The Wicked Mr Hall by Roy Archibald Hall Read Free Book Online

the life of a well-heeled city gent.
    A petty criminal from West London, finding himself in a tight spot with the Old Bill, gave information on an aquaintance of his. It was our misfortune that the acquaintance was Dave Perry, our driver. Hours before we were due to go on our latest raid, Perry was nicked and held for questioning at Paddington Green.
    Johnny and I were uneasy about the situation. We were sure that Dave could be trusted but, even so, it was risky to do anything local. On a whim, I told Johnny about asingle-windowed jewellers in Buchanan Street, Glasgow. That afternoon we drove north. We checked the surrounding area for a suitable escape route. Buchanan Street was patrolled during the night hours by a mounted policeman wielding a long riot stick. To park outside the shop would undoubtedly attract his attention and was out of the question. After some thought, we decided to park in an adjacent street. There was a warehouse door that, if we could gain access, would give us a short cut from Buchanan Street to our parked car. After playing with the lock, we gained entry. The door leading to our car was unlocked and ready. Both doors were small entrance doors, housed within the much larger warehouse doors – far too small for a man on horseback to follow. We watched and waited. The mounted patrolman ambled from one street to the other rhythmically tapping the hard, dark stick on his highly polished riding boot. We watched him time and time again. We noticed that not once did he turn around and look behind him. The only noise was the echo of the horse’s hooves on the concrete and the almost indiscernible tap of stick upon boot. As he neared the end of the street, we quietly moved into position. On this occasion for speed’s sake, we would both smash and both grab. The horse was as far away from us as possible and we prepared for action. I took two folded canvas bags from my pocket and laid them on the ground, Collins took out two claw hammers, one from each pocket. With hammers raised, we listened to the clatter of the horse’s hooves in the clear night. As the animal reached the end of the street we struck. Our hammers hit the glass in unison, the blowswere deliberate and precise. The window fell away. At the other end of the street, the once ambling equine member of the Glasgow police force was being jockeyed into a gallop. On its back, stick swinging, voice screaming, a red-faced Glaswegian police officer bore down upon us. Our hands grabbed the jewels in a controlled frenzy, we took everything. With hammers still in our hands, we ran for our freedom. With each step we took, the sound of the hooves and the screams of the patrolman grew ever nearer. We hit the warehouse door on a skid, changing direction from north to east in a lurch of our bodies, motivated by pure fear. As we bundled through the small door, I could hear the snorts of air blasting from the horse’s nostrils.
    Tired but elated, we began the four-hundred-mile journey back to London. We drove through the night, taking turns, one sleeping, one driving. By daybreak we were back in the capital. Collins and I were quite a team. We took thousands, and we took it from right under people’s noses. I have never ‘grassed’ in my life, and when villains turn Queen’s evidence on other villains, it makes me nauseous. Before we had time fully to savour our triumph in the Buchanan Street dash, I was paid a visit by the police. At the same time, in the East End, Collins was also picked up. Information had been given. Some low life criminal we had been stupid enough to confide in had given us up. So much for honour among thieves.
    I got three years and Johnny, being older, got four. It was back to Wandsworth. On my last sentence I had been treated as an ordinary category prisoner. Now, my leap from the train had been added to my file and I wasregarded as an escape risk. The last time I had been in prison, the E men (escape risk prisoners) had smallish