The next part was clever, I must admit. The Brigadier had booked the room two doors up and he and I were waiting in there with our own box filled with crumpled-up junk mail. The porter was bound to come past with the box containing the expensive digital aids.
We waited three-quarters of an hour and it was a nervous time. I had my doubts whether two elderly gents were capable of intercepting a burly hotel porter, but the Brigadier was confident.
“We’re not using brute strength. This is our strength.” He tapped his head.
“But if it doesn’t work?”
To my horror he took a gun from his pocket and gave a crocodile grin. “My old service revolver.”
“That would be armed robbery,” I said, aghast. “Don’t even think of it.”
He misheard me, of course. From another pocket he produced a flask of brandy. “You need to drink a bit? Take a swig, old boy. It stops the shakes, I find.”
Before I could get through to him I heard the squeak of a trolley wheel in the corridor outside. The moment of decision. Should I abort the whole operation? Unwisely, disastrously as it turned out, I decided to go on with it. I stepped into the corridor, right in the path of the trolley, and said to the porter pushing it, “Mr. Haliburton said to lock the parcel in here for the time being. He’ll collect it when the people waiting have been dealt with.”
He said, “I can’t do that. I’m under firm instructions to hand it to Mr. Haliburton in person.”
I winked and said, “I work with him. It’s as good as done.” I pressed a five-pound note into his sweaty palm.
Persuaded, he wheeled the parcel into the room and left it just inside the door. The Brigadier meanwhile had stepped out of sight into the bathroom. The porter had the impression he was locking the parcel in an empty room. The idea was that the Brigadier would then emerge from the bathroom with our box of junk mail and make the switch, returning to the bathroom with the box containing the aids, where he would lock himself in for an hour.
My job was to shepherd the Never-Say-Die residents as quickly as possible out of the corridor and back to the bus. I was starting to do so when a man in a grey pinstripe suit came marching up and said, “What’s the trouble here? I’m Buckfield, the hotel manager.”
“No trouble, Mr. Buckfield,” I said. “The system can’t cope, that’s all. Some of these old people have been waiting an hour for an appointment with the ear specialist. I’m suggesting they come back next time. We’ve got transport outside.”
He looked at me with some uncertainty. “Are you their warden?”
“Something like that.”
“One of the bellboys tells me he delivered a box of valuable hearing aids to Room 104. Was that at your bidding?”
I said, “Yes. I think you’ll find it’s still there.”
He had a passkey and opened the door and picked up the parcel that was waiting there. I gave all my attention to ushering the old ladies towards the foyer and the waiting bus. Most of them were pleased to leave and didn’t understand what we had achieved. A few genuine customers for the hearing aids were just as confused, and when we got to the bus I had difficulty persuading two of them that they weren’t in the Never-Say-Die party.
Finally everyone except the Brigadier was on board. It was my job to see that all was clear and help him out of Room 104 with the parcel we had requisitioned, the most dangerous part of Operation Syringe.
Trying to look like any other guest, I crossed the foyer and stepped along the corridor. It was now empty of people. I tapped on the door of 104 and immediately realised that there was a fatal flaw in our plan. How would the Brigadier hear my knocking? I tried a second time.
No response.
Along the corridor, the door of Haliburton’s suite opened and an old man came out. I tried to ignore him, but he said, “Are you waiting for a consultation? It’s that room I just came out of.”
I thanked him, but I don’t think he heard. I took off a shoe and tried hammering on 104 with it.
At last the door opened and there was the Brigadier with the parcel in his arms. For the first time since I’d known him he looked concerned. “Take this to the bus and tell the driver to put his foot down.”
“Aren’t you coming?” I said.
“Cunning? Far from it,” he said. “I’m a silly arse. Left my service revolver on the bed and some beggar in a pinstripe picked it up.”
“Leave it,” I shouted into his ear. “Come with me.”
“Can’t do that,” he said and made a little speech straight out of one of those war films when the doomed Brit showed his stiff upper lip. “That revolver is my baby. Been with me all over the world. I’m not surrendering, old boy. I’ll get back to base. See if I don’t.”
I said, “I’m leaving with a heavy heart.”
He said, “Don’t be so vulgar.”
No use trying to talk sense into him. He really had need of a decent hearing aid.
I carried the parcel to the bus. Everyone cheered when they saw it. Then Sadie said, “Where’s the Brigadier?”
I didn’t want them to know he’d brought a gun with him, so I said he was hiding up until it was safer to leave.
The bus took us back to the home and we tottered off to our rooms for a nap after all the excitement. We’d agreed not to open the box before the Brig returned.
All evening we waited, asking each other if anyone had heard anything. I was up until ten-thirty, long past bedtime. In the end I turned in and tried to sleep.
Sometime after midnight there was a noise like a stone being thrown at my window. I got out of bed and looked down. There in the grounds was the Brigadier blowing on his fingers. He shouted up to me, “Be a good fellow and unbolt the front door, will you? I just met a brass monkey on his way to the welder’s.”
In twenty minutes every inhabitant of the house except the matron and her two night staff assembled in the tea room. The nightwear on display is another story.
“Open it, George,” the Brig ordered.
They watched in eager anticipation. Even Briony had turned out. “Ooh, bubble wrap,” she said. “May I have that?”
“You might as well, because you’re not getting a hearing aid, you conchie,” the Brigadier said.
I unwrapped the first aid. It was a BTE (behind the ear), but elegance itself. I offered it to the Brigadier. He slotted it into his ear. “Good Lord!” he said. “I can hear the clock ticking.”
Everyone in the room who wanted a replacement aid was given one, and we still had a few over. The morale of the troops couldn’t have been higher. Even Briony was happy with her stack of bubble wrap. We all slept well.
At breakfast, the results were amazing. People who hadn’t conversed for years were chatting animatedly.
Then the doorbell chimed. The chime of doom. A policeman with a megaphone stood in the doorway and announced, “Police. We’re coming in. Put your hands above your heads and stay where you are.”
Sadie said, “You don’t have to shout, young man. We can all hear you.”
We were taken in barred vans to the police station and kept in cells. Because there was a shortage of cells, some of us had to double up and I found myself locked up with the Brigadier.
“This is overkill,” I said. “We’re harmless old people.”
“They don’t think so, George,” he said in a sombre tone. “Marcus Haliburton was shot dead in the course of the raid.”
“Shot? I didn’t hear any shots.”
“After you left, it got nasty. They’ll have me for murder and the rest of you for conspiracy to murder. We can’t expect all our troops to hold out under questioning. They’ll put up their hands, and we’re all done.”
He was right. Several old ladies confessed straightaway. What can you expect? The trial that followed was swift and savage. The Brigadier asked to be tried by a court-martial and refused to plead. He went down for life, with a recommendation that he serve at least ten years. They proved that the fatal shots had been fired from his gun.