Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

The guard had obviously tumbled from the black leather swivel chair in front of the control panel and sprawled on his face. The thermos flask stood open on a small table at one side and Morgan poured a little into the empty cup and tested it.

“Cold — he’s been out for ages.”

“Would you look at this now?” Fallon said in wonder.

There were at least thirty separate screens on the control panel. Not only was every entrance to the building covered, but cameras had obviously been positioned at strategic sites in all the main corridors.

“There’s Johnny,” Fallon said, pointing.

They could see Martin clearly as he stood in the basement corridor, the two canvas hold-alls at his feet.

“Looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Morgan said and leaned forward. “There’s the entrance to the strongroom and that’s a picture of the vault door. Look, they’ve even got a shot of the interior. Would you credit it.”

“It’s fantastic,” Fallon said. “You can see everything from up here.”

Morgan nodded. “Come to think of it, it might be a good idea if you stayed up here, Jack. You’ve got every entrance to the building covered. If anyone did turn up, you’d know in a flash. Johnny and I can manage below.”

“And how will I know when to join you?” Fallon said.

“You’ll see on the screen, won’t you?”

Fallon grinned delightedly. “And so I will. Off you go then, Joe, and God bless the good work.”

Morgan went down the service stairs quickly and rejoined Martin. “Let’s get moving,” he said and picked up one of the canvas hold-alls.

The entrance to the strongroom was at the end of the passage, a steel door with a double padlock that took him exactly three minutes to pick.

He crossed the room quickly and examined the face of the vault door, testing the handles. Behind him, Martin had already got the first cylinder out of his hold-all. He screwed home one end of the flexible hose that connected it to the blow torch and ignited the flame.

Morgan pulled on a pair of protective goggles and held out his hand. “Okay, let’s get to work,” he said.

A few moments later he was cutting into the steel face of the vault, six inches to the right of the locking mechanism, with the precision of an expert.

For something like forty-five minutes, Jack Fallon had a seat at the show that couldn’t have been bettered if he’d been sitting in the front circle at his local cinema. He leaned back in the swivel chair, smoking one cigarette after the other, intent on the drama that was being enacted below.

He was at Morgan’s side when he finished cutting the hole and waited, biting his fingernails, while the explosive was gently poured inside the lock, sealed with a plastic compound and fused.

He heard no noise, but the visual effect of the explosion was dramatic enough. The door seemed to tremble, then a portion of it around the lock seemed to disintegrate before his eyes and smoke rose in a cloud.

He saw Morgan and Martin rush forward, heaving on the door together, swinging it open, and switched his gaze to the next screen in time to see them enter the interior of the vault itself.

He jumped to his feet, excitement racing through him, started to turn away and paused, a cold chill spreading through his body.

He was looking at another screen — the one that gave a view of the passageway linking the cellar by which they had entered the building with the strongroom. A man was moving along the passage cautiously, tall and dark in sweater and pants, gloves on his hands and a nylon stocking pulled over his face.

Fallon cursed savagely, turned and ran to the door, knocking over the chair in his haste.

Beyond the van a monumental cross reared into the night and here and there, marble tombstones gleamed palely. The mason’s yard was dark and lonely, a place of shadows that was too much like a cemetery for comfort and Frankie Harris huddled into the driver’s seat miserably, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat.

He was getting old, that was the trouble — too old for this sort of action by night. He seemed to have been waiting there for hours and yet it was no more than forty-five minutes since his three companions had entered the manhole.

His feet were so cold that he could no longer feel them and after a while he opened the door and stepped into the rain. He walked up and down for a minute or two, stamping his feet to restore the circulation, and then paused to light a cigarette, his hands cupped around the flaring match.

He gave a sudden, terrible start as the light picked a face out of the night — a dark, formless face lacking eyes and mouth that could belong to nothing human.

He staggered back in horror, the match dropping from his nerveless fingers, and his throat was seized in a grip of iron.

“Frank Harris?” The thing had a voice. “You’re just out of the Ville, aren’t you?”

The pressure was released and Harris nodded violently. “That’s right.”

“How long?”

“Ten days.”

“You bloody fool.” Suddenly he found himself being jerked round and propelled towards the gate. “Now start running,” the voice said harshly, “and don’t stop. Anything that happens to you after this, you deserve.”

Harris ran along the alley as he hadn’t run since he was a boy and when he reached the end, paused, leaning against the wall.

“Christ Jesus,” he sobbed. “Oh, Christ Jesus.”

After a while he pulled himself together, turned into the main road and started walking briskly in the direction of the Central Station.

Duncan Craig moved rapidly along the tunnel towards the patch of light that streamed in through the broken wall from the cellar. When he reached the opening he paused to examine his watch, wondering if he had timed things right and a sudden, muffled explosion reverberating throughout the basement told him that he had.

He dropped into the cellar and moved out into the passage, a strange and sinister figure in his dark clothing, a nylon stocking pulled down over his face.

A cloud of dust and smoke filtered out through the half open door of the strongroom at the far end of the passage and he moved towards it cautiously and peered inside.

The room was full of dust and smoke and beyond through the half open vault door, he was aware of a vague movement. He stepped back into the passageway and slammed the strongroom door shut, jerking down the handle, the locking bolts clanging into their sockets with a grim finality. Without the key he was unable to actually lock the door, but the important thing was that it would be impossible for it to be opened from the inside. He turned and moved back along the passage.

As he passed the entrance to the service stairs, Fallon jumped on him from five steps up, fourteen stone of bone and muscle driving Craig into the floor.

For the moment, he was winded and as he struggled for air, the Irishman’s massive forearm wrapped itself around his throat. As the pressure increased, Craig rammed the point of his right elbow back hard, catching Fallon in the stomach just under the rib cage. Fallon gasped and again Craig drove his elbow home with all his force. As the Irishman’s grip slackened, Craig twisted round and slammed him backwards with the heel of his hand.

Fallon rolled against the wall, the instinct derived from a hundred street fights bringing him to his feet in a reflex action, but Craig was already up and waiting for him. As Fallon moved in, Craig’s right foot flicked out in a perfectly executed karate front kick that caught the Irishman in the stomach. He started to keel over, and Craig’s knee lifted into his face like a battering ram, sending him into darkness.

Ruth Miller waved the last of her guests goodbye and closed the door. She looked at her watch and smothered a yawn. One o’clock. A good party and the clearing up could wait till morning. She started across the hall and the ’phone rang.