Billy wiped some of the smudged smoke burns from his face with his sleeve. “We were far too close to the action yesterday, Jakie boy. I said we should lay off the main target areas as usual, but you wouldn’t listen.” Billy sighed. “Anyway, Jakie’s right, Mr Trubetskoi. We almost copped it last night. And remember, it’s a capital offence now. If we’re caught, we are for the drop. Pay up, as Jakie says. The odds are shortening against us and you’re not going to get us for pennies.”
“What is this pay up you are talking about, gentlemen?” The three men were in the Shepherd’s Bush lock-up where the two looters had hurried, empty-handed, scared and furious, from Piccadilly. A few hours’ uncomfortable sleep had been grabbed on beds fashioned from torn cardboard boxes and rags. Both men were in a foul mood and Trubetskoi realised that he did not have much bargaining power. “A hundred quid for the job. Is that good enough?”
Jake laughed sarcastically. “Hundred quid each, mate. And fifty quid each bonus for successful completion.”
Trubetskoi pursed his lips. “Very well.”
“And what’s in these boxes we are after anyway? If we manage to nick them and they are so valuable, we should have a taste of whatever it is, eh, Billy?”
Trubetskoi had already realised that if he and Voronov were successful in obtaining Tarkowski’s gold, they would certainly have no further need for this looting sideline and no further use for Billy and Jake. Whatever he agreed to, a bullet each in the head would be their ultimate reward.
“Whatever you say, gentlemen. You may have a good taste, as you say. Now, may I outline the programme for you?”
*
Eugene de Souza’s head was throbbing. He had vowed to himself several times since waking that he was never going to drink again. Madame de Souza had given him a terrible going over at breakfast and thoughts of murder had jostled with those of remorse all morning. That little necklace would have given him a nice big bonus too. With the proceeds he’d have found the financial demands of Pearl at the Windmill a little easier to accommodate. Although he had sat at his desk as usual from nine until one shuffling papers, no meaningful work had been done. It was now lunchtime and he thought a little fresh air might help. He shuffled to his office door, which was slightly ajar, and reached up to the coat stand for his British Warm. Although it was mild outside, the hangover was giving him the shivers.
As he slowly put the coat on, he could hear Wertheim’s voice whispering on the phone outside. Now at last prepared for the elements, de Souza stood still as he felt a surge of bile suddenly rise to his throat. He remained still for a short while to ensure that he did not have an unfortunate accident. As he waited, the sense of the words Wertheim was speaking penetrated his brain.
“Yes, they are moving the goods here sometime today, Mr Voronov. What? Sorry, sir. I won’t mention your name again, but there’s nothing to worry about. He’s locked in his office with a massive hangover, oblivious to everything. We’ve been told to be ready to receive the goods some time between five and seven tonight and I’ve agreed to stay in to facilitate the deposit. If you are going to act, you had better get on with it. Yes, sorry, but I have made myself clear, no? And you remember our arrangement, funds to be… Yes? Very well. Good luck, sir.” The phone was replaced on its receiver.
Despite the great loss of brain cells he had suffered over the past twenty-four hours, de Souza understood fully what he had just heard. He had had his suspicions for a while about Wertheim and these had finally proved justified. Placing his homburg on his head, he walked through the door. He would deal with the clerk tomorrow, but first things first. “Off to lunch, Wertheim. Back in an hour.”
The clerk bowed obsequiously. In the street, de Souza turned right and walked towards the public phone box on Lombard Street. He pulled out his small pocket notebook and found the Count’s number.
*