Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery Page 6

  ‘Thanks. Is Blane a wealthy man?’

  Rita smiled cynically. ‘I thought he was, but now I’m not so sure. I was probably wrong.’

  Paul raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘He’s disappeared,’ she continued, ‘and this afternoon the police hinted that he might have something to do with a series of bank robberies up in the Midlands. I don’t mind that, the banks are there to dish out money when people need it, but I’d like to strangle him for upsetting one of my girls.’

  Paul laughed at the woman’s indignation. ‘Are you fond of Betty?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’m fond of her. She’s temperamental and difficult to handle, but she’s a nice kid, which is more than you can say for most of the little bitches around here.’ She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Do you want to talk with her?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Paul finished his drink and stood up. ‘I only hope I’ll be able to get through to her.’

  ‘Take her out and buy her a drink.’ Rita Fletcher’s eyes flashed ironically at Paul. ‘She’s susceptible to environment and charm, like the rest of us.’

  The dressing room had that smell of greasepaint which reminded Paul unhappily of the television chat show. But the Love-Inn didn’t provide luxury for its employees; the room was obviously shared by three other girls and they all had a wall each, with their own mirror topped with a row of electric light bulbs. Betty Stanway’s wall was no less tidy than the others. Her make-up was scattered over the table, among the cigarettes and ashtray and transistor radio and handbag. There was also an Aer Lingus timetable beside an empty glass. But Betty Stanway wasn’t there.

  ‘She was here a few minutes ago,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll see if she’s next door.’

  While Rita was next door Paul glanced at the Aer Lingus timetable. He let it fall open at random, on the principle that it would open where it had been most read. It opened at Dublin. Paul didn’t have much faith in that as a scientific method, but it was interesting. He was even more interested in the book of matches by the girl’s ashtray. They were from The Gateway Motel, Banbury, according to the cover. Paul slipped the matches into his pocket.

  ‘She’s not in any of the other dressing rooms,’ said Rita as she came back. ‘But she must be in the club still because her handbag is here.’

  Paul sat on the visitors’ sofa by the wardrobe of flimsy costumes and said he would wait. A fan dancer’s feathers tickled his ear. He hoped that Betty would return before the other three girls came in to change. He could imagine the four girls destroying all his illusions of feminine mystery.

  There was another rumble of applause from the distance. Paul stood up and gestured towards the door. ‘Maybe we should –’

  At that moment Betty Stanway came into the dressing room. She was wearing the same trim green outfit she had been wearing when Paul had picked her up outside the Television Studios. She looked unwelcoming and worried.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you,’ said Rita.

  ‘I was out front,’ she said distantly. ‘Tam wanted to see me.’

  ‘I told him to leave you alone.’

  The girl shrugged. ‘He was worried about the police.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him, Betty. He’ll be paralytic in a couple of hours.’ She smiled encouragingly at Paul. ‘I’ll leave you two alone, shall I? I’ll be in my office if I’m needed.’

  Betty picked up the handbag from her table and handed it to Rita. ‘You left this behind.’

  Rita Fletcher laughed and said she was becoming more like Tam Coley every day. Then she went. In the silence she left behind her Betty Stanway waited defiantly.

  ‘I suppose you want to talk about last night?’

  ‘That’s up to you Betty –’

  ‘Well, it’s none of your damned business!’

  ‘What about discussing this somewhere else?’ Paul asked. ‘Have you eaten? Do you fancy a drink?’

  She thawed slightly and asked what Steve would say.

  ‘She’ll be very jealous.’

  That was good enough for Betty, and they went round to the club bar. ‘But I shan’t tell you anything,’ she warned. It was sufficient, usually, to have a drink with the girl. Men didn’t expect her to talk. So she had a sweet martini and listened to Paul. It was her usual role.

  The club bar was at the back of the auditorium, so that the thirstier customers could get a drink without missing a nipple. It meant that the absorbed men in the rear rows shouted angrily if you asked for a double whisky too loudly, and normal communication was difficult. As Paul spoke he could hear one of the girls on stage suddenly call to a man in the front row, ‘Don’t get too carried away, buster!’

