Stickup

Seated at a round window-table in Hugo’s bar, Tull was addressed by a complete stranger; later he was to insist on this point and that he hadn’t even heard the man approach either, facts which were confirmed by the others - four friends bent forward in conversation over the table and the bar-owner, a friend, drying glasses with an orange towel - who all nodded their heads furiously in agreement.

After stretching out an arm and clapping Tull on the shoulder, the man addressed him: ‘See. This is how we’ll do the job. We get in the car right now see, then go down the road - it’s only a short distance - and when we come to the insurance offices we stop; there’ll be only a few people walking on the pavement, and no cars park there’s now. Then out you spring, carefully remembering to pretend you’ve got a pistol in your pocket - like this: watch me - you get the money, return to me who’s the driver in this little firm, and we get away.’

And he continued after summoning the bar-owner and seizing some water-jugs that were in the way: ‘No need to worry; it’s all on this plan I’ve drawn (here he smoothed a hotel bill onto the table with his little finger) so you can memorise it while we’re in the car. No need for hoods - we’ll be done so quickly they’ll not have time to notice us; don’t even bother to put on your coat and hat, for we’ll be back in a trice.’

Tull looked at his friends: in their smiles he could read neither disapproval nor encouragement. For their benefit - they must see after all, that it was all in fun - he called on his way out: ‘To get us in the mood for crime, first we must dispatch an old boy or two, hey?’

The car pivoted away from the kerb, paused, then rolled slowly forward. The street seemed to have tilted to one side; buildings with before them lamp-posts and trees, had tilted; yet pedestrians though moving at an angle, seemed to walk in a normal fashion, and bins that might have slid, didn’t slide, and cobbles that could have been expected to roll out of their sockets stayed put. Then a man, coming towards Tull, whom Tull half-recognised, turned and raised his hat.

On the other side of the car, Tull’s driver was being hailed by many acquaintances, some leaning their backs against walls, others starting forward from lamp-posts to shake hands with him throughout the window as he passed. 

The man turned to Tull and looked over his shoulder. They had arrived. Tull needed no pushing out. Indeed he bounded into the offices. But a short way inside he had to halt suddenly, holding his hand over his eyes for the office was extremely dark and now the sun was behind him. Thinking how quiet it was, he joined the queue.

The teller was a woman whose hands were palm-downwards on a small counter; she sat behind a pane of glass shaped in an arch. She had a need to turn her head sideways a little to hear what people said, which she now did before Tull who was looking through the door at the end of the corridor, at his accomplice gunning the car, his chin lowered onto the top of the steering-wheel.

‘Look’ he complained ‘I’m supposed to be taking the money, but I don’t want to. You were to hand it over to me; of course this isn’t a real revolver in my pocket. I’m just making out that there’s one. The trouble is there’s a man out there - can you see him in that car; I swear I didn’t know who he was until five minutes ago? - he expects me to walk out any minute now with my pockets stuffed with loot  . . .’

The woman interrupted him: ‘There’s no money, you realise that don’t you?’ She waited. ‘We don’t take much money here in any case, and you’re doubly unlucky in that most of what we had has just been banked; of course I’ve got some small denomination notes under this counter you see - for change you understand - but they’ll be of no use to you  . . .’

After a pause, Tull addressed her again: ‘Don’t get nervous I beg you. Robbery is not to be considered for one moment here; so let’s not talk of bad luck. Then what am I to say to the fellow outside? I can’t sit holding my breath and with closed eyes, while he, uncomprehending, vents his fury on the steering-wheel which he seems so keen on cradling,’

Excited, she pointed out that it was easy: that all Tull had to do was to tell him that the money had been banked; that in this way he wasn’t event telling an untruth, and hence it would sound all the more convincing, besides leaving him with a clear conscience.

Tull had another idea. ‘Quickly, will you change this note into the smallest ones you have?’ he asked. ‘I’ll try to trick him, for a while at least.’

His accomplice opened the car-door for him. Stiff-backed they drove off. Once round the first corner, the man, in a fever of excitement, swivelled and asked: had he got it?

‘They didn’t have much - some - take a look.’ replied Till and opened his wallet to show the edge of a wad of notes which, being careful not to expose, he drew out a little way and flicked with his thumb. The man broke into a large grin, and nodded. ‘I’ll put your half in your pocket as you’re driving,’ Tull explained. 

‘Hey! You’ve given me it all,’ cried the man. ‘Take your cut; I’m a fair man, me. It’s only right.’

A policeman was walking on the pavement alongside the car; as he went he was greeted by several people who came to shop-doors. He was walking quite slowly, but then speeded up when he saw Tull’s imploring face through the car window. Tull flung open the door; ran downhill looking back all the while at the still receding car, then turned and fell into the arms of the policeman.

In an instant, a crowd who had seen the flight gathered. How had it happened? Astonishing; and was it true what somebody said: that he’d used his own money? With a key which he drew from his top pocket, the constable opened a telephone box attached to a nearby post; he smiled at Tull, now peering up the road - fortunately there was no sign of the car now - who was being congratulated by people stretching over one another to pat him on the back.