Well Now, My Pretty Part 19

Jacobs stared at her, startled.

"Well . . ."

The pause hung for a long moment, then Sheila, aware of the pa.s.sing time, said sharply, "Can I or can't I?"

"Yes, but guns aren't cheap, Mrs. Whiteside."

"I didn't think they would be. I want something small and not heavy."

"I have a .25 automatic . . . a beautiful little weapon," Jacobs said. "It costs a hundred and eighty dollars."

"Let me see it."

"If you don't mind coming into the other room . . . you understand? One has to be careful."

She followed him into the dingy inner room.

"Just one moment, please."

He went into another room and she could hear him rummaging about, muttering under his breath. Finally, he returned with a small gun in his hand.

"You understand guns, Mrs. Whiteside?"

"No."

"Of course . . . well, let me explain. Here is the safety catch. You pull it back . . . so. Be very careful: the trigger is light. It is an excellent gun. See . . ." He touched the trigger and she heard a sharp snapping sound. "Two hundred dollars, Mrs. Whiteside, and that includes ten rounds of ammunition . . . you won't need more?"

"No." She took the gun out of his grimy hand, balanced it and then pressed the trigger. Again she heard the snapping sound. Well, it wasn't complicated, she thought. "Will you load it, please?"

He regarded her, a little worried, a little puzzled.

"I will show, you how to do it. It is better and safer for the gun to remain unloaded."

"Then it would be useless. Load it!"

He slid the cartridges into the clip and then inserted the clip into the gun, pressing home the spring. Then he put on the safety catch.

"You will be careful . . . accidents can happen." He paused, looking at her slyly, then went on. "You haven't bought this gun from me, Mrs. Whiteside. That is understood? By rights, I shouldn't be selling guns."

"Yes, I understand." She took the gun from him with four extra cartridges and put them into her bag. Then she gave him one of the $500 bills she had transferred from her stocking top to her bag during the bus ride down town.

He regarded the bill, his eyebrows crawling to the top of his forehead. She watched him, feeling tense and a little frightened.

"I will give you change. So Mr. Whiteside is having some success . . . I am so pleased."

"He sold three cars recently. About time . . ." She relaxed and followed him into the shop.

"Well, success finally comes. We all have to work for it . . . some are luckier than others." He gave her three one-hundred dollar bills. "You should get a permit for the gun. I expect you know that. The police . . ." He waved his hand.

"I know . . . I'll see about it. Thank you, Mr. Jacobs."

Out on the street, she stood hesitating, then she turned and walked briskly to the main street. She walked into the Plaza Hotel and into the Ladies' room. Here, she locked herself in a toilet, took the gun from her bag and, lifting her skirt, she pushed the gun down the front of her girdle. The touch of the cold steel made her shiver. She lowered her skirt, smoothed the cloth over the slight bulge, then, taking from her bag the extra cartridges, she lifted the flush lid and dropped them into the water. Then she left the toilet and the hotel.

She walked down the street, feeling the gun chafing against her skin. At the end of the street was a taxi rank. She headed towards it, then suddenly paused. She was right opposite Ashton's, the jewellers, and there was that gold watch beckoning to her. She hesitated for a long moment, then the thought of owning it overwhelmed her. She walked into the shop.

"Good morning, madame." The man behind the counter was tall, elderly and very refined. "Why, of course, it is Mrs. Whiteside. Your husband sold me a car last year. How is he?" As she stared blankly at him, he smiled, revealing plastic teeth. "I am Harold Marshall, Mrs. Whiteside. Your husband may have mentioned me."

This crummy town! Sheila thought. Like living in a fish bowl! She gave him a dazzling smile.

"Yes, of course. Mr. Marshall, it is our wedding anniversary next week. My husband wants me to have that gold watch . . . the one in the window."

"Now which one would that be?" Marshall said, going to the window and opening the grille.

She joined him and pointed.

"That one."

"Oh yes . . . it's quite the nicest design we have." He lifted the watch from its black-velvet bed. "It would make a splendid anniversary present. This is your first, I believe."

She wasn't listening, her eyes were on the watch.

"Let us try it on, Mrs. Whiteside."

She shivered as she felt the gold band grip her flesh. At last! Something she had longed for and dreamed about for months . . . now it was actually on her wrist!

"I'll take it."

He was slightly startled. She hadn't even asked the price! From what he had heard from the local gossip the Whitesides were always in debt.

"You couldn't do better, Mrs. Whiteside. I have a box."

"No, thank you. I'll wear it." She couldn't bear to be parted from the watch now she had it on.

"Of course. It is a self-winder. You will have no trouble, but if it gains a little bring it back. It will only need a small adjustment. You'll be happy with this for the rest of your life."

"I'm sure." She paused, staring fascinated at the watch, then, seeing he was becoming a little restless, she asked, "How much is it?"

He relaxed.

"One hundred and eighty dollars."

Well, she thought, I'm certainly spending money, and why not? Don't I own two and a half million dollars, but as she gave Marshall the second $500 bill, she thought of the little man waiting for her in the bungalow.

Then she became aware that Marshall was regarding the bill doubtfully.

"My husband made a killing at the Casino," she said hurriedly. "The first time he has ever won. Talk about luck! Two thousand dollars!"

Marshall smiled.

"Yes, indeed. You know, Mrs. Whiteside, although I admit I have often tried, I have never won a dollar at the Casino. I am very happy to hear Mr. Whiteside has been so fortunate."

