, notes in bundles, stacks of them, wrapped in clear paper. Even the Red Caps had whistled.

“We’re going to make a little detour when we get to Athens and grab that money,” said Red. “It’ll be chaos.”

“We could use another bloke if you’re interested,” said Mick.

“Sure I’m interested,” said Sunny. “I haven’t got a weapon though.”

“We can get you a weapon,” said Mick. He tapped the submachine pistol hanging across his chest. “You can use this little beauty.”

“What will you do with the money?”

“Get rid of it in Egypt,” said Mick. “No problem.”

“Will it be guarded?”

“Greeks?” said Mick, looking at Red. “We can handle Greeks.”

“Yeah, but what if they’re Australians?” said Sunny. “Or Tommies?”

Mick turned to Sunny.

“Like the CO said, it’s every bastard for himself.”

“I’m in,” said Sunny, tipping back the last of the brandy.

Central Athens was crowded. Civilians filled the streets and cheered and cried as military vehicles and civilian motorcars eased through. The Greeks’ mixture of grief and farewell and foreboding seemed genuine. The three soldiers had little trouble getting past Military Police traffic control posts. So long as they were heading in a direction that was generally south no one asked any questions.

The Thomas Cook office was closed, its double-doors locked. There were no guards. Sunny racked the machine pistol and the Australians checked their pistols. They had removed any identifying badges or kit and carried empty packs. A woman in black came up and threw her arms around Mick and said,
“Niké.
” When Mick said, “Don’t speaka da lingo, sorry,” the woman said, in English, “Victory” and held up her fingers in the V-sign. Mick laughed. “Victory?” he said. “Is that what this is? Good on you, Mum.” They crossed the street, banged on the grille, and identified themselves as Australian Military Police.

After some back and forth the door cracked open. The manager was holding a pistol, a big Webley Mk VI, in a trembling hand. He stepped back and brought up the weapon. “What do you want?” he said. “You’re not MPs.”

“You’re right there,” said Mick. “Careful with that thing, you old coot. You might shoot yourself in the foot.”

“I was in the last show,” the manager said. “I know how to use this.”

“Bully for you,” said Sunny, grabbing the barrel and wrenching the pistol away. The three men pushed through the door and fanned out.

“Open the vault.”

“Out of the question,” said the manager. “It’s more than my job’s worth.”

“Your job! There’s a war on, ya knucklehead,” said Mick. “I wouldn’t be worrying about your job for a while.”

“The vault’s empty,” said the Englishman. “Your lot came two days ago and took everything.”

Sunny cocked the Webley and held it to the manager’s chest.

“Open it anyway. I’m counting to three,” he said. “One, two—”

“All right!” said the manager. “The grille keys are in the top drawer of my desk.”

“Which?” said Mick a moment later, holding a bunch.

“The one with the red tag,” said the manager.

Mick unlocked the grille and swung it open. “Hop to it, mate,” he said, pointing to the combination lock in the middle of the vault door.

The manager’s hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t hold the dial.

Sunny passed the pistol to Red and moved the manager to one side. “Call them out,” he said.

The manager swallowed. “Ah, ah, left 24. Right 16. Left, um, 9.”

Sunny twisted the dial. The door swung open.

Bundles of notes sat on a table in the middle of the room and others spilled out on the floor. Strongboxes had been opened.

The notes were mostly military scrip, colourful but soon to be worthless.

“Bloody hell,” said Red. “This is no good.”

“Where’s the safe?” said Sunny.

“The safe?”

“You deaf?” said Sunny, raising the Webley again.

“Behind the clock,” said the manager, pointing to a clock hinged to the wall.

Sunny swung the clock open. There was a Birmingham Automatic Machine Company safe embedded in the wall.

“It’s unlocked,” said the manager.

Inside was nearly £100 in sterling and US dollars, gold coins, passports — French, British, Bulgarian, Greek — and a fistful of jewellery and watches. Mick put it all in his pack.

They drove south. At Tripolis they pulled over and divided the spoils into three. Sunny took a watch, the first he’d owned, and some money and jewellery. They separated, making a loose arrangement to meet up at the Fifty-Fifty Club in Sydney for a beer after the war.

