Rivadavia Street is in the heart of the business centre of Buenos Aires, and it was in the early 1970s, in the fourth floor premises of a law firm in the low 600s of this Street, that some young atorrantes determined to crash in and grab what they could. Their minds were no doubt set on loose cash, jewellery and random luck – this was before even electronic calculators were common property and the latest technology was Telex (remember Telex?).

One has to assume that these three lads were not very good at their chosen métier. Their attempts to intimidate the receptionist with a length of piping and a replica pistol were rebuffed by two other staff members, members of the San Isidro Club’s first Rugby team, who had happened to follow the delinquents in and had little difficulty in overpowering them. The mismatch of four rugbier arms and six delinquent legs led to one escaped lad and two detained intruders.

The senior partners were quick on the scene and quick to arrange tea and biscuits (or the Argentine equivalent) for all concerned, and to call the local precinct to arrange for the young intruders, now cowed and compliant, to be taken away. Life, it seemed, was about to be restored to normal. Indeed, a sergeant and two patrolmen arrived with ten minutes or so, and, handcuffing the delinquents to a convenient radiator, took their tea and biscuits while appraising themselves of the situation. Then, without warning, events took on a different complexion.

All staff in the law firm were asked to leave the premises ‘for forensic reasons’, and duly and dutifully trooped down to the coffee shop across the road to await further instructions. The senior lawyers, more cognizant of police budgets and resourcing, had some inkling of what was coming; the younger staff had no idea at all, other than perhaps to reflect vaguely on just what ‘forensic reasons’ might mean.

The relocated law firm were all sitting nursing their coffees, somewhat subdued, when the shots rang out. Two shots, in quick succession. Almost simultaneously the bottom half of a two-blue police truck appeared in the narrow half window of the café that looked out onto the street. Eight legs and two stretchers emerged and made their way into the building; in no time at all they were back down in the street. This time the stretchers were substantially heavier and accompanied by six extra legs as the centipede steered its way into the truck. Two rear legs detached themselves and strolled across to the window of the coffee shop. A peaked cap bent down to give a thumbs up to one of the senior partners –it was now ok to go back up again– and the two-blue truck drove off quietly.

The report in La Nación was brief but to the point – two young criminals had broken into a city centre law firm and had been killed trying to shoot themselves out in a gun battle with the police. Fortunately none of the police was injured. One police regulation handcuff, still attached to a rusty fourth floor radiator stood for many years in mute contradiction. For all I know it stands there still.