Well Now, My Pretty Part 15

"We'll go straight home and make sure," she said.

"We'd better go to police headquarters."

"We are going home!" Her voice now was hard and shrill. "If the money is really in the boot, we're not handing it over to the police! There'll be a reward . . ."

Tom began to protest, then he saw the traffic was slowing down.

"What's going on?" he said, braking and staring at the long line of cars coming to a halt.

Sheila leaned out of the window.

"There's a road block ahead. The in-going traffic is being waved through. They are only checking the outgoing traffic." Tom drew in a long, unsteady breath.

"We'd better tell them."

"Oh, quiet down! We are going home and we are going to make certain first the money is there!"

Tom was now approaching the road block. He saw Patrol Officer Fred O'Toole waving the in-going cars through. He was friendly with O'Toole. They often played pool together in a downtown bar.

O'Toole grinned at him as he waved him through. "Got a new car, huh?" he called. "Had a good vacation?"

His white face set in a grin, Tom nodded and waved a sweating hand.

"We should have stopped and told him," he said as they continued on down the highway.

"Haven't you any guts?" Sheila said impatiently. "They are certain to offer a big reward. This is our chance, at last, to make some real money!"

"Maybe the money isn't there," Tom said, but he now began thinking of what the radio announcer had said. Two and a half million dollars! It turned his mouth dry just to think of such a sum.

"The carton's there, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, then. Let's get home, and don't drive too fast! We don't want some traffic cop . . ."

"Okay, okay, stop shouting at me! I know what I'm doing!"

"I wish you did. You look like a pregnant duck."

"Oh, shut up!"

They drove the rest of the way in silence. As they reached Delpont Avenue, Tom slowed. They drove down the long, shabby avenue, lined either side with small cabins and bungalows. The time was now half past nine. It was a good time to arrive. The owners of the cabins and bungalows had already left for work, and it was too early for the wives to go out shopping. But as Tom slowed before his bungalow, he saw Harry Dylan, his nosy next-door neighbour, watering his lawn.

"Our luck!" he muttered under his breath.

Sheila got out of the car to open the double gates that led to their garage.

"h.e.l.lo there, Mrs. Whiteside," Dylan shouted and turned off the hose. "Nice to see you. Did you have a good vacation? My! You certainly have picked up a sun-tan."

Harty Dylan was short, fat and balding. He had been a bank clerk and had now retired. He was always trying to get friendly with the Whitesides, who found him a bore, Tom suspected that he was infatuated with Sheila as Dylan seldom had anything to say to him when they ran into each other alone.

"Fine, thanks, Mr. Dylan," Sheila said and ran to open the garage doors.

"I see you have a new car, Mr. Whiteside. That's a much better job than your old one. When did you get that?"

Tom nodded to him and drove into the garage.

Dylan walked along the low fence and when he reached the Whitesides' garage, he leaned over the fence.

"It's not ours," Sheila said. "We had a breakdown . . . we had to borrow this to get back home."

"A breakdown! That's tough. Where did you get to?"

"All over." Seeing Tom was closing the garage doors, she said hurriedly, "Excuse me . . . we have to unpack," and she stepped back as Tom closed the second door.

"That guy!" he said angrily.

"Come on. Open up. Let's look."

Tom unlocked the boot and lifted the hood. He took out the gas cooker and set it on the floor. Sheila leaned into the boot and caught hold of the carton. She tried to drag it towards her, but found it was too heavy to move. She spun around.

"The money's in there! I can't move it!"

Tom began to shake.

"We could get into a load of trouble . . ."

"Oh, stop it! Help me!"

He joined her, and together they dragged the carton forward. As she began opening it, there came a knocking on the garage door.

They froze, looking at each other. Then feverishly, they shoved the carton back and closed the lid of the boot.

"Who is it?" Sheila asked breathlessly.

They walked slowly to the double doors and opened one of them. Dylan had come around the fence and grinned cheerfully at him.

"I don't want to disturb you, Mr. Whiteside, but while you were away the gas and electricity men called. I thought it neighbourly to pay the bills. Then there was a guy who said Mrs. Whiteside had ordered some cosmetics. I took in the parcel. Like to settle up now?"

Tom controlled himself with an effort. His smile was a grimace.

"We'll unpack first. . . thanks a lot. Suppose I come around when we've settled in?"

"Sure and bring your wife. Let's say in a couple of hours, huh? I'll open a bottle of Scotch someone gave me . . . it's d.a.m.n fine Scotch if one can judge by its label. Like me to help you unpack? I'm pretty good at carrying things."

"No, thanks. Okay, Mr. Dylan, in a couple of hours."

"That's right. Well, from the look of you, I guess you had a fine vacation. Did I tell you the wife and I are off next week? We're going to Lake Veronica. Should be some good fishing there. It will make a change. We haven't had a vacation for a couple of years."

Tom moved restlessly.

"Hope you have a good time . . . well, if you'll excuse me. We want to settle in."

"Why, sure. So you borrowed that car, huh? Nice one. I'd like to have a Buick."

"Tom!" Sheila's voice was shrill. "Will you come and carry this case?"

