“There was nothing I could do for them,” Walker tried to explain, but his words escaped in a thick and slurred manner. “Nothing I could—”
Thornton threw the bottle down into the sand. “You disgust me, Walker. You realise that this is a court martial offence, and believe me I shall make it my personal duty to see that you are disgraced and kicked out of the army.”
Words failed Walker, but it began to sink in to his foggy mind that he had made a very big mistake — a life-changing mistake.
London, 4 October 1880
“Are you sure he can be trusted?” Arthur Sims sniffed and nodded towards the silhouetted figure at the end of the alleyway, standing under a flickering gas lamp.
Badger Johnson, so called because of the vivid white streak that ran through the centre of his dark thatch of hair, nodded and grinned.
“Yeah. He’s a bit simple, but he’ll be fine for what we want him for. And if he’s any trouble...” He paused to retrieve a cut-throat razor from his inside pocket. The blade snapped open, and it swished through the air. “I’ll just have to give him a bloody throat, won’t I?”
Arthur Sims was not amused. “Where d’you find him?”
“Where d’you think? In The Black Swan. Don’t you worry. I’ve seen him in there before — and I seen him do a bit of dipping. Very nifty he was, an’ all. And he’s done time. In Wandsworth. He’s happy to be our crow for just five sovereigns.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Hardly anything. What d’you take me for? Just said we were cracking a little crib in Hanson Lane and we needed a lookout. He’s done the work before.”
Sims sniffed again. “I’m not sure. You know as well as I do he ought to be vetted by the Man himself before we use him. If something goes wrong, we’ll all have bloody throats... or worse.”
Badger gurgled with merriment. “You scared, are you?”
“Cautious, that’s all. This is a big job for us.”
“And the pickin’s will be very tasty, an’ all, don’t you worry. If it’s cautious you’re being, then you know it’s in our best interest that we have a little crow keeping his beady eyes wide open. Never mind how much the Man has planned this little jaunt, we’re the ones putting our heads in the noose.”
Sims shuddered at the thought. “All right, you made your point. What’s his name?”
“Jordan. Harry Jordan.” Badger slipped his razor back into its special pocket and flipped out his watch. “Time to make our move.”
Badger giggled as the key slipped neatly into the lock. “It’s hardly criminal work if one can just walk in.”
Arthur Sims gave his partner a shove. “Come on, get in,” he whispered, and then he turned to the shadowy figure standing nearby. “OK, Jordan, you know the business.”
Harry Jordan gave a mock salute.
Once inside the building, Badger lit the bull’s-eye lantern and consulted the map. “The safe is in the office on the second floor at the far end, up a spiral staircase.” He muttered the information, which he knew by heart anyway, as if to reassure himself now that theory had turned into practice.
The two men made their way through the silent premises, the thin yellow beam of the lamp carving a way through the darkness ahead of them. As the spidery metal of the staircase flashed into view, they spied an obstacle on the floor directly below it. The inert body of a bald-headed man.
Arthur Sims knelt by him. “Night watchman. Out like a light. Very special tea he’s drunk tonight” Delicately, he lifted the man’s eyelids to reveal the whites of his eyes. “He’ll not bother us now, Badger. I reckon he’ll wake up with a thundering headache around breakfast-time.”
Badger giggled. It was all going according to plan.
Once up the staircase, the two men approached the room containing the safe. Again Badger produced the keyring from his pocket and slipped a key into the lock. The door swung open with ease. The bull’s-eye soon located the imposing Smith-Anderson safe, a huge impenetrable iron contraption that stood defiantly in the far corner of the room. It was as tall as a man and weighed somewhere around three tons. The men knew from experience that the only way to get into this peter was by using the key — or rather the keys. There were five in all required. Certainly it would take a small army to move the giant safe, and God knows how much dynamite would be needed to blow it open, an act that would create enough noise to reach Scotland Yard itself.
Badger passed the bull’s-eye to his confederate, who held the beam steady, centred on the great iron sarcophagus and the five locks. With another gurgle of pleasure, Badger dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a brass ring containing five keys, all cut in a different manner. Scratched into the head of each key was a number — one that corresponded with the arrangement of locks on the safe.
Kneeling down in the centre of the beam, he slipped in the first key. It turned smoothly, with a decided click. So did the second. And the third. But the fourth refused to budge. Badger cast a worried glance at his confederate, but neither man spoke. Badger withdrew the key and tried again, with the same result. A thin sheen of sweat materialised on his brow. What the hell was wrong here? This certainly wasn’t in the plan. The first three keys had been fine. He couldn’t believe the Man had made a mistake. It was unheard of.
“Try the fifth key,” whispered Arthur, who was equally perplexed and worried.
In the desperate need to take action of some kind, Badger obeyed. Remarkably, the fifth key slipped in easily and turned smoothly, with the same definite click as the first three. A flicker of hope rallied Badger’s dampened spirits and he turned the handle of the safe. Nothing happened. It would not budge. He swore and sat back on his haunches. “What the hell now?”
“Try the fourth key again,” came his partner’s voice from the darkness.
Badger did as he was told and held his breath. The key fitted the aperture without problem. Now his hands were shaking and he paused, fearful of failure again.
“Come on, Badger.”
He turned the key. At first there was some resistance, and then... it moved. It revolved. It clicked.
“The bastards,” exclaimed Arthur Sims in a harsh whisper. “They’ve altered the arrangement of the locks so they can’t be opened in order. His nibs ain’t sussed that out.”
Badger was now on his feet and tugging at the large safe door. “Blimey, it’s a weight,” he muttered, as the ponderous portal began to move. “It’s bigger than my old woman,” he observed, his spirits lightening again. The door creaked open with magisterial slowness. It took Badger almost a minute of effort before the safe door was wide open.
At last, Arthur Sims was able to direct the beam of the lantern to illuminate the interior of the safe. When he had done so, his jaw dropped and he let out a strangled gasp.
“What is it?” puffed Badger, sweat now streaming down his face.
“Take a look for yourself,” came the reply.
As Badger pulled himself forward and peered round the corner of the massive safe door, a second lantern beam joined theirs. “The cupboard is bare, I am afraid.”
The voice, clear, brittle and authoritative, came from behind them, and both felons turned in unison to gaze at the speaker.
The bull’s-eye spotlit a tall young man standing in the doorway, a sardonic smile touching his thin lips. It was Harry Jordan. Or was it? He was certainly dressed in the shabby checked suit that Jordan wore — but where was the bulbous nose and large moustache?