SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman by Francis Selwyn Page B
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Crime, Historical Novel
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vanish, as if at the touch of a magician's wand. To leave the police bewildered and the press goggling. But Verney Dacre had sworn to do something more than that. In a hundred years' time his theft should be thought a greater work of art than Chubb's masterpiece, a public performance of such virtuosity that even Paganini, the devil's fiddler, had never matched its skill.
He watched the keys turned, by the superintendent of traffic and the inspector of police. Then, when the handle was turned and the lid opened, he saw that there was a second thickness of iron on the underside of the lid, shaped to block any attempt to drive wooden or iron wedges between the door and the frame of the safe. The same mind that had protected it against subtlety had made it proof against force as well.
The superintendent of traffic shone his bull's-eye into the cavernous iron safe and lifted out a small package the size and shape of a cigar box. He handed both the package and Dacre's receipt to the inspector of railway police, who signed the receipt as witness. The two men locked the safe again, handed the keys to the boy and the package and receipt to the escorting constable. Then, with the policeman leading the way and Dacre bringing up the rear, the little procession marched back down the planking of the Harbour Pier towards the railway office.
Inside the office, as the boy offered the receipt for his signature, Dacre called to the clerk.
"Have the goodness to open the box for me first, will you . I don't feel called upon to put my name to something I haven't seen. And I can hardly open it myself with one arm bound up like this."
The clerk bobbed his head and took the tiny key, which Dacre laid on the counter. Then, under the gaze of the boy and the constable, he unlocked the little box and eased back the lid to display thirty neat pillars of gold sovereigns in paper tubes. There was an intent silence. Dacre was prepared to bet that for all their dealings with the safe and its bullion boxes they had never seen so much gold in their lives before. Each of them looked on more money than he might hope to earn in the whole of the next ten years.
"Very well," said Dacre softly, "you may close it again."
He signed the receipt clumsily with his left hand. Then, refusing all offers of help, he managed to hold both the little box and his stick in one set of fingers. He stepped past the door, which the wondering clerk held open for him, and smiled in the darkness. Best of all, he thought, the constable who acted as escort for the keys had seen the gold coins and the Union Bank receipt. Whoever should subsequently be suspected of the bullion robbery, it would certainly not be a well-dressed cavalry subaltern with a carriage and pair, a handsome young woman, and a ready supply of money from a bank in Pall Mall. What need had such a man to rob anyone? As the liberal-minded readers of the Morning Chronicle and the landed supporters of the Morning Post knew equally well, criminals were the poor who robbed the rich. "The poor who fought back," someone had called them. A railway constable and a traffic clerk were unlikely to notice the slight flush of exultation that betrayed the rising excitement in Dacre's breast. By the time that he reached the carriage, his heart was almost bursting with jubilation.
"By George, old girl, it's a real starter," he murmured to Jolie. She looked vacantly at him, since he had thought it best to keep all details of the scheme from her. However, in his temporary good humour he so far forgot himself as to give her a playful pat on the face.
9
Above the long bar of the Hope and Anchor, the tubs of spirits were scorched by the flaring gas brackets, the gilt of their hoops and lettering blistered by the heat. Blond-whiskered subalterns of the Royal Horse Artillery, in camp on Dover's Western Heights, shouldered their way in the crowd against tradesmen's apprentices and coach boys. There was an impatient and
He watched the keys turned, by the superintendent of traffic and the inspector of police. Then, when the handle was turned and the lid opened, he saw that there was a second thickness of iron on the underside of the lid, shaped to block any attempt to drive wooden or iron wedges between the door and the frame of the safe. The same mind that had protected it against subtlety had made it proof against force as well.
The superintendent of traffic shone his bull's-eye into the cavernous iron safe and lifted out a small package the size and shape of a cigar box. He handed both the package and Dacre's receipt to the inspector of railway police, who signed the receipt as witness. The two men locked the safe again, handed the keys to the boy and the package and receipt to the escorting constable. Then, with the policeman leading the way and Dacre bringing up the rear, the little procession marched back down the planking of the Harbour Pier towards the railway office.
Inside the office, as the boy offered the receipt for his signature, Dacre called to the clerk.
"Have the goodness to open the box for me first, will you . I don't feel called upon to put my name to something I haven't seen. And I can hardly open it myself with one arm bound up like this."
The clerk bobbed his head and took the tiny key, which Dacre laid on the counter. Then, under the gaze of the boy and the constable, he unlocked the little box and eased back the lid to display thirty neat pillars of gold sovereigns in paper tubes. There was an intent silence. Dacre was prepared to bet that for all their dealings with the safe and its bullion boxes they had never seen so much gold in their lives before. Each of them looked on more money than he might hope to earn in the whole of the next ten years.
"Very well," said Dacre softly, "you may close it again."
He signed the receipt clumsily with his left hand. Then, refusing all offers of help, he managed to hold both the little box and his stick in one set of fingers. He stepped past the door, which the wondering clerk held open for him, and smiled in the darkness. Best of all, he thought, the constable who acted as escort for the keys had seen the gold coins and the Union Bank receipt. Whoever should subsequently be suspected of the bullion robbery, it would certainly not be a well-dressed cavalry subaltern with a carriage and pair, a handsome young woman, and a ready supply of money from a bank in Pall Mall. What need had such a man to rob anyone? As the liberal-minded readers of the Morning Chronicle and the landed supporters of the Morning Post knew equally well, criminals were the poor who robbed the rich. "The poor who fought back," someone had called them. A railway constable and a traffic clerk were unlikely to notice the slight flush of exultation that betrayed the rising excitement in Dacre's breast. By the time that he reached the carriage, his heart was almost bursting with jubilation.
"By George, old girl, it's a real starter," he murmured to Jolie. She looked vacantly at him, since he had thought it best to keep all details of the scheme from her. However, in his temporary good humour he so far forgot himself as to give her a playful pat on the face.
9
Above the long bar of the Hope and Anchor, the tubs of spirits were scorched by the flaring gas brackets, the gilt of their hoops and lettering blistered by the heat. Blond-whiskered subalterns of the Royal Horse Artillery, in camp on Dover's Western Heights, shouldered their way in the crowd against tradesmen's apprentices and coach boys. There was an impatient and
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