The World in My Pocket Read online

  The World in My Pocket

  James Hadley Chase

  This is the job they have all been waiting for. The job that will set them up for life. A million dollars split five ways, who wouldn’t be interested? The only catch is that it’s the very definition of impossible…or is it? Armed with a brilliant plan, the four men and one woman think they can crack it. But as tensions in the group begin to mount and things start to go wrong, the million dollars feels more out of reach than ever. Even though it is right with them…

  ‘The thriller maestro of the generation.’

  –Manchester Evening News

  James Hadley Chase

  THE WORLD IN MY POCKET

  1958

  CHAPTER ONE

  I

  Four men sat around a table on which were scattered playing cards, poker chips, a couple of loaded ashtrays, glasses and a bottle of whisky.

  The room was in semi-darkness except for a green, shaded light that fell directly on the table. A smoke haze hung overhead and spread out, drifting away into the shadows. Morgan, a big man with cold, restless eyes and a thin mouth, laid down four kings and sat back, drumming gently with his fingertips on the table.

  There was a pause, then with grunts of disgust the other three men threw in their cards.

  Gypo, born Giuseppe Mandini, a fat ball of a man with black curly hair, going grey at the temples, a swarthy complexion and a small beaky nose, flicked his chips across the table to Morgan and grinned ruefully.

  ‘That cleans me,’ he said. ‘What luck! Nothing better than a nine all the evening!’

  Ed Bleck fingered his neat stack of chips, removed four of them and pushed them over to Morgan. He was tall, fair and heavily sunburned. He had a vicious handsomeness that appealed to women but made men wary. He wore a neatly pressed grey flannel suit and his tie was hand painted: yellow horseshoes on a bottle-green background. Of the four men, he was the best dressed.

  The fourth man was Alex Kitson. He was the youngest of the four, around twenty-three. He was solidly built, dark, with high cheekbones, a flattened nose of a professional fighter and dark, uneasy eyes. He wore an open-neck shirt and a pair of black corduroy trousers. He tossed the last of his chips over to Morgan, grimacing.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I had four queens. I thought…’ He broke off, aware the other two were looking intently at Morgan and not listening to what he was saying. Morgan was making the chips he had received into three neat piles. A cigarette hung from his thin lips, and the other three men listened to his quick, steady breathing. When he had arranged the chips to his liking, he looked up. His black snake’s eyes moved slowly from face to face.

  Bleck said impatiently, ‘What’s on your mind, Frank? Something’s been biting at you all the evening.’

  Morgan continued to drum on the table with his fingertips for some seconds, then he said abruptly, ‘How would you boys like to pick up two hundred thousand bucks?’

  The three stiffened. They knew Morgan well enough by now to be certain he wouldn’t kid about a thing like that.

  ‘What was that again?’ Gypo asked, leaning forward.

  ‘Two hundred thousand bucks each,’ Morgan said, emphasizing the last word. ‘It’s there for the taking, but it’ll be a tough one.’

  Bleck took out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped a cigarette out and then began to roll it between his fingers while he regarded Morgan thoughtfully.

  ‘You mean the complete take is eight hundred Gs?’ he asked.

  ‘A million,’ Morgan said. ‘There’ll be a five-way split if you three want to come in on it.’

  ‘Five? Who’s the fifth?’ Bleck asked sharply.

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ Morgan said. He pushed back his chair and stood up. Putting his hands flat on the table, he leaned forward. His thin white face was tense as he said, ‘This is the big one. It’s tough, but it yields a million bucks in hard cash: money you can stick in your pocket without your pocket catching fire. Nothing bigger than a ten-dollar bill. But make no mistake about it — it’s a tough one.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand bucks?’ Gypo was gaping. ‘There ain’t that much money in the world!’

  Morgan grinned at him. The expression on his face made him look like a hungry wolf.

  ‘It’s the big one,’ he repeated. ‘With that amount of dough, you’ll have the world in your pocket!’

  ‘Let me guess, Frank,’ Bleck said. ‘It’s the Rocket Research Station’s payroll.’

