At nine-fifty Lolly Jakes arrived. Starling had not seen him for two years. Lolly slipped casually into the driving seat of the van, then he half turned his head and said softly: “That you, Don?”
“Yeh. All in order?”
“Sure. The greengrocer’s as busy as hell. Coining money. We shall have finished with this thing before he knows it’s gone.”
“You’re late.”
“Plenty of time,” said Lolly comfortably. “The banks don’t open till ten. We’ll be there. We’ll collect too. There should be plenty. It was a proper day out for the bookies yesterday. All the favorites stopped to piss.”
Lolly had a broad face, with a very small hooked nose and dull, prominent eyes. He had meaty shoulders, and the back of his neck was like a section of Irish bacon. He was incurably lazy, but sudden, treacherous and dangerous in the use of razor and knuckleduster. For their purposes, both Starling and Lovett considered him to be reliable. The local knowledge required to “borrow” a van without trouble had been his initial contribution to the operation which was beginning.
Lolly drove the van into town and parked it at the junction of Higgitt’s Passage and Back Lacy Street. He remained in the driving seat, and Starling continued to lurk in the back. From the small rear window the fugitive could see the Prodigal Son, the little pub which Doug Savage managed for his mother. The door was closed, and the place seemed to have a sly, secretive air. Whatever the occupants saw, they would not tell the police. Doug Savage was a loudmouth, but not when the constabulary were within hearing. Starling dismissed the Prodigal Son from his mind.
The forty minutes’ wait was a bad time for him. It seemed that the signal for action would never come. And all the time he was in danger, here in the center of the city, where he had not dared to venture since his escape from prison. Here were more policemen to the acre than anywhere else in the North of England, and they all knew Don Starling.
The heart of a great provincial city is a small place, and its denizens know each other. It is the center of circulation, and the anonymous flowing crowds are its life blood. But among the swarming thousands certain people are, in a manner of speaking, stationary. A few hundred barmaids, publicans, waitresses, caretakers, doormen, bank messengers, newsboys, barrow boys, businessmen, postmen, taxi drivers, shopkeepers, bookies’ runners, spivs, layabouts, thieves, whoremongers, prostitutes and policemen know each other by contact, by name, or by sight. It was so in Granchester, and Don Starling was aware of it. He had spent his time and his money in the heart of the city, and now he dared show himself but briefly, at the moment of action.
While he waited, he naturally wondered what his accomplices were doing. What about Clogger Roach, whom he had never seen? And Peter Purchas, that weak and timorous man? All he had to do was scratch his head, and no doubt his hand would tremble when he did it.
The signal would mean that a worth-while sum of money would soon be on its way from Gus Hawkins’ office to the bank. If Gus had banked his race money and winnings last night, there would be another simple signal to indicate that money would be taken from the bank. This errand had been accomplished many hundreds of times before by a girl cashier and a man-or a boy. There had never been any sort of interference. No trouble would be expected this morning.
At last it became evident that Purchas had given the signal. A Buick car reversed into the archway at the end of the back street, and Lolly Jakes said: “Here’s Laurie.” And a minute later Clogger Roach sauntered past the rear of the van.
Clogger was the lookout. He had been “given the office” by Purchas. He was comparatively a stranger in town, but Laurie Lovett had known him a long time, and he guaranteed him. Through the van window Starling studied the wiry figure and the narrow head. Clogger turned to look back, and revealed the dark, fanatical face of one who would always be passionately sure of his rights in the world, and equally passionate in denying his obligations. An envious, ill-humored man. Starling disliked him on sight.
Then there was no time to study character. Clogger was walking back briskly, just as if he were going somewhere. It had been arranged that he would pass the girl and her escort when they were close to the van. The moment had come. Starling pushed open the door of the van. Jakes got out of the driving seat. Laurie Lovett reversed the Buick along the back street.
The youth and the girl with the money were there, just passing the van. No one else was in sight.
The lad was plucky. He said: “Run for it, Ciss,” and squared up to Jakes and Starling. But Clogger was moving silently behind him. He swung a loaded cosh at the full length of his arm and felled the boy. It was an unnecessarily hard blow. He swung at the girl, too, but she was away, screaming as she ran.
In two strides Starling caught her. Terrified, she screamed louder. He struck hard with his fist at her exposed throat, and the scream ended abruptly. Jake came up, and the two men dragged her to the Buick at a run. Clogger was holding a rear door open. They threw her into the car, and tumbled in after her. Clogger got into the front seat beside the driver, and the car sped along the back street, through the archway, and into the open street
The girl lay knees-up on the floor of the car and Starling crouched over her. She was evidently hysterical, because she was screaming again, a thick, painful scream. The noise alarmed everybody in the car. “Shut her up!” Clogger snarled. Starling knelt heavily on her chest. He put his left hand over her mouth and nostrils and hammered savagely at her throat and jaw. The scream became a muffled moan. “Here, stroke her with this,” said Clogger. Starling struck once with the cosh foreshortened. But the car was swinging round a corner and, instead of the skull, the bruised, tender throat received the blow. The girl went limp, and her eyes closed.
Starling and Clogger had no more time for her. They were watching Lolly Jakes, who had started work with a razor on the locked moneybag which was chained to the girl’s wrist. “It’ll ruin the edge,” he grumbled, as the keen blade sheared through tough leather. Soon he opened the ruined bag, and shook bundles of notes onto the seat between himself and Starling. “Christ, there’s a fortune here!” he exclaimed.
“There sure is,” said Starling. “This is a better job than the other one. Keep ’er rolling, driver. We don’t want to lose this little lot.”
Laurie Lovett was following a prearranged route, selecting long streets which ran roughly parallel to a main road, avoiding traffic lights and point-duty policemen. He was getting along fast. He had fifteen miles to go, and he meant to cover the distance before the police knew what land of a car to look for.
Starling had been counting money. “Bundles of a hundred,” he announced, and Jakes said: “Thirty bundles. Then there’s these fivers.”
“Two hundred fivers,” said Starling.
“Hell’s bells! There’s four thousand nicker here!” cried Jakes, after a little sum in the quick mental arithmetic of the inveterate follower of racing.
In the front seat, Clogger rubbed his hands and chortled. “Nearly a thousand apiece, when we’ve paid out the chicken-feed,” he said.
“Nine hundred apiece,” Starling amended. “And two hundred apiece for the old un and the young un.”
“The kid?” Clogger objected. “But he’s only-”
Starling held up his hand. “He’s in it,” he said. “We’ve got to keep him happy.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Clogger, after a quick glance at Laurie Lovett. “I don’t want to do anybody out of his share. I’m just thinking he might start flashing his wad and get noticed.”