The Revenge of Moriarty (16 page)

For the sake of appearances, the Nob stayed on until just aften ten, lingering by the door to pass a word or two with another acquaintance before going out into the night. The rain had started again. Not with the same force as earlier in the day, but enough to quickly soak the shoulders of his greatcoat and spray into his face, dripping from his eyebrows, forcing him to blink away the drops and run the side of his hands across the lids. Head down, he strode out towards Cornhill and Leadenhall Street, legs pumping automatically, hands thrust deep in greatcoat pockets, mind running on the simple chore of passing a message to Saxby for Ember. ‘They'll be working tomorrow,' was all he had to say. Then home, perhaps with one of the molls who hung about near Clare Market. A night horizontalizing would do him good.

The Nob was crossing Aldgate when the hansom struck him.

It was a combination of bad weather and worse luck. Mainly the weather, for the rain was hard in the cabby's eyes and he glimpsed the figure in the dark patch of road a shade too late. He was able to rein his horse sharply to the right, a quick action which saved the Nob from being trampled under hoof, but not quick enough to stop the wheel catching him a nasty blow, sending him scudding and tumbling across the wet road where he lay, splayed out, unmoving: still as death.

They all wore their dark clothes with the tight jackets as Ember had directed. Sitting in the little dining-room of the Edmonton house, the five men went through their particular jobs for a last time – Evans, still looking surly; Franz; the neat German; Peter, and his portly dishevelled companion whose name was Claus; and, of course, Ember who did most of the chatting.

Wellborn and the greasy-haired boy were somewhere in the house, and Schleifstein had gone to bed. The buck cabbie was due to pick them up in his growler at one o'clock and would bring them back later. Tomorrow, when they forced the safe, he would leave the cab ready for Evans to pick up for loading with the swag and the fast away from the site. All was set.

The nobbler, Evans, was to crow for them, and drive the cab on the following night; Peter and Claus were the labourers, doing the heavy work; Franz would act as go-between from Ember to Evans and vice versa.

‘There's no need to be all of a rush,' Ember told them for the twentieth time in three days. ‘That's the beauty of it: taking our time over two nights. Tonight we get the lie of the land, cut up into the shop; then tomorrow we crack it proper.'

There had not been a sound out of normal in the street, and Ember felt rightly confident. No signals. All clear. Spear and Terremant would be watching from the shop across the road in Cornhill and it would not take more than a couple of hours to cut up through the floor. Probably less. Away from Edmonton at one. Back by five. All done in darkness.

He felt in his pocket for the brandy flask and took a swig. One last look at old Bolton's instruments, all packed and swaddled with cloth to baffle the noise. Chisels; four jemmies; American auger, short saw and blades, a set of bettys; spiders and double-enders; an outsider; a cutter and heads; rope, and the brass jack-in-the-box. On top, the dark lantern which would be their only light on the premises.
*

The buck cabbie had been paid in advance. It was always the way: honour among thieves did not often stretch to matters of cash. He had no idea where the robbery was to be. Nor did he wish to know. He would drop them in Bishopsgate and at half-past four in the morning would drive a set return route, first picking up Ember with his tools, then the others at intervals – two in Houndsditch and the other pair in the Minories. Then back, by a circuitous series of doubles, to Edmonton.

As they came down the steps to the cab, Ember thought he had a glimpse of Ben Tuffnell's white face in the darkness of the wall at the other side of the road. No signals. All safe. Just before they left the house he had hauled out his watch-chain and the old silver hunter showed one on the dot.

The Nob felt cold, wet and in pain. It was dark. There were voices. People were lifting him and the pain ran through his body in a great unspeakable wave. Next he was on some sort of cart. But that was only for a short time, for he lapsed into the darkness once more.

Then the pain came again, as though someone was crushing then wrenching at his shoulder. Time was unimportant and a lifespan could have passed, like a fevered dream, his mind dipping in and out of muzzied knowing and nightmare sleep. Then, lights and the smell of disinfectant, something holding down his right arm and shoulder. More light. Waking to strange surroundings and … angels? White gliding angels.

