Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

He stopped at the entrance to the money room and pressed his hands against his temples, thinking hard. He had to figure out how to withdraw a considerable amount of cash, enough to keep him flush for a couple of years at least, and then disappear. He had no intention of going back to the detective sergeant and presenting himself to a magistrate. He planned on grabbing as much cash as he could, and then disappearing into the countryside. Perhaps go to France. Or maybe Spain.

Lund smoothed the sides of his slick hair to his head and then wiped his palms on his trouser legs. Then he stepped into the money room and was surprised to see Round Freddy standing in front of his desk, smiling at him.

Lund quickly looked back over his shoulder at the way he had come, when the detective’s voice reached him. “I would not suggest that you make a run for it, Mr. Lund. Constable Andrews here is considerably younger than you and is sure to apprehend you before you get very far down that corridor.”

Lund hesitated and began to step away, but stopped.

Lund looked from Round Freddy to Andrews to the corridor and back to the detective again. Sighing heavily, he walked forward and raised his arms, presenting his wrists to the detective.

“Snap the manacles on now, sir. I surely deserve what I shall get.”

Round Freddy took the canvas satchel from Lund and dropped it on his desk with a loud thump.

“Money is bleedin’ heavy, eh?”

Lund gave him a fish-eyed stare. “I would much prefer that we not use the bank’s money to catch these thieves. Surely there must be another way.”

Round Freddy smiled at Lund as if he were dealing with a backward child. “There is another way to do this, of course. It involves clapping you in prison right now and forgetting about this entire escapade.”

Lund stepped back a pace. “Detective, there is no cause for you to toy with me.”

Round Freddy stared at Lund for a long moment. “I am as serious as death, Mr. Lund. If you back out now and refuse to help us capture these two men in the act of extortion, then you certainly shall pay for it. You know they are the key to getting Miss Waddington’s funds returned to her.”

Lund slumped into a chair and cupped his cheeks in his hands, causing his jowls to sag more. “It is not a matter of refusing to help. It is simply that – well – I am afraid of one of the men. Whenever I am with him I get the impression that he means to harm me.”

“You mean beyond stealing your money from you?”

Lund looked up at Round Freddy and sucked in the side of his cheek. “I mean physically. I worry that he might beat me.”

“Well you should not have such a worry much longer because we intend to trap the Dealer and his partner Goodwin with this money transfer. You did send the message about meeting with him and also Goodwin, on behalf of the vicar?”

Lund nodded. “It will be in the Hound and Hen. I am to give him the money there.”

“And once you do, the two of them shall be ours. I shall be in the background with two constables in street clothes. We shall put the arm on them.”

Round Freddy pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and squinted at it. “Time to go, I should think. Are you ready?”

Lund stood. “As I shall ever be.”

They arrived at the Hound and Hen fifteen minutes before the one o’clock meeting time and split up. Lund entered through the pub’s front door, followed a minute later by one of the constables, while Round Freddy and the other constable entered through the rear. Round Freddy pointed out a corner of the bar where the constable could drink a pint of ale and not be conspicuous, and yet keep watch on Lund, who had settled into one of three wooden chairs surrounding a low, small table against the far wall.

Round Freddy got a pint for himself and moved into the shadow of a post that formed part of the entryway to the pub’s lounge. He leaned into the post and watched as Lund ordered from a heavy waitress whose bosom threatened to overflow the scoop-necked bodice she wore. Across the room, adjacent to the front door, the other constable had made himself comfortable on a three-legged stool, leaning back against the wall. They had the exits covered and once their quarry entered the pub, there was no escape.

By the time he had finished half of his pint, Round Freddy glanced at the front door and caught sight of a rotund smallish man entering, followed by a taller, more distinguished man with a mane of silver hair. They stopped inside the doorway and scanned the room, and then moved along the wall to the table where Lund sat sipping his ale.

Round Freddy tried to pull himself further behind the post to be less conspicuous, but his bulk prevented him. He glanced around the room and saw his two constables still looking as if they were part of the woodwork. Then he returned his attention to Lund and the two men.

Lund was saying something to the silver-haired man, and he abruptly shut his mouth as the man responded to him. The chubby man was chuckling, so some kind of joke must have been made. But Lund was not smiling. They talked back and forth for a few minutes and then Lund raised the satchel from the floor and handed it under the table to the silver-haired man. The man took the satchel and snapped it open, seemingly examining the contents for a long time. Then he snapped the satchel shut and lay it on the floor at his feet.

The silver-haired man said something to the rotund one and the two of them finished their pints in several long gulps. As they stood to leave, Round Freddy saw the constable by the front door stretch and stand up. The constable by the bar was already moving forward through the crowd.

As they left the table, the silver-haired man snatched up the satchel and began moving for the front door. When he got there, the heavy constable stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

“You’d best remove your hand, friend, before you lose it,” the Dealer said.

“I think you are the one who stands to lose something,” Round Freddy responded as he pulled up behind the pair. “Your liberty, if I am not far wrong.”

The Dealer turned to look at him with cold, blue eyes. “And who the hell are you?”

Round Freddy smiled and nodded a small bow. “Detective Sergeant Frederick Hume of the York Police. And you, sir, are under arrest for extortion, along with your colleague here.”

Goodwin started to struggle as a constable began to put the manacles on him.

“Easy, son,” the Dealer said. “This is only a minor inconvenience.”

“Indeed,” Round Freddy said, taking the satchel from the Dealer as the other constable put the manacles on him. “The inconvenience is that you shall have to speak to me about where you’ve hidden the funds given you by the vicar and Mr. Lund.”

The Dealer’s eyes widened. “The vicar? How would you know . . . .” He shut up as fast as the words had spewed out.

“The vicar has given us a good accounting of what has transpired with Mr. Goodwin, as has Mr. Lund concerning his transactions with you. I expect we shall have a good chat back at the police station.”

Round Freddy nodded and the heavy constable gave the Dealer a shove between the shoulder blades. The Dealer stumbled through the front doorway, followed closely by Goodwin, Round Freddy and the other constable.

Round Freddy leaned against the stone doorframe leading into the iron-barred cell in the cellar of the police station, listening to the heated argument between Goodwin and the Dealer. He had been eavesdropping for ten minutes and the discussion seemed to be coming to a conclusion.

“But the police will go easier on us if we lead them to at least some of the money,” Goodwin said.