  Morgan sat down. He nodded, grinning.

  ‘You’re smart, Ed. That’s the one. How do you like it? The payroll is worth exactly a million: all in small bills. It’s there to be had.’

  He looked directly at Kitson who was staring at him, a startled expression on his face.

  ‘You heard me, kid,’ Morgan said. ‘It’s there to be had.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Kitson said, his big hands turning into fists. ‘That’s one job we don’t do, Frank, and I know what I’m talking about.’

  Morgan smiled at him, the way an older man smiles at a younger man who has said something stupid. His eyes moved to Bleck, knowing that if Bleck had a feeling for the job, something might be done about it. Bleck was the one with the brains. This kid, Kitson, had guts, was fast with his fists and could handle a car, but there was nothing in his head. If Bleck said it couldn’t be done, then he might have to think again.

  ‘What do you say, Ed?’

  Bleck lit the cigarette, frowning.

  ‘It’s the one job I wouldn’t pick in spite of the size of the payoff, but if you have an angle, I’m willing to listen.’

  That was like Bleck. He never expressed an opinion unless he had all the facts.

  Gypo moved his fat body uneasily, looking from Kitson to Morgan, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘What’s so tough about the job then?’ he asked.

  Morgan waved his hand at Kitson.

  ‘You tell him, kid. You should know. You worked for the outfit.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kitson said. ‘I do know. This is the one job no one swings. Anyone who is crazy enough to try to grab that payroll is yelling for trouble.’ He looked around the table at the other three, uneasy to be talking this way to three men much older than himself and unsure of himself. ‘I’m not kidding. The Welling Armoured Truck Agency is really organized for trouble. I should know. As Frank said, I worked there once.’

  Gypo rubbed his face with his hand and frowned at Morgan.

  ‘But you have an angle, haven’t you, Frank?’

  Morgan ignored him. He continued to stare at Kitson.

  ‘Go on, kid,’ he said. ‘Keep talking. Tell them how tough it is.’

  Kitson picked up one of Morgan’s poker chips. He began to turn it over and over between his thick fingers while he stared at it, frowning.

  ‘Before I quit the agency,’ he said, ‘they got delivery of a new truck. Before this truck arrived, they were using a sardine can with four outriders to protect it. This new truck doesn’t need outriders. It’s really the tops. They’re so sure it is foolproof they don’t even insure the load anymore.’

  ‘What’s so special about it?’ Morgan asked.

  Kitson ran his thick fingers through his hair. It embarrassed him to talk but he was determined to prove that this time Morgan was wrong to suggest such a job. He had had, up to now, a lot of faith in Morgan. The four of them had been working as a team for the past six months, and they had pulled several pretty good jobs. The money hadn’t been much, but there had been no risk, and each one of these jobs had been Morgan’s brainchild. Kitson was willing to admit that two hundred thousand bucks was real money, but what was the use of thinking about it? Morgan had said it was to be had. But he was w
rong! He just didn’t know what he was talking about!

  ‘Go on, kid,’ Morgan urged, a jeering expression in his eyes. ‘What’s so special about this new truck?’

  Kitson drew in a deep breath.

  ‘You won’t get near it, Frank,’ he said. He was so anxious to make his point, his voice shook. ‘This truck is made of a special armoured plate alloy. You can’t cut into it. Maybe it would melt under continuous and intense heat, but the heat would have to be applied for hours, maybe days. The strongest part of the truck is the door. There’s a time lock on it. When the truck is loaded, they fix the lock. It takes the truck three hours fast driving to reach the Research Station. The lock is set to operate four hours after it has left the Agency. That gives the driver time in hand to take care of traffic blocks or a breakdown.’ He put the poker chip down and looked at the other two who were leaning forward, listening, intent expressions on their faces. ‘There’s a push button on the dashboard that controls the time lock. If there is any sign of trouble, the driver has only to punch the button and the time lock cancels out.’

  ‘Then what happens?’ Morgan asked jeeringly.