  A few moments later the bouncer escorted a shamefaced man from the auditorium. Paul wondered what he had been doing. He looked like an average office clerk with a small wife and a small family car.

  ‘Why does all this matter so much to you?’ Betty asked sulkily.

  ‘I’m not accustomed to finding bodies in the garage, not in Broadway. That’s where I go to get away from it all. And of course Steve was a little put out. You know how squeamish women are.’ It occurred to Paul as he was talking that Steve had taken it in her stride. Perhaps being married to him was making her callous. ‘The interesting aspect was that the man’s name was Gavin Renson. You remember –’

  ‘Yes, I read about his death in the paper.’

  ‘Renson was one of the names you mentioned last night. Your friend Desmond Blane –’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Gavin Renson was definitely mixed up in the Harkdale robbery!’

  She didn’t seem to be paying much attention. The Melody Girls were on stage in a fast and sinuous routine that had riveted the audience. Betty Stanway’s fingers were tapping the top of the bar as if mentally she were up there going through all the movements with them.

  ‘You remember the robbery?’ Paul asked sarcastically.

  She shook her head and smiled.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t remember the story you told me last night?’ Paul was becoming exasperated. ‘Do you remember that I gave you a lift out to Oxford?’

  Her eyes had strayed to the stage again. ‘My mother always warned me against accepting lifts from strangers.’

  ‘You asked me to help you last night, Betty, and I’m trying to help. I don’t want to find your corpse next. Please, you must tell me what happened last night.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’ She spoke in the flat tones of somebody who couldn’t be bothered to lie convincingly. ‘I never have got on with my father. So I went to stay with a girlfriend.’

  ‘Which girlfriend?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know her.’

  Paul was suddenly angry. He told her that he had given her story to the police and his voice was louder than it should have been. A couple of connoisseurs turned round to stare. ‘The police won’t believe this foolish story about a girlfriend,’ he concluded in a whisper.

  ‘So what?’ she sighed. ‘Why should I worry?’

  The audience were applauding, and close at hand it sounded no louder than it had from the dressing rooms. One of the ancient crooners was due on next. Paul glanced at his watch and wondered whether he could bear the memories. He would rather go home.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I think happened?’ he said in a final effort. ‘I think Blane was waiting for you last night. He picked you up and you went off together.’

  ‘No,’ she murmured.

  ‘I think he is using you in some way, and before you realise it you’ll be involved in the whole series of bank robberies. And then God help you!’ He stood up and prepared to leave. The crooner was already receiving his nostalgic welcome.

  ‘I haven’t seen Desmond for nearly a month –’

  ‘No? Then what would have induced you to give up your job here? You’re not an adventurous girl, Betty, you wouldn’t have thought of it yourself. I know it’s grim to be dancing in a club all your life, but what will your alternative lead to?’


  Betty looked disenchantedly around the club.

  ‘What are your plans?’ Paul asked.

  ‘To give up dancing.’

  ‘I noticed the Aer Lingus timetable on your dressing table. Are you going away with Des, or running away from him?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ She pouted apologetically. ‘I know what I’m doing, and it’s my life –’

  Paul cut in impatiently. ‘If you change your mind, Betty, give me a ring. But don’t leave it too late.’

  He left her sitting helplessly at the bar. She wouldn’t be helped. Paul walked quickly through the foyer; she looked quite different in the publicity photographs, pinker and more intelligent. Paul looked along the street for Eric Jordan. It was exactly half past eleven.

  ‘How’s that for timing?’ Eric called. The Mini-Cooper drew up by his feet. ‘Hop in, Mr T.’

  Paul slipped in gracefully. The streets as they drove away were still crowded and the flashing coloured lights dazzled with the promise of fun. The traffic jammed and drivers urgent for nameless destinations hooted and jaywalkers scampered through to their tubes and buses. Paul watched them thoughtfully. He began to relax as they drove down Whitehall and into Pimlico where the empty streets were in darkness.

