Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

“Bound to with loot like that lying around. How do we get in?”

“About a hundred yards from the factory there’s a side street called Brag Alley. I’ve marked it on the map I’m giving you. Lift the manhole at the far end and you’ll find yourself in a tunnel about three feet in diameter that carries the Electricity Board main cables. You’ll know when you’ve reached Chatsworth Steel because they’ve been obliging enough to paint it on the wall. There’s a single-course brick wall between you and the cellars of the office block. If it takes you longer than ten minutes to get through that I’ll eat my hat.”

“What about the alarm system?”

“I’m coming to that. When you get into the cellar you’ll find a battery of fuse boxes on the far wall and they’re all numbered. I’ve numbered the ones you’ll have to switch off in your instructions, but the most important thing to remember is to cut the green cable you’ll find running along the skirting board. It looks innocent enough, but it controls an alarm feeder system in case the others fail.”

“Are the vaults on the same level?”

“That’s right — at the far end of the corridor.”

“What about night guards?”

“They only have one.” Morgan raised his eyebrows incredulously and Vernon grinned. “I told you they’d installed every gadget known to man. The whole place is rigged for closed-circuit television, which is operated by one man from a control room off the main entrance hall. The moment you leave that cellar and walk down the passage you’ll be giving a command performance. All he does is lift the ’phone and the coppers are all over you before you know it.”

“Okay,” Morgan said. “The suspense is killing me. How do we sort that one out?”

“They run a three-shift system and our man takes over at eight. He always stops in at a little café near the main gates for sandwiches and a flask of coffee. On Wednesday night he’ll get more than he bargained for.”

“Something in his coffee?”

Vernon grinned. “Simple when you know how.”

Morgan looked dubious. “What if he hasn’t had a drink by the time we arrive. We’d be in dead lumber.”

“I’ve thought of that. You won’t break in till midnight. That gives him four hours. If he hasn’t had a drink by then, he never will.”

There was a long silence as Morgan sat staring into the distance, a slight frown on his face. After a while he sighed and shook his head.

“I’ve got to give it to you, Max. It’s good — it’s bloody good.”

“See you tomorrow night then,” Vernon said calmly and passed him the briefcase. “Everything you need is in there. Your train leaves at five o’clock. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

He watched Morgan disappear into the side street in the far corner of the square and nodded. So far, so good. The sun burst through the clouds, touching the fine spray of the fountain with colour and he smiled. There were times when life could really be very satisfying. He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and strolled away.

Duncan Craig watched him leave from the rear window of the old Commer van which was parked on the far side of the square. He, too, was smiling, but for a completely different reason. He turned and patted the chromium barrel of the directional microphone mounted on its tripod and started to dismantle it.

It was raining hard when the van turned into Brag Alley and braked to a halt, the light from the headlamps picking out the faded lettering of the sign on the wooden doors that blocked the far end. Gower & Co — Monumental Masons .

“This is it,” Morgan said. “Right — let’s have you, Jack.”

Fallon, a large, heavily built Irishman, jumped out, a pair of two-foot cutters in his hands that sliced through the padlock that secured the gates like a knife through butter. The gates swung open and Harris, the wheelman, took the van into the yard and cut the engine.

Fallon was already levering up the manhole in the alley and Morgan and Martin unloaded the van quickly and joined him. He dropped into the tunnel and they passed down the heavy cylinders for the oxy-acetyline cutter and the other equipment and followed him.

Harris dropped to one knee and Morgan whispered “Replace the manhole, shut yourself into the yard and sit tight. An hour and a quarter at the most.”

The manhole clanged into place above his head as he dropped down to join the others. He switched on the powerful battery lantern he carried and its beam cut into the darkness. In spite of the thick cables, there was room to crawl and he moved off without a word, Fallon and Martin following, each dragging a canvas hold-all containing the equipment.

It was bitterly cold, the insulating jackets of the heavy cables damp with condensation, and at one point there was a sudden whispering like dead leaves rustling through a forest in the evening and a pair of eyes gleamed through the darkness.

“Jesus Christ, rats,” Jack Fallon said. “I can’t stand them.”

“At these prices you can afford to,” Morgan said and paused as his torch picked out the name Chatsworth Steel painted in white letters on the wall. “Here we are.”

“Not much room to swing,” Martin commented.

“Never mind that. Get the bloody gear out and let’s have a go.”

Martin was a small, undersized man with prematurely white hair, but his arms and shoulders were over-developed from a spell of working in the rock quarry at Dartmoor and he lay on his side and swung vigorously with a seven-pound hammer at the cold chisel which Fallon held in position.

When the wall gave, it was not one, but a dozen bricks which collapsed suddenly into the cellar on the other side. Martin grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light of the lamp.

“There’s present-day British workmanship for you. I don’t know what the country’s coming to.”

Morgan shone his lantern into the darkness on the other side and picked out the control panel at once. “Come on, let’s get in there,” he said. “We’re right on time. Let’s keep it that way.”

It was the work of a couple of minutes to enlarge the hole sufficiently to allow him to pass through and he left the others to manage the equipment and made straight for the control panel.

There were thirty-seven boxes on the board, each one numbered, and he had to pull the switch on nine of them. He had memorised the numbers, but checked them from the list Vernon had given him just to make sure.

“Everything okay?” Martin said at his shoulder.

“Couldn’t be sweeter.” Morgan dropped to one knee, located the green cable running along the edge of the skirting board and severed it neatly with a pair of pocket cutters. “That’s it unless Vernon’s made a mistake somewhere, which I doubt.”

When he opened the door, the outside corridor was brilliantly lit by neon light. “What in the hell is the idea of that?” Martin demanded.

“For the television cameras, you fool. They wouldn’t see much in the dark, would they?” Morgan led the way out into the corridor and grinned tightly. “Keep your fingers crossed. If that bloke upstairs is still awake, he’s seen us already.”

“I can’t see any cameras,” Martin said in bewilderment.

“No, but they can see you.” Morgan paused at the foot of the service stairs. “You stay here. Jack and I will go and take a look.”

He went up the stairs quickly. The door at the top had a Yale lock and therefore opened from the inside with no difficulty.

The hall was tiled in black and white and brilliantly illuminated, its great glass doors protected by a bronze security grill. Morgan knew exactly where he was making for. He crossed the hall quickly, found the third door on the right with Control Room painted on it in black letters and turned the handle gently.