  ‘Once the button is punched, no one opens the door until the time lock is reset, and that’s an expert’s job.’ Kitson lit a cigarette and let the smoke drift down his wide nostrils. ‘Then there’s another thing: they carry a shortwave receiving and transmitter set in the truck, and from the moment they leave for the Research Station, they are in continuous radio communication with the Agency.’ Aware now that Morgan was grinning derisively at him, he turned his attention to Gypo and addressed him directly. ‘Look, suppose some nut tries to hold up the truck. Suppose this nut blocks the road and stops the truck. The driver and the guard automatically go into their routine. The driver punches the button that scrambles the time lock and the guard flicks down a switch that slams steel shutters over the windshield and the windows, turning the truck into a box that just can’t be bust open. Then the guard flicks down another switch on the transmitter which sets up a continuous signal. Any cop radio car can home on to this signal and no matter where the truck is, the radio car will find it. Once they’ve operated the three switches, all they have to do is to sit tight in their steel box and wait for help.’ He tapped ash off his cigarette, his hand shaking from nervous excitement. ‘Like I said: no one is going to hijack that truck. They are really organized for trouble.’

  Gypo scratched the back of his neck, a sudden bored expression on his fat face. Bleck had picked up a deck of cards and was shuffling them aimlessly, his light-coloured eyes on Morgan.

  ‘How about the driver and the guard?’ Morgan asked. ‘Couldn’t they be got at?’

  Kitson waved his hands.

  ‘Got at? Those two? Are you that crazy? Who’s been telling you what?’

  An ugly glint came into Morgan’s eyes.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he said. ‘Don’t flap with your mouth, and don’t ask me if I’m crazy. I don’t like it.’

  Seeing his angry expression, Bleck said smoothly, ‘Take it easy, Frank. The kid’s doing all right. At least he seems to know what he’s talking about.’

  Morgan sneered at him.

  ‘Yeah. Well, we’ll see.’ He looked at Kitson. ‘Go on. Tell me why these two can’t be got at.’

  Kitson was beginning to sweat. Tiny beads of perspiration made his flattened nose shine in the hard light.

  ‘I’ve worked with them,’ he said, staring hard at Morgan. ‘I know them. The driver’s name is Dave Thomas and the guard is Mike Dirkson. They are tough and keen and quick with a gun. They know if they defeat a holdup, they will get a two thousand dollar bonus each. They know there’s no way of busting open the truck to get at the payroll so they wouldn’t be that crazy to throw in with us and lose a regular job that pays off. These two are on the beam. You’ll find that out fast enough if you start something with them.’

  Gypo broke in, ‘If it’s going to be that tough, I don’t want anything to do with it. Okay, two hundred grand is fine, but no money is big enough if you ain’t alive to spend it.’

  Morgan smiled.

  Gypo was a defeatist. He had his qualities, but guts and staying power weren’t his strong points. He was a technical man. There were few locks that his sensitive fingers couldn’t master. He had opened many impossible locks in his time, but he had always worked in an atmosphere of quiet. He had never been called on to work under pressure, and Morgan knew this job would be working under the greatest possible pressure. He wondered if Gypo would make the grade. He had enough confidence in himself to be sure he could talk Gypo into tackling the job, but that didn’t mean much. When the time came: when the cards were down and the pressure was on, everything would depend on Gypo’s skill. If his nerves blew up, then the job would blow up too.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, putting his hand on Gypo’s shoulder. ‘Since we four ganged up, I’ve steered you all into good jobs. Right?’

  Gypo nodded while the other two stared at Morgan, waiting.

  ‘Not big stuff,’ Morgan went on, ‘but you all had some dough. But sooner or later the cops are going to get wise to us. We can’t go on and on pulling little jobs for peanut money without getting a rumble. So I figure we should try the big one, collect the dough, break up the mob and go our own ways. Two hundred thousand can buy a lot of fun. The world is in our pockets with that kind of dough. This job can be done. It’s just a matter of working on it. I know it’s tough. Kitson has given you most of the dope. What he says is right, but he’s forgotten one thing.’ He looked at the three men, seeing Gypo was uneasy, Kitson obstinate and scared, Bleck still indifferent, still waiting to be convinced. ‘What he forgot to tell you is that this new truck has been on the hoof now five months, week in and out, and everyone believes it is foolproof. Everyone, including Kitson, is sold on the idea that no one in his right mind would try to grab the truck. When you get that kind of idea into your head, you lower your guard and your chin’s uncovered. It only needs a quick right-hand punch, and you’re licked.’