  ‘When you dropped me off tonight, Eric, you acknowledged a fair haired young man in a dark suit.’

  ‘Did I?’ Eric remembered. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  Eric laughed. ‘I wish he was. I could do with some friends in the right places. He used to work in my bank, but he seems to have left now. I’ve got another one of those girls who looks at me as if I was overdrawn –’

  ‘His name is Sampson.’

  ‘Is it?’ Eric said politely. ‘I didn’t know his name. He just sat behind the counter and gave me my money or called the manager. I expect he’s moved on to better things.’

  Eric prattled on about his instinctive fear of bank managers and the hard faced men of Wall Street until they reached the familiar streets of Chelsea. Civilisation, and home to an empty bed.

  Paul had a nightcap before he went upstairs. He sat and watched the late night news on television. There was one sentence, among the items about politicians and distant wars and local demonstrations, which referred to the Harkdale robbery. It said that the legless man who had been identified as Ray Norton had recovered consciousness in hospital but he had been unable to help the police with their enquiries.

  The lonely horror of the little crook’s life struck Paul as so bleak that he had another drink. It was a long time since he had lived alone, and he had probably forgotten how to enjoy it. He undressed, washed, cleaned his teeth, and wondered what Steve was doing. He climbed into bed and scribbled a few notes on a pad.

  ‘This gang,’ he noted, ‘cannot have suddenly come together fully formed. Whose gang, and what happened? Was their leader deposed by the new young whizz kid?’

  Chapter Six

  Paul arrived back in Broadway at eleven o’clock next morning. He found Steve in the garden laying fertiliser beneath the rose bushes, while the dog yapped around her chasing butterflies. There was an early summer sun which picked out the yellow limestone of the cottage to perfection. It was all a little too much like an advertisement for something English.

  ‘That dog will have to go,’ Paul called from the drive. ‘He looks as if you’ve hired him to complete the scene.’

  Steve wiped her brow and waved. ‘You’re back early!’

  ‘I had a quick breakfast with Inspector Vosper and then away.’ He crossed the lawn to bestow a kiss of approval. ‘Do you think those roses will bloom this year?’

  ‘I doubt it, the soil isn’t suitable.’ She dropped the trowel onto the pale green grass. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve been talking about the dog to Mrs O’Hanrahan. She and Jackson have rather taken to each other, and she says that when we’re not staying here she could very easily take care of him.’

  Paul looked suitably gratified. ‘We’ll talk about the dog later, darling. Don’t let me interrupt your gardening.’

  He went through into the kitchen, but Mrs O’Hanrahan was sitting there enjoying her elevenses. Paul muttered hello and fled upstairs. At least Inspector Manley had left. He shut himself in the study and tried to continue the logical analysis he had been making during the journey.

  Paul pinned a map of the Cotswolds and surrounding area on the makeshift noticeboard beside his desk. The map extended beyond Stratford and Worcester to the urban sprawl where Birmingham began. Paul stuck three coloured pins in it, to mark Aston Prior, Banham, and Harkdale. They didn’t make much of a pattern, but they were close together. And they were all villages where the size of the bank had outgrown the local police force.

  A certain local knowledge was indicated. Inspector Manley had said that the robbers had been tipped off from the inside. Presumably in all three cases. Paul noted three questions which needed answering. He was always surprised when a robbery done with inside help remained unsolved, because that indicated that the first man whom the thieves approached had co-operated. But surely the thieves would have to approach several people before finding a willing ear, so why do none of those several people speak? Paul noted a possible answer.

  He wondered idly whether a better pattern would emerge from the map if they robbed another bank next Friday, but of course that was impossible. Of the three heavies who actually carried out the raids, two had been killed in the car crash and the third was still in hospital hovering legless between death and misery. This series of bank robberies was finished.