"There." Dylan's smile widened. "You and me talking, and the little woman does all the work."

Tom stepped back.

"Sure I can't help?" Dylan asked as the door began to close in his face.

"It's okay," Tom said and closed the door. He leaned against it, swearing under his breath. "One of these days, I'll kill that jerk!"

"Tom!"

He joined her as she opened the carton. The sight of the tightly packed wads of $500 bills made both catch their breath.

"Look at it!" Sheila whispered. "Oh, G.o.d! Look at it!"

With a shaking hand, Tom picked up one of the packets of money. Then as if it had bitten him, he dropped it back into the carton.

"We could get twenty years for this! We'd better call the police!"

Sheila took the packet he had dropped. With shaking fingers, she counted the bills.

"There's ten thousand dollars right here . . . ten thousand dollars!" She suddenly stiffened, threw the money back into the carton and faced Tom. "You fool! Oh, h.e.l.l . . . how did I come to marry such a G.o.dd.a.m.n dope?"

"What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"You put our address on our car! That man could find our car and he'll know we have the money! Oh, G.o.d! How stupid can you be?"

"We're taking the money to the police," Tom said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "So, okay, let him know we have it . . . why should we care?"

"We're not taking the money to the police. Can't you ever use that thing you call a head? If we turn the money over to the police, they will cash in on the reward! Have you ever had any reason to trust a cop? Come on, Tom, help me get this carton into the house. We've got to take this car back fast!"

"Take the car back? What do you mean?"

She turned on him, her eyes blazing and she slapped him heavily across the face, sending him reeling.

"Help me get this money into the house!" she said, her voice low and furious.

Her expression scared him. Muttering, unnerved, he dragged the carton out of the car. Together, they staggered with it into the living-room and dropped it heavily on the worn carpet. Sheila ran to the window and pulled down the blind.

"Come on! We'll get the pump and drive back. Every minute we waste could put us into worse trouble!"

He caught hold of her arm and jerked her around.

"What are you planning to do? What is all this?"

Her eyes glittering, her face white, she faced him.

"I'm handling this! You're going to do what I tell you! I've lived a year with you and I've had enough of your crummy way of life! Two and a half million dollars! We've got it! No one knows we have it. Now, listen to me . . . we're going to keep it! Do you hear me? We're going to keep every dollar of it!"

Maisky watched the Buick back out of the hide, turn and then drive down the short track to the dirt road. Two and a half million dollars! Going away from him after all his planning! He felt so bad he thought he was going to die.

He lay on the damp floor of the cave, his face resting on the back of his cold hand. He heard voices, then he heard the Buick drive away.

Who could these two be? He wondered. Why had they taken his car? They looked honest enough. Why had they taken his car?

He made the effort and sat up. They must have come in a car . . . where was it?

He stared down at the steep path that led from the cave to the glade. Then, moving aside the branches that covered the mouth of the cave, he started down the path, moving slowly, terrified that the pain in his chest might return.

Finally, he reached the glade. He looked around, then continued on down the path to the dirt road. There he saw a dusty Corvette Sting Ray under the trees and a slip of paper under one of the windscreen wipers. He approached the car and slid the paper from under the windscreen wiper.

He read Tom's message.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the car. So this was the explanation. They had broken down and had borrowed the Buick, but they were coming back! With any luck, they wouldn't look in the boot. How could they? They hadn't the key. Then he stiffened. The man had started the car . . . how had he done it, if he hadn't the key? That key would also open the boot! Well, maybe they wouldn't open the boot.

With a shaking hand he copied Whiteside's address down on the back of an old bill he had found in his pocket. Then he put Tom's note back under the windscreen wiper.

Well, now all he could do was to hope. They looked honest people. They would return the car, fix their own car and that would be the last he would see of them . . . with any luck. He hesitated, his cunning mind now very alert. Would they wonder what the car was doing in the glade? Would they report finding it to the police? Maybe he had better leave when they returned the car. But where could he go? He was now feeling weak and breathless again. He longed to lie down and rest. Moving cautiously, he made his way back to the cave.

Patrolman Fred O'Toole looked at his watch. In another ten minutes he would be off duty . . . and about time too! He had had more than enough of checking this continuous flow of cars leaving the City, and his temper was frayed.

Then he saw a car coming and he groaned to himself. He stepped out into the middle of the outward lane, holding up his hand.

The Buick coupe slowed and Tom Whiteside leaned out of the window. His face was pale under his sun-tan and his grin forced.

"Hi, Fred."

"Oh, you . . ." O'Toole looked puzzled. "I thought I saw you going home . . ." He came to the window and peered in at Tom and Sheila.

"Yeah . . . I'm now taking this car back," Tom said.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. O'Toole," Sheila said brightly. She gave him a s.e.xy smile. "Long time no see. How do you like my sun-tan?"

O'Toole had always thought she was the most gorgeous piece of tail he had ever seen. He smiled at her, eyeing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You look good enough to eat, Mrs. Whiteside. Had a good time?"

"Did you ever take your wife on a camping vacation, Mr. O'Toole?"

O'Toole laughed.