‘There, you are well,' said one of the angels bending over him. ‘You are all right.'

‘What …?' His mouth was dry and he wanted to vomit.

‘You have been in an accident,' said the angel. ‘The police brought you here.'

At the mention of the police, Bob the Nob became fully awake. He was lying in a tiled white room, on a leather couch. The angels were women. Nurses.

‘You are at St Bartholomew's Hospital,' said the nurse, her face close to his. ‘Your shoulder has been broken but the surgeon has set it now. You'll live to argue with hansoms again.'

It all came back, and the Nob moved, trying to sit up, but the pain stabbed down like a red-hot lance. As it subsided he asked, ‘What's the time?'

‘You must not worry about the time. They'll be taking you up to the ward in a moment.'

‘What's the time? It's very important.'

‘Very well. Just gone midnight. You've been unconscious for quite some time.'

He felt more shaky and the pain returned, in smaller stabs this time.

‘I can't stay here,' he gasped. ‘Can't afford it. Not a hospital.'

‘Don't you worry. They'll talk to you about that in the morning. You really did have a rather nasty tumble.'

She was a sharp-faced woman, all starch. Starch all through, thought the Nob. Starch everywhere, I shouldn't wonder.

‘Got to get a message,' he took a deep breath.

‘To your wife?'

‘Yes,' he grabbed at the idea.

‘Well, I'll have to take your particulars before you go up and we'll see what can be done about your wife. The police will want details anyhow. I really don't know. You're the fourth accident case we've had in tonight, they'll have to do something about the traffic soon. Those cabbies all drive too fast and there are too many people on the roads. They're not built for it, you know.' She touched his head lightly as if feeling for fever. ‘You just rest here. I'll be back in a few minutes.'

She was away, across the tiled floor, a whisper of starched authority.

The pain was very bad, but he managed to get to his feet, the room spinning and settling. Then another wave of nausea. The sopping wet greatcoat was lying on a chair, but he would not be able to get into it, his right arm and shoulder being strapped up as it was. No matter, thought the Nob. If I need other treatment, I'll spin them a yarn down at the Eastern Dispensary in the Chapel. Grabbing his coat with the left hand, gritting his teeth against the white pain which flashed through him with each step, the Nob shuffled towards the door. Outside there was a wide hallway and some glass doors. A lot of bustle, for they seemed to be bringing two new cases in on stretchers. He caught a glimpse of his nurse giving a hand.

The way across to the exit was clear, so summoning all speed, the Nob lurched to the glass doors and was away. Outside, the rain still tippled down and seemed, for a moment, to clear his head. Then the nausea returned, and the pain making each step agony.

It was after one before he got down to the flash house in the Chapel. There were several vagrant wrecks there, and a couple of coves boasting of a blag they'd done up West. Saxby was asleep on a bench in the corner. The Nob gave him the message and he was off, looking white-faced and worried with dark circles under his eyes. It was a fair way to Edmonton.

The Nob watched him go, then, at last, he was sick and one of the coves propped him up in a corner and fed him brandy.

The rear entrance of Freeland & Son was reached through a narrow lane off Bishopsgate leading into a tiny yard. The back door was secure enough, protected by iron plates, but to the right of this some area steps descended to a cellar door which nobody bothered with.

The yard itself was littered with junk: old boxes, packing cases and such, as though it was the common dumping ground for the immediate area.

The beatman was well clear when they unloaded from the cab – Ember whispering instructions to the cabbie – and they were down the lane and into the yard within a couple of minutes, leaving Evans at the Bishopsgate end, for it was a perfect vantage point, dark and unlit. Ember reckoned they had about ten minutes to get in before the copper came down Bishopsgate again.

The dark lantern only gave a tiny circle of light, but enough for using a betty on the simple lock. There was always a way in, Ember mused as he worked at the tumblers. Some had safes with uncrackable doors but backs to them like thin tin. Some protected the main doors and forgot about the cellars below, or even the offices above. The lock gave way to his simple seduction, and Ember pushed the door open. It creaked slightly and there was a rusty groan from one of the hinges. Inside, the place smelled of dust, damp and the neglect of ages.