Sunny took the blast of an exploding shell on the beach at Porto Rafti and was evacuated to Maadi with concussion. The surgeon recognised Sunny’s new watch as a 1935 Patek Phillipe rectangular and reported it to his colonel, who in turn summoned the provosts. When Sunny’s kit was searched they found his share of the money and jewellery from the Thomas Cook robbery. He was court-martialled, served nine months in the 1st Australian Detention Barracks in Palestine, and was then sent home. A year later he was in Mt Crawford Prison in Wellington, serving two years for an unrelated matter.

But he’d missed out on Crete, so it could have been worse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

With its vast symmetrical facade, terrazzo floor, imported marble, fine bronze detailing, embossed metal ceiling three storeys overhead, palm-lined concourse sweeping around in front, and the swarms of men in uniform — drivers, guards, conductors — the Auckland Railway Station felt to Molloy like the sort of place in which Mussolini might have lived had
Il Duce
chosen Auckland over Rome.

He was sitting on a step, finishing a smoke, watching Caitlin hurry across the road between vehicles and run up the steps.

“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t sure where to leave the car.”

“That’s all right.” He dropped his smoke on the ground, grinding it out.

“I hope you’re not annoyed about last night,” said Caitlin, taking a cigarette case from her purse and opening the lid.

“You saved my neck,” said Molloy, striking a match. “Who taught you to drive?”

“My Uncle Pat,” she said. “He held the Wanganui to New Plymouth land speed record before the war.”

“He did a good job,” said Molloy, lighting his own cigarette.

“Vince was pleased to see you.” She tilted her head back, blowing a thin stream of smoke skywards.

Molloy laughed. “I bet he was.”

“No, he was. He has a real soft spot for you, I can tell.”

“Yeah,” said Molloy. “He’s a big sook all right.” He checked his watch. “Let’s go.”

The left-luggage department was a long narrow room at the end of a corridor off the Main Trunk platform, lined with metal shelving filled with suitcases and boxes and parcels and other items, each tagged with a cardboard label. There was an electric clock on the wall and posters advertising rail excursions to Chateau Tongariro, the Winter Wonderland, and Rotorua, the Thermal Wonderland.

Molloy gave the ticket to an NZR clerk.

“Won’t be a tick,” said the clerk.

He walked down an aisle towards the far end of the room, moved a ladder on wheels into position, climbed up and shook a case loose.

“What are you looking for, can you say?” said Caitlin.

“I found a left-luggage ticket in O’Flynn’s room last night.”

“Not one of those bodies in a trunk that keep turning up in London, I hope,” said Caitlin.

“You never know,” said Molloy.

The clerk humped the suitcase onto the counter. It was made of cardboard with cheap leather facings. There were embarkation stickers pasted on the sides and it was tied with twine like a parcel. He twisted the tag on the handle so that Molloy could check the number against the number on the receipt. “AF612,” he said. “That the one?”

“That’s her,” said Molloy.

“Get you to sign your life away,” said the clerk, spinning a ledger and handing Molloy a fountain pen. “And she’s all yours.”

Molloy rang Furst from a phone booth at the railway station and arranged to meet him at the Premier Building. Caitlin drove and they parked in Queen Street and took the lift to the fourth floor. Furst was waiting for them, leaning against a wall in the corridor,
reading the
Herald.
Molloy introduced Caitlin as his assistant. Furst raised his hat and said what a pleasure it was, and judging by the way he looked at her, it was.

Molloy unlocked his office door and showed them in. If they were impressed with his set-up they managed to contain themselves. He cleared the top of the desk and lifted the suitcase onto it. He took out his pocketknife and cut the rope and tried the catches. They were rusty and locked. He put the point of the knife in behind the stems and wiggled the blade. The locks snapped. He closed his knife and put it back in his pocket. “Let’s have a look,” he said, opening the lid.

There was old clothing packed along the top of the suitcase. A jersey, a raincoat, a pair of galoshes wrapped in newspaper, woollen socks.

