Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

He was still chuckling as Vernon slammed down the receiver. Carver replaced the extension ’phone, a bewildered look on his face. “But how could he have known?”

“How the hell do I know? Another of his damned gadgets probably.”

“What do we do now?”

“Get out while the going’s good — on foot the back way. I’ve got an old Ford brake parked in a lock-up garage on the other side of the river. I always did believe in covering every eventuality.”

“Where are we going, Mr. Vernon — Ireland?”

“You can if you like. I can manage a couple of hundred. That should see you through.”

“What about you?”

Vernon unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a Luger pistol. “I’ve got an account to settle.”

“With Craig? You don’t even know where he’s going.”

“I shouldn’t imagine I’ll have any difficulty in finding out.”

Carver frowned in bewilderment. “I don’t get it.”

“A challenge, Benny. A challenge — something you wouldn’t understand.”

“You mean Craig wants you to follow him?”

Vernon opened the wall safe and took out a black cash box. “That’s the general idea.” He returned to his desk with the cash box and unlocked it. “This is what he’s been aiming at from the beginning — him and me in a final showdown, but he’s made a big mistake.” When Vernon smiled he looked like the Devil incarnate. “I was a good man in the jungle, Ben — the best there was. Craig’s still got to find that out.”

He opened the cash box, tossed two packets of fivers across and started to fill his pockets with the rest. “There’s two hundred there and good luck to you.”

Carver shook his head slowly and threw the money back. “We’ve been together a long time, Mr. Vernon. I’m not dropping out now.”

Vernon stared at him incredulously. “Loyalty at this stage, Ben?” And then he laughed harshly and clapped him on the shoulder. “All right then. Let’s see if we can’t show the bastard a thing or two.”

“But who turned you in, Morgan, that’s what I can’t understand?” Miller said.

It was just after four a.m. and the pale green walls of the Interrogation Room seemed to float out of the shadows, unreal and transitory as if they might disappear at any moment.

Joe Morgan sat at the plain wooden table under a strong central light that made him look old and sunken. Brady leaned against the wall near the window and a young constable stood stolidly in the corner.

“Nobody turned us in. The whole thing went sour, that’s all.”

“Then who closed the strongroom door on you and Martin?”

“I don’t know — maybe it just slammed shut.”

“All right, miracles sometimes happen. That still doesn’t explain how we found Jack Fallon lying beaten and unconscious in the passageway.”

Morgan didn’t reply and Brady said helpfully, “Maybe Fallon just doesn’t like you anymore. Maybe he decided to lock you and Martin in the strongroom just for kicks and took off. Unfortunately he tripped and fell in the passage, knocking himself unconscious.”

Morgan turned away contemptuously. “You ought to see a psychiatrist.”

“We’ll provide you with one for free,” Miller said. “You’re going to need him badly, Morgan. You’re going to sit for the next ten years staring at the wall, asking yourself the same question over and over again until it drives you out of your mind.”

Morgan snapped, suddenly and completely. “But I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t know.” He hammered on the table with a clenched fist. “Can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

In the silence which followed Grant peered round the door, eyebrows raised. Miller shook his head, nodded to Brady and they joined the superintendent in the corridor.

“Anything?” Grant said.

Miller shook his head. “No more success than we’ve had with the others.”

“He seems genuinely bewildered to me,” Brady put in. “I get the impression he’d like to know what happened as much as anybody.”

“Right,” Grant said briskly. “This is where keeping them separate might have paid off. Put them together in cell 15 and let’s see what happens.”

When the constable pushed Joe Morgan into the cell, Martin was sitting despondently on a bench against the wall. Morgan frowned in bewilderment as the door closed behind him.

“What is this?”

Martin shrugged. “Search me.”

“Maybe the place is wired for sound?”

Morgan looked the walls over carefully and behind him, the door opened again and Jack Fallon was pushed into the cell. He looked a mess. His lips were swollen and gashed, several teeth missing and the front of his shirt was soaked in blood.

He staggered forward, a wild look in his eyes and grabbed Morgan by the lapels. “What happened for Christ’s sake? Who was he?”

Morgan tore himself free with some difficulty. “Who was who?”

“The bloke who came in through the tunnel and locked you and Johnny in the strongroom.”

“What are you talking about?” Morgan demanded.

“I’m trying to tell you. I saw him on the bloody television screen. Big bloke all in black with a stocking over his face. He locked you and Johnny in the strongroom and I jumped him from the stairs.”

“You had a barney?”

“Not for long. Henry Cooper couldn’t have hit me any harder than he did.”

“Maybe it was Harris?” Martin said.

“Do me a favour.” Fallon laughed harshly. “I could break him in two with one hand tied behind my back. It wouldn’t make sense anyway. What would he stand to gain?”

“Then why haven’t they put him in with the rest of us?”

“Search me.”

Morgan turned away, his hands gripped tightly together. “Only one man knew we were pulling this caper,” he said. “The man who organised it.”

“Vernon?” Martin’s eyes widened. “It don’t make sense, Joe.”

“I’ve just got one prayer,” Morgan said. “That one day they put him in the same nick as me. That’s all I ask.”

In the next cell, Grant reached up to switch off the tannoy and nodded to Miller and Brady. “That’ll do me. In we go.”

They went out into the passage and the constable who was standing at the door of cell 15 unlocked it quickly and stood back.

“Did I hear somebody mention Max Vernon’s name?” Grant said as he led the way in.

“Why don’t you take a running jump at yourself,” Morgan told him bitterly.

“Oh, to hell with it.” Jack Fallon cursed savagely. “If you think I’m going to rot while that bastard goes free you can think again. If you don’t tell him, I will.”

“You don’t have much luck with Vernon, do you?” Grant said to Morgan. “Remember that Cable Diamond affair? I suppose he saw you all right when you came out.”

“Five hundred,” Morgan said. “Five hundred quid for five bloody years in the nick.” The anger came pouring out of him in an uncontrollable flood. “All right — Vernon’s your man and much good it’ll do you. We were supposed to be back at his place no later than one-thirty. If he’s still there when you call then I’m Santa Claus.”

It was almost five-thirty when Miller went into Grant’s office. The superintendent was reading through the statements made by Morgan and his cronies and looked up sharply.

“Any luck?”

“Not a sign. Must have cleared out the back way on foot. I’ve put out a general call. We’ve alerted the County and the Regional Crime Squad as well.”

“He’ll probably try for the Irish boat at Liverpool.” Grant said. “He won’t get far.”

“I’m not so sure, sir. What if he’s still in town?”

“Why should he be?”

“There’s always Craig. He has a score to settle there.”