He swung the little circle of light around the cellar, peering about him in the hope that his eyes would more quickly adjust to the darkness. Like the yard outside, the cellar was full of rubbish: a couple of large wooden packing cases, a pile of old boxes, a peeling display sign
(Gilding, Plating and Engraving on the Shortest Notice. Repairs Expeditiously Executed by Scientific Workmen)
, part of an old window grille, made obsolescent by the iron shutters round the front of the shop.

‘Stick by the door,' Ember whispered to Franz. ‘Listen well.'

Then, in dumb show, he motioned Peter and Claus to close up with him as he moved into the cellar, the sovereign of light playing on the joists, beams and planking above.

The cellar was long and narrow, and there, some four paces inside, directly above their heads, was the telltale square of heavy bolts which marked out the iron bed upon which the safe was set in the workshop. He signalled for the two Germans to drag one of the packing cases just forward of the square, then quietly, and with no undue haste, Ember opened the brief bag and located the American auger, screwing his largest bit in place.

He then passed the lantern to Peter, climbed onto the packing case and began to drill upwards through the wooden ceiling, turning his face to one side once the drill was in place to avoid the sawdust and splinters.

His object was to drill four sets of seven holes, each set forming a right angle, making the corners of a square in front of the bolted area, each set some three feet apart. Thus, if one joined up the angles, each of the sides would be roughly three feet in length. He had drilled two holes, close together, when they heard the double yap of a dog. Evans' first signal. Next time it would be a low whistle, then a night bird screech and so back to the dog.

Franz quietly closed the door, leaning heavily against it. Ember froze, pulling the auger away from the wood. Peter and Claus squatted, silent, covering the lantern. Outside, they knew Evans would have retreated into the yard to crouch behind the rubble.

They had deduced that five minutes would see them clear each time the copper passed: unless he decided to have a look around the yard, which he did about once each night. He did not come in this time around. Gently they relaxed and went back to work.

The wooden planks above were easy, the bit cutting through like a needle into a candle, roughening a shade when it got to the linoleum floor covering above. After three stops to let the beatman pass, Ember had completed the four sets of holes.

On the fourth stop, the copper came into the yard. They could hear his feet heavy on the cobbles as he marched up the lane. Then the flash of his bullseye lantern across the grimed cellar window. He tried the rear door and paused at the top of the area steps – Ember's heart thudding like a navvy's hammer. But he did not come down, and they soon began to breathe easy again as the footsteps receded.

‘Evans is on his way back now,' hissed Franz, and Ember bent over the brief bag for his largest chisel to hack away the wood between the holes so that he finally had four small right-angled slits.

He then chose the best saw blade, screwed the butterfly nuts tight and handed it to the portly Claus. It was now up to the pair of Germans to do the heavy work of sawing through the wood, separating the angles, and so producing a square access hole into the workshop above.

It took an hour, with the pauses in work to let the beatman pass. Even so they only cut away three sides – Peter and Claus heaving on the planks and breaking them away from the fourth side so that they came down with a splintering crash fit to wake the dead. The noise was so great in the close confines of the cellar that Ember motioned them to stand still and listen, half expecting to hear the thud of the policeman's feet running back fast towards the shop.

With the tearing away of the boards, the brilliant gaslight from the shop above shafted down, completely illuminating the cellar. For the first time, Ember realized they would have to find some way of jamming the board back in place before leaving. If the beatman returned to the yard between now and their visit on the morrow, he would be immediately alerted by this unusual source of light from the cellar window.

‘I'm going up for a peep,' Ember whispered, gesturing to Peter and Claus to give him a leg up through the hole.

They had worked it just right. The hole was directly in front of the metal bedding upon which the safe stood, gleaming in the middle of the workshop floor. One look told Ember that, in spite of its spruce appearance due to the coat of white paint, the safe was all of forty years old. He moved around, crouched by the hinge side of the door, and smiled. There was plenty of room to insert wedges between door and safe.