“Winter stuff,” said Molloy, handing the items to Caitlin, who held them at a distance. There was the smell of camphor. At the bottom of the suitcase were four Western novels and a cardboard shoebox. The shoebox was full of a traveller’s bric-a-brac — a cheap writing pad with five blank pages; two par avion envelopes; a pencil; a key with a long stem; a bundle of US banknotes tied up with a rubber band, two hundred dollars or more. And a photograph, a strip of three taken in a photomat. A couple, laughing in the first, taken by surprise in the second, kissing in the third. A blonde woman with a large lipsticked mouth and sleepy eyes, her arm thrown casually around the neck of a man in his thirties with a tough, handsome face, black wavy hair parted off-centre and pushed straight back, a cowlick sprung loose.

“The happy couple,” said Furst. “O’Phelan and his hop-head girlfriend, Valma.”

He picked up the bills and peeled back the top few. He put the money down and took a notebook from his pocket, flicked to a
page, ran a stubby finger along a line, squinted at a note, and then another, and closed the book with a slap.

“Bingo. This is part of the money US Life paid out to Valma after O’Phelan drowned in the Bay of Alaska in 1949,” said Furst. “How’s it end up two years later in his suitcase on the other side of the world?”

“He didn’t drown in 1949,” said Molloy.

Furst beamed. “Nossir, he did not.”

“What now?”

“I’ll cable head office, let them know where we’ve got.” He put on his hat. “I’m going back to my hotel to send a telegram. Maybe the two of you would care to join me tonight for a meal in the dining room? This is good work, son. We’ve got something to celebrate.”

“Sounds good,” said Molloy.

“Swell,” said Furst. “The house bar around six? I’ll leave your names at the front desk.” He tipped his hat. “Miss O’Carolan.”

They listened as his jaunty tread disappeared along the corridor.

“‘Good work, son,’” said Caitlin. “Honestly. Patronising Yank.”

“He’s not a bad bloke.”

“If you say so,” she said. “What now?”

“He’ll get instructions from his head office. It’ll be a police matter from now on. But if he wants me to keep looking for him then that’s what I’ll do. If not?” He shrugged.

Caitlin looked at him. “But you said you’d help us.”

“I said you could tag along while I looked for him. As of now I’m not looking for him.”

“So, what exactly? On to your next divorce, I suppose,” said Caitlin. “Blow you, Molloy. I’ll find O’Flynn myself.” She picked up her purse and flung it over her shoulder. “Vince was dead right about you. You really are living on your knees now, aren’t you,
Comrade
?”

She went out the door and slammed it hard but the glass was mesh and held. Molloy heard her high heels clacking furiously along the corridor.

He returned the items to the shoebox. The phone rang. Molloy picked up the receiver.

“Are you there?”

There was a mechanical sound as someone pushed button A. An echoing voice said, “Don’t say my name. You know who this is?”

“Yeah, I know who this is,” said Molloy.

“Same place. Five o’clock this evening.”

“Right-o,” said Molloy.

The phone rang off.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Archie Green was sitting in Albert Park, his hat pulled low, hiding behind a copy of the
Auckland Star.

“Is that you, Archie?” said Molloy.

Green lowered the newspaper a couple of inches. “Of course it is.”

“Well?”

“I spoke to a friend of a friend. A policeman. Special Branch.”

“And?”

Green paused and took a deep breath. “O’Flynn has powerful friends. One in particular.”

“Who?”

Green scanned the park, checking they were alone. He looked at Molloy and slowly mouthed three words, enunciating with great drama.

Molloy shook his head. “You’ll have to speak English.”

Green leaned in, his voice full of portent. “Fintan. Patrick. Walsh.”

“Walsh,” said Molloy, after a moment. “Did your cobber say why?”

“He didn’t,” said Green, some of his old confidence coming back. “And I didn’t ask him. Walsh helping out a fellow potato-eater, I’d imagine.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In Dublin in January 1939, the seven men who made up the Army Council of the IRA, an outlawed organisation in Ireland, declared themselves the legitimate government of the Irish Republic, with the attendant right to use force and wage war against an occupying power. Drawing on this lofty mandate the council put the United Kingdom on four days’ notice to remove its troops from Irish soil, reserving the prerogative of “appropriate action without further notice in the name of the unconquered dead and the faithful living” if, upon the expiration of that period of grace, the demand remained unmet.