Линда Ла Плант - Framed

“The keys,” Larry said. “The keys are in the ignition!”

“We might have to make a quick exit,” Von Joel said, taking Larry’s arm, leading him across the road.

As they entered Millways Bank, radio control was passing another message to DCI McKinnes in his car outside the Rotherhill Bank.

“Suspect could have been using a red Scirocco, a white Mini, or a green Jaguar XJL. We have no reg on any of the vehicles — but they were driven by one or two males. Guy in the green Jag was alone, but the parking attendant thinks it could have been our man, over.”

“Bloody marvelous,” McKinnes said with a grunt, lighting another cigarette.

Von Joel and Larry stood side by side at the safety deposit section in the Millways Bank, waiting while a tidy young City clone, the safety deposit clerk, inspected their credentials. Having gone over everything twice, he looked up.

“Well,” he said, delivering a bland banker’s smile, “everything seems to be in order, Mr. Jackson. If you will just wait one moment, I’ll have to get authorization from the manager.”

Larry was appalled. They had a phony account in his name!

He felt his face color as the clerk approached the manager, a small balding man standing behind a grille.

“Just look front, Larry, and ease up,” Von Joel said, his i lips hardly moving. “We go through the door straight ahead of you. Don’t forget the briefcase.”

They watched the manager examine the papers, look across at them, say a few words to the clerk and nod. The clerk came back to the deposit section. He pressed an electronic switch and the dividing door opened.

“Mr. Jackson, if you would come this way, please.”

They followed him through the office section and into a narrow stone-walled corridor painted an institutional shade of green. They made their way to an old-fashioned hand-operated lift with a metal grille front. Beside the lift was a narrow stone staircase. The clerk pressed a buzzer to call the lift. After a moment it began clanking up. Von Joel whistled softly as they waited. Larry was too nervous to do more than stand there. When the lift arrived the clerk drew the grille open and stepped aside to let Larry and Von Joel go in ahead of him.

“A slightly tight squeeze, I’m afraid, gentlemen...”

The grille closed and they moved slowly down to the basement level. Larry noticed the plethora of cables and junction boxes in the lift shaft; they obviously served the main alarm system. He also realized how sensibly the | vault approaches had been designed. A high-speed exit was out of the question down here; it was easy enough to get down, but getting a few people away from the place quickly would be no easy matter, since the only way out was via the lift or the narrow stone steps.

The lift jolted to a stop. The clerk drew back the grille and stepped out. He waited for Larry and Von Joel to get out, then he started to close the grille again.

“Leave it open,” Von Joel said, very softly.

“I can’t do that, sir. No one else can come down.”

“Exactly,” Von Joel calmly reached into his pocket and removed something wrapped in a yellow cloth. He took off the cloth. It was a gun. “What s your name?”

The clerk jerked back, frightened. Von Joel pulled him close again.

“Your name, I said...”

“Jeffrey Archer.”

“Well,” Von Joel said flatly, “we’re in good company. Now, Jeffrey, you do as I say, and you won’t get hurt.” He indicated the corridor ahead of them and they started walking. “I know every alarm pressure pad, so let’s keep this nice and easy.”

Larry had his eyes glued on the gun.

“Do as he tells you,” he told the clerk.

They walked to a studded security vault door. Archer rang the bell.

“Now the code, Jeffrey,” Von Joel said, putting the muzzle of the gun against Archer’s neck. “Five digits.”

Trembling, Archer tapped in the code on a keypad by the door. A mechanism clicked; there was a hum and another click, then the door slid open. They went inside. Von Joel told Larry to wedge the door as soon as the man in charge of the vault was immobilized.

“You’re doing very well, Jeffrey,” he told the clerk. “Let’s just keep it calm and relaxed.” The terrified clerk looked as if he was about to faint, and received a hard, vicious slap. It jerked his head to one side and brought him around.

“Give us a nice smile.”

The poor man managed a trembling, quivering smile.

“That’s it, you are doing very well, Jeffrey.”

A second clerk appeared at the halfway desk. Behind him were the security bars, behind those the vault cages.

“Mr. Jackson?” he said, and Larry managed a nod. “Could I have your key, and your documents?” Larry passed them over. “Thank you. Now if you’d sign here, and here.” He smiled apologetically at Von Joel. “I’m afraid only one person is allowed into the cages.”

Von Joel let him see the gun held against Archer’s neck.

“Put your hands on the desk,” he snapped. “Larry, hop over and pull him away from the alarm.”

Larry wedged the door and slid over the desk.

“Don’t step on it!” Von Joel warned.

Larry pushed the terrified clerk against the wall. He heard a moan and turned. Archer was taking off his clothes. His trousers were already at his ankles as Von Joel helped him off with his jacket.

“Him, too,” Von Joel said, pointing to the other clerk.

During the next three minutes, as both clerks were tied up with their own clothes and had their socks stuffed in their mouths, word reached DCI McKinnes that a green Jaguar XJL had been spotted parked a couple of streets away from his position.

In the vault area of Mill ways Bank the briefcase was open on the floor now, revealing a crowbar, a parachute-silk bag, passports, and airline tickets. As Von Joel bent over the case Larry shoved him.

“You never said anything about using a gun!”

Von Joel took a pair of surgical gloves from a pocket in the bag and pulled them on. He glared at Larry.

“I haven’t used it. Yet.”

“Give it to me!” Larry demanded. “I want it! Give me the gun!”

“Shut it! All I want is my dough!” Von Joel grabbed the vault clerk by the shoulder and pushed him toward the rows of security boxes. “Okay,” he said, “let’s start. Which of these go back six years? Come on, we don’t want to waste time.”

Larry took a quick look at Archer, still securely tied up, then he scurried after Von Joel. The clerk had indicated a row of boxes and Von Joel had jimmied one of them open already, tipping the contents — bundled paper, leather cash books, photographs, cash, jewelry — across the floor. He turned back for the next box, pulled it down and split it open. Within five minutes the floor was littered with broken and twisted boxes and their scattered contents.

Out by the halfway desk where he had been left, Jeffrey Archer was easing down the wall, inch by inch, his movements slow and painful. Directly across the floor from him was an alarm pressure pad. Von Joel split open the top of another box just as the telephone rang. He froze. Larry, who was pulling the boxes off the shelves, stood staring with a box held aloft.

“Right, come on.”

Von Joel grabbed the clerk and dragged him to the telephone. He pulled the wadded socks from the man’s mouth. The telephone rang again. Von Joel’s hand hovered over the receiver.

“Answer it. Take a deep breath, say nothing’s wrong, you’ll be upstairs in two minutes.”

The man nodded, his tongue frantically wetting his mouth. Von Joel lifted the receiver and put it to the clerk’s ear.

“Hello? Yes, sir, I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong.”

He nodded and Von Joel put down the receiver. Larry immediately started breaking open fresh boxes while Von Joel stuffed the gag back into the clerk’s mouth.