William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

“You should be close to the tumbler links.”

“I should be in a pub on Grafton Street. How’s the time, Peter?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Good God!”

“Don’t worry, we’re on schedule,” Peter said. “But listen: When the links break, you and Bendell will leave. I checked the route. It’s clear. The second drain will take you out to the river a mile from town. Head for Biarritz and home, without wasting a second.”

“And what about us?” Francois asked Peter.

“We stay and finish the job. We tie up the loose ends that can hang us.”

“Very well.” Francois shrugged, but there was a shine of sweat on his forehead, and the tic at the corner of his mouth was pulling rhythmically at his lips... At the front windows of the bank, Peter moved a shade with his fingertip, and looked into the street. There was more traffic now: old women in dark shawls hurrying to Mass or market; tourists taking pictures in the clear fresh sunlight; a stream of merrymakers with drums and goatskins of wine on their way to the Plaza del Castillo. The police detail stood at attention, waiting for the relief which would appear at the stroke of eight o’clock.

This fact determined Peter’s choice of time; in that split second of orderly commotion, when sergeants were barking commands, and tourists were taking pictures of the marching police, he had noticed a vacuum of security in which his plans would function with a minimal risk of detection.

He was preparing to let the shade fall back into place, when he saw a sight that made his mouth go dry.

The Cabezuda was coming along the street towards the bank, rocking from side to side, its staring eyes towering high above the heads of the crowd. Children laughed at it. Adults shouted good-humoured insults at the huge, comically splayed nose, the Gaming puffed-out cheeks. “Good God!” Peter said softly, and looked at his watch. They were three minutes early! What in hell had gone wrong? He cursed Angela, damning her piggishness, for that was the only explanation that occurred to him that she couldn’t wait a last precious minute to get her hands on the diamonds. Peter ran back to the vault. They would need a miracle now he knew, for the Cabezuda wouldn’t be allowed to loiter in front of the bank.

The Irishman’s face was a damp, straining mask, and under pale skin the muscles in his arms were bunched like knotted ropes. “They’re here,” Peter said. “We can’t make it!”

Francois looked as if he had been struck a heavy blow at the base of the skull. He shook his head weakly. “No, no, they can’t be here yet. It’s not time.”

Peter leaped to help the Irishman. Together they fought to turn the ring of diamond teeth against layered steel that had been forged to resist fires and explosions, to withstand anything but direct hits by bombs. Time became stretched and attenuated, until it seemed there was no time at all, but only the pain in their arms, the salty sweat in their eyes, the harsh noise of their breathing. And at last, there was an eternal interval, in which they hung their combined weight on the bar, hands slippery and weakening steadily, and it was then Peter realised that the great vault would not give way to their strength and prayers, that it had won and they had lost.

And at that instant there was a sudden crack deep inside the foot-thick layers of steel, and the chrome steel linkages grudgingly released their hold on bolts and tumblers.

The door swung open, and Francois was inside the vault with two long strides.

“Go now,” Peter said to Bendell and the Irishman.

“Oh, God bless you, Peter,” the Irishman said, sucking air deep into his lungs.

“Go, for the love of God, go!”

They wrung his hands, scooped up their jackets, and raced through the gloom towards the stairs which led to the basement. Francois hurried from the vault with the Diamond Flutes of Carlos, and, in the dark light, it looked as if he were holding cylinders of frozen Gre in his arms. Peter placed them on the length of chamois cloth and marvelled at their purity; there was something sacred in their flawless beauty, and he knew then as he had known all along that the price he must pay for this sacrilege would bankrupt his soul.

He placed the Net and the Trident of diamonds beside the Flutes of Carlos, and flipped the cloth about them, concealing their brilliance in a flexible tube of chamois that was about five inches thick and three feet long.

Then he looked sharply towards the front of the bank and saw the shadow of the Cabezuda, monstrous and huge, swaying across the green shades on the windows. There was still a chance, he realised, still a few seconds in which to pray for miracles. But as he ran through the bank, he had the strange conviction that they would make it. Yes, they would make it now. For unless they succeeded he would have no way to make amends. And he didn’t believe for a minute that God would refuse him this last chance. It seemed to Peter as if he were doing everything from memory now, effortlessly and precisely.

He pulled the shade back, revealing the huge, rounded skull of the Cabezuda pressed against the iron grille work its bulk filling the window, blocking out all the light from the street. Peter tugged at the piece of tape, and a window-pane fell silently into his waiting hand. The aperture in the rear of the Cabezuda slid open. Peter lined it up with the empty window-frame, and fed the tube of chamois through the window, through the square of grille work and into the interior of the Cabezuda, where slim, white hands snaked it swiftly from sight.

It was over, finished, and Peter knew they had made it. Even before the glass and window shade were back in place, and the Cabezuda had lurched away from the side of the bank to sway into the street, even before these last swift links were connected, Peter knew everything was going to be all right.

“Get started now,” he said to Francois, and moved the shade with his fingertip and looked into the street.

He heard the Frenchman’s running footsteps going towards the stairs, and he saw, in the street below him, the Cabezuda swaying and listing precariously; but Peter knew it wouldn’t fall, he knew there would be no ironical failure at this juncture the broken shoestring, the chance malfunction of a traffic signal, the innocent parade of Girl Scouts blocking escape no, nothing like that, no booby traps, no sneak punches now, they were home free, and all that remained was for Peter Churchman to pick up the cheque that would bankrupt him.

The police were steadying the Cabezuda. That was a delicious touch, he thought a bit sadly, a lovely grace note at the falling close of the song. Several of the policemen braced the swaying figure, steadied it, righted it, and, at last, sent it wandering along the streets with friendly slaps and shouts of encouragement.

And now it’s all over, Peter thought with weary satisfaction. He stayed at the window until he saw the Cabezuda disappear around a corner. Then he walked through a marine translucence to the vault and began to put away the drills and punches. There was no point in tidying things up, of course, but, on the other hand, there was no reason not to.

And suddenly Peter froze. But the warning scream of his senses had come too late. He turned and tried to duck, but he was too late, far too late, to escape the blow that whistled softly through the air towards his head. The butt of a gun struck his left temple and knocked him sprawling to the floor.

A splinter of thought pierced the darkness in his mind. The film... but his strength was gone, his powers usurped by pain.

He heard only one thing more, the faint sound of running footsteps.

Soon they too were gone... The marble floor was cold against his cheek, and his limbs were filled with a shuddering impotence. And the darkness fell about him like the wings of a great black dove... The Cabezuda lay on its side in the draughty shed by the river. The tip of its long splayed nose rested on the dusty floor. Its broken eyes stared at the wall with a suggestion of lugubrious anger.