  Immediate action was called for. The gang would be dispersing soon with the money. The four members whom Paul assumed to remain, with Betty Stanway as a possible fifth. He went downstairs and asked Mrs O’Hanrahan to make some sandwiches.

  ‘Steve!’ he called. ‘Let’s have lunch in the country. It’s far too pleasant a day to skulk indoors.’

  ‘I’m not skulking indoors –’

  ‘We’ll drive out to Aston Prior. There’s a marvellous little pub there which I’ve been meaning to visit. Picnic lunch –’

  It was flat, dusty country raked with winds from the Bristol Channel. As the road dropped past Elmley Castle Paul felt as always that he was entering the Valley of Humiliation, and the image would be underlined fifteen or twenty miles later by the great smoking chimney stacks on the horizon. The Celestial City, he thought ironically. That was where the bank robbers had been heading, before they crashed.

  Paul went over the gang in his mind; there had been two men in the car with Skibby Thorne: Larry Phillips and Ray Norton. As they had escaped they had thrown the money to Gavin Renson, which made them decoys. The brain behind these robberies obviously considered crooks to be disposable. That left Desmond Blane and perhaps his only recorded friend. Betty had said his name was Arnold something or other, about sixty, quite tall, with a northern accent. Blane and his friend had probably murdered Gavin Renson after he had delivered the money to them.

  Aston Prior rose quite suddenly out of the plain; a fifteenth century church and an eighteenth century pub, a cluster of houses and a few shops. It would require inside knowledge to discover when the bank was worth robbing. But Skibby Thorne and his band had taken it for twenty-three thousand pounds. Paul drew up beside a barley field and announced that it was lunch time.

  Steve was left to spread out the ground cloth and unpack the hamper while Paul disappeared into the pub. He was gone for twenty minutes, talking to the bored, talkative landlord over a sherry. He returned with a smug expression on his face and a bottle of superior vin rose.

  ‘It was obviously our same three friends who called,’ he said, ‘and they drove off in the same direction, northwards. And they must have been tipped off.’

  Steve had served the cold chicken Veronique and rice salad on paper plates. It was delicious. Paul didn’t even complain about the plastic containers the food had travelled in. He decided that he had misjudged Mrs O’Hanraha
n. The cheese and biscuits may have been left over from Christmas, but Mrs O’Hanrahan knew her chicken Veronique.

  ‘How’s the wine?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Steve. ‘I’m glad it’s summer again.’

  They stayed in Aston Prior until half past two, basking in the sunshine and finishing the wine. Paul gave an edited account of his evening at the Love-Inn, dressing the girls in warmer clothes and making the stage show sound like the Television Toppers.

  ‘You think Blane was waiting for Betty the other night, and that they stayed together at the motel?’ said Steve.

  ‘I think so. He must have been told to either incriminate her or get rid of her. People are disposable to Desmond Blane’s boss.’

  ‘How could he incriminate her? The robberies have already taken place, and according to your theory the gang will be dispersing.’

  ‘Supposing she helps them to get the money out of the country? Blane could arrange to meet her in Ireland, and she could take the hundred thousand pounds over there for him.’

  ‘But surely,’ said Steve, ‘she wouldn’t be so stupid!’

  ‘In her present state she might do anything.’ Paul lit a cigarette, and then stared moodily at the book of matches inviting him to the Gateway Motel, Banbury. ‘In any case, Blane could probably fix it so that she carried the money over without even realising.’

  ‘You sound pessimistic, darling.’

  He nodded. ‘I wonder what they would do to her if they knew she had spoken to me.’

  Steve began clearing away the picnic litter. She was very tidy about it, putting all the paper plates and cups in a large bag to throw away and saving the plastic containers. That was when Paul saw the labels giving the price and the shop where they had been bought from.

  ‘Come on,’ said Steve, ‘if we’re going to reach Banham in time for afternoon tea.’

  After Banham they drove home via Harkdale, but it was only a formality. Paul had confirmed his theory. The three banks were all branches of the same regional office, and indeed of the same national head office, which meant that only one inside man was required for the tip off.