"Yes."

He gave her change.

"Are you sure you don't want the box?"

"No, thank you . . . and thanks."

When she had gone, Marshall picked up the bill and frowned at it. He remembered the recent instructions he had received from police headquarters. A waste of time, he thought, but he wrote Sheila's name and address on the back of the bill before placing it in the till.

The time was twenty minutes to three. Tom Whiteside had been sitting at his desk, thinking of what Sheila had told him. The tension had become unbearable. He suddenly decided he must go home and find out what exactly was happening. Wiping his sweating hands, he got up and walked into the showroom.

Peter Cain, the head salesman, was talking to a client. Tom could see Locking talking to someone on the telephone through the gla.s.s wall of his office. He hesitated, then, as Locking hung up, Tom walked uneasily to the door, knocked and entered the office.

Locking frowned at him.

"What is it, Tom? I'm busy."

White faced, sweat glistening on his forehead, Tom said, "I have to go home, Mr. Locking . . . something I ate. I feel terrible."

People who felt terrible bored Locking. He shrugged his fat shoulders.

"Okay, Tom, then get off," and he reached for a file of papers. The unfeeling b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Tom thought as he walked to where he had parked his car. He got in, started the engine and drove fast down the highway.

Fifteen minutes later, his heart thumping, sick with apprehension, he drove into his garage and shut the doors. As he walked into the kitchen, he heard the TV was on. A voice, strident with excitement, was giving a commentary on a wrestling match.

He hesitated. What the h.e.l.l was going on? As he moved down the pa.s.sage, Sheila called softly to him from the bedroom. He found her sitting on the bed.

"Shut the door."

He did so, staring at her.

"What's happening? What . . . ?"

"He's a TV addict," Sheila said. "He's in there."

"He? Who?"

She clenched her fists with exasperation.

"The man the police are looking for . . . the fifth robber! I told you, you dope!"

"You really mean he's here? I thought you had gone crazy!" Tom stared at her, horror in his eyes.

"Must you always act like a brainless jerk?" Sheila said. "I told you . . . he found our address, thanks to you. He knows we have the money. He intends to stay here until it's safe for him to leave."

"He can't stay here!" Tom said wildly. "I'm going to call the police."

"You don't have to do that, Mr. Whiteside," Maisky said softly. He had opened the bedroom door so quietly neither of them had heard him come in.

Tom whirled around.

Maisky smiled at him. He wasn't wearing the white wig and he looked quite harmless in his clergyman's outfit until Torn looked into the grey snake's eyes and he flinched.

"I don't see what you have to worry about, Mr. Whiteside," Maisky went on. "There's enough money for all of us. Let's go into the living-room and discuss this quietly." Turning, he walked down the pa.s.sage and into the living-room. A little reluctantly, he turned off the television, then sat down.

Tom and Sheila followed him, hesitated, then took chairs away from him. Tom stared at him, unable to believe this frail little man could be at the back of the Casino robbery, yet scared of him. Those eyes and the mild smile chilled him.

"Now . . . the money," Maisky said, placing his fingertips together. "I am quite happy to take one and a half million for myself. That leaves you two a million. I think that is fair. After all, I engineered the plan. I shall have to remain here for a few weeks, but this I have already discussed with Mrs. Whiteside. You are being well paid for putting up with me. Do you accept these terms?"

There was a pause, then, as Tom was hesitating, Sheila said, "Yes . . . all right."

She was thinking if this little freak imagined he was going to walk out of here with a million and a half dollars, the joke would be on him. She thought of the .25 automatic she had hidden. When the time came for him to leave, he would walk into one h.e.l.l of a surprise.

Tom stared at her.

"We can't agree!" he exclaimed. "We're not keeping a dollar of the money! We could go to jail for twenty years! I've had enough of this! I . . ."

"Will you shut up, you gutless ape!" Sheila screamed at him. Her fury was so violent, it silenced him.

Maisky giggled.

"And they call women the weaker s.e.x," he said. "Well now, my pretty, so we are agreed?"

"You heard me, didn't you?" Sheila snapped at him.

Maisky smiled, his eyes glittering. She's dangerous, he thought, and greedy. Well, if she imagined she was going to get a cent out of this, she needed to have her pretty head examined. All the same, he would have to watch her.

"Fine." He appeared to relax. "Now that's arranged, and we don't have to worry our heads further about it, perhaps I could go on watching the wrestling. It amuses me." He got up and turned on the TV set. "A wonderful invention, Mr. Whiteside . . . a great time pa.s.ser."

Tom got up and walked stiffly into the kitchen.

As the strident, excited voice of the commentator began to fill the room, Maisky dismissed Sheila with a wave of his hand.

"Run along, my pretty," he said. "I am sure this must bore you."

She stared at him, then got up and joined Tom in the kitchen.

"Any coffee left, Chief?" Beigler asked, lighting a cigarette from the stub of another. He leaned back in his chair, his heavy frame making the chair creak.

"There's a drop," Terrell said and pushed the carton across the desk. "You smoke too much, Joe."

"Yeah." Beigler poured coffee into the paper cup. "That's always been my trouble." He drank the coffee and then picked up the long typewritten report that had come from the road blocks. It contained a twenty-page list of car numbers and car owners who had pa.s.sed through the road blocks on their way out of town. "This is getting us nowhere fast."