  He deliberately used the parlance of the ring because he wanted to catch Kitson’s interest. He had to have him as well as Gypo on his side. He saw he had been successful. Kitson was now looking less obstinate and more interested.

  ‘Everything Kitson has told you about the truck I read in papers months ago,’ Morgan went on. ‘These guys were so cocky about their truck they gave it wide publicity. They are certain no one can bust into it, and they figure the more details they give out about it, the tougher they make it sound, the more business they’ll drum up for the agency. Ever since I read about that truck, I’ve had it at the back of my mind to bust it. We can do it if you guys have the guts to work with me. It’ll need guts, but don’t forget the payoff is two hundred grand each.’

  Bleck crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.

  He was staring at Morgan, his pale eyes narrowed.

  ‘And you’ve got an angle?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Morgan lit a cigarette, blowing smoke across the table towards Gypo. ‘I’ve got an angle. At least we have plenty of time to think about it. That truck is going to deliver a million bucks to the Research Station every week now for five years, and maybe longer. I admit they are organized for trouble, but as the weeks go by, they are going to get less watchful, less alert, and that’s when we step in and sock them.’

  ‘Now, wait a moment,’ Kitson said, leaning forward, his face flushing. ‘This is a lot of crap. How long does it take a guy, even if he is half-asleep to press a button? Two seconds? Certainly not more. Six seconds to press three buttons, then the truck turns into a steel tortoise and there’s nothing you nor anyone else can do about it. Do you imagine you can stop that truck, break open the door and handle the driver and guard in six seconds? Talk sense! This is a goddamn pipe dream!’

  ‘You think so?’ Morgan said jeeringly.

  ‘I know so! Stop that truck, and before you can get within a yard of it, the steel shutters wil
l be down, the time lock scrambled and the radio screaming for help!’

  ‘Sure?’ Morgan said and his jeering smile made Kitson itch to hit him.

  ‘I’m sure, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise,’ Kitson said, controlling his temper with difficulty.

  ‘Suppose you pipe down and let Frank give us his angle?’ Bleck said. ‘If you think you’ve got better brains than he has, then why the hell don’t you run this outfit?’

  Kitson flushed scarlet, shrugged angrily and tilted back his chair. He looked sullenly at Bleck and then at Morgan.

  ‘Okay, but I tell you it can’t be done,’ he said.

  Bleck looked over at Morgan.

  ‘Go ahead and tell us how you figure to work it, Frank.’

  ‘Yesterday I took a look at the route from the Agency to the Research Station,’ Morgan said. ‘It’s quite a trip: ninety-three miles by the clock. Seventy of these miles are on the highway, twenty on a secondary road, ten on a dirt road and three on a private road leading directly to the Research Station. I was looking for a place where we could stop the truck. The highway is out. The secondary road is out too. The traffic on both these roads is continuous and heavy. The private road is guarded night and day so that’s out too. That leaves us with the dirt road.’ He flicked ash off his cigarette, screwing up his black eyes as he stared around at the three men facing him. ‘Ten miles of road. Four miles from the secondary road and up the dirt road, there’s a branch road leading to Highway 10. Most of the traffic, and it isn’t heavy, uses the road past the Research Station gates because it is a better road and two miles shorter than the other dirt road. A couple of miles before you get to the Research Station gates there’s a bottleneck made by two big rocks either side of the road. Besides the rocks, there are a lot of scrub bushes. It’s a pretty good place for an ambush or an accident.’

  Bleck nodded.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been over that road myself and I very nearly had a pile-up there. If you take the bend too fast you’re on this bottleneck before you know it. They’ve put up a sign now because of the number of accidents.’