“Testing, testing...”
Shrapnel checked the dial on the small black box. The needle moved gently between the two markers. He gave a thumbs up. Larry stripped the wax paper from the adhesive on the back of the bug and positioned it under the overhanging trim at the base of a wall cupboard.
“Look,” Shrapnel said throatily, finally spitting out what had obviously been on his mind, “thanks for not spilling the beans about the herbal tea. If Mac and the lads had got to hear...”
Larry prodded him. He pointed to the dial on the box. Shrapnel slapped a hand over his mouth. Larry handed him an earpiece.
“It’s called skating, Frank — on very thin ice. I just hope I don’t fall through the cracks.” Larry moved close to the nearest bug and spoke directly to it. “Just one more, in Myers’s bedroom, then that’s it. Over.”
By five-forty the safe house was comprehensively wired. In the surveillance flat in a block across the way, reel-to-reel tape machines, binoculars, cameras, and dark-light monitoring equipment had already been set up. A surveillance team was in place.
At nine o’clock Von Joel was finally brought back to the safe house by a posse of plainclothes policemen. He was taken directly to his bedroom and locked in.
After undressing for bed, he turned off his light and stood by the window. He could see the solitary officer posted near the entrance to the block of flats, and it was easy to spot the unmarked patrol car at the roadside with two men sitting inside, silhouetted against the lamplight. All very reassuring, he thought, but there had to be more than that. The ball game, after all, was changing.
He waited.
Long minutes passed, then a man came along the street and stopped by the police car. He bent low and spoke to the men inside. When he moved away he entered the apartment block opposite.
Von Joel began examining the windows of the block one by one, taking his time, scanning each of them from top to bottom, side to side. Halfway up the block his eye was held by a dark-draped window with a tiny gap between the curtains. In the gap was the small but telltale glint of a camera lens.
“Gotcha!” Von Joel whispered.
He went to bed.
At ten the following morning there was a team changeover in the surveillance flat. The officer taking over the audio equipment was removing his jacket when the night-shift officer, still wearing headphones, beckoned him to the table. He turned up the sound on the external monitor speaker.
“Listen to this.”
They sat motionless, scarcely breathing, as Larry’s voice said, “Five hundred grand for me and five for you, that right?”
The policemen leaned closer to the equipment, their faces tense. There was a rattling sound, then Larry spoke again.
“Six,” he said. “Okay, that’s me to go. I’m feeling lucky.”
The officers looked at each other, smiling foolishly as they realized Larry and Von Joel were playing Monopoly.
Over in the safe house the two men sat cross-legged on the living room floor with the Monopoly board between them. Von Joel had a notepad; as he talked and played he simultaneously drew pictures and made notes.
“Now,” he said slowly, shaking the dice, “do I go for the bank?” The dice landed. “Oh, yes! Double six! Very nice. Walk straight to the vaults.” He made his move on the board. “Very easy access, and nobody gets hurt. You saw for yourself, it’d be no problem.”
“Hang on,” Larry said. “One, two, three — that’s jail.”
“No way,” Von Joel said, staring at the board. “It’s not as if I would be stealing. It’s my money. Your turn.” He watched as Larry threw the dice. “Oh, very nice! Double four. But not good enough, my friend. Check my score. You see — when you’re desperate something always turns up.”
He handed Larry a drawing of the interior of the bank, the same one Larry had visited with Lola. He studied it, marveling at the detail.
Von Joel gasped suddenly.
Larry looked at him. “You okay?”
Von Joel blinked, rubbing the side of his head.
“Give me a hand up, would you? I feel lousy.”
As Larry helped him to his feet Von Joel swayed, holding on with one hand, letting his slack knuckles slide and trail across Larry’s arm and chest, feeling for his wire.
“I think I’ll go and lie down, I don’t feel so good. How could my little girls do it to me? I’m sick, Larry, sick...”
Over the next hour his condition appeared to get worse. The pallor of his face made his tan a light waxy brown; his eyes were dark-rimmed and feverishly bright. At eleven o’clock Shrapnel decided to call in a police doctor. He came at once and made a thorough examination. Afterward, standing at the front door with Larry, he explained the position.
“If his headache continues, he should be whipped back in for another X-ray. There’s nothing I can do, really. He says he won’t take aspirin or codeine.”
“Has he got a temperature?”
“One degree above normal, that’s all. But keep an eye on him. If it goes any higher then he should be in hospital.”
Behind the locked bedroom door, as they spoke, Von Joel was on his feet. From under the bed he fished out a bottle of water. He uncapped it quietly, shook it over the pillow and bedclothes, then used it to soak his hair. When he was finished he recapped the bottle, put it back in its hiding place, and climbed into bed.
When he was found in his sorry condition half an hour later, babbling deliriously to himself, Larry and DI Shrapnel changed the bed linen and his night clothes.
“That’ll hold him for now,” Shrapnel said. “No sense making a lot of fuss unless we have to.”
It happened again, two hours later. They changed the bed, dried Von Joel off and decided, one more time, to give the condition a chance to put itself right. It was a long shot, but it was preferable to telling the boss and getting embroiled in one of his rages. Both Shrapnel and Larry knew that if Von Joel’s illness persisted, they would catch the blame.
At nine in the evening Larry came into the kitchen. Shrapnel was there in his dressing gown, standing by the cooker waiting for a pan of milk to boil.
“His bed linen’s soaked again,” Larry said. “I don’t like the look of him. We should contact Mac.”
“You call him,” Shrapnel said.
“No. I’m not taking the responsibility. You call. That man should be taken to the hospital.”
Von Joel was behind the bedroom door, listening. The talking in the kitchen stopped, then he heard footsteps coming along the passage. He turned in the darkness and made a run for the bed. His toe slid under a rip in the old rug and he went down, hitting his face on the bedside cabinet. Pain flared in his nose and the cabinet fell over with a crash.
“Shit!”
He threw himself into the damp bed and tried to pull the covers up over him. He touched his nose and felt warm blood.
“Oh, nice one...”
As the door was unlocked he flopped back on the pillow, half in and half out of the bed. The light came on and Shrapnel stood there, gaping at the sight of Von Joel, spread eagled on the bed, his eyes closed, blood streaming from his nose.
“Oh, Jesus, Larry...” Shrapnel was stunned. He turned and yelled. “Larry! Get in here!”
Larry came hurtling along the passage. He stopped in the doorway, holding the frame, staring. Shrapnel went forward and slapped Von Joel’s face.