Well Now, My Pretty Part 8

Maisky edged the Buick into the hide. He was having great difficulty with his breathing and he was now seriously alarmed. The dull pain in his chest was acute. He was feeling on the point of collapse. He had been mad, he told himself, to have tried to shift the carton without unloading it. He had probably strained his heart. He snapped off the headlights.

Well, he would now have to rest. Here, he was safe. He was sure of that. The police would never think of looking for him in this glade. The thing to do was to get up to the cave, taking it slowly, then lie down on the bed of blankets. In an hour or so, he would feel better.

But when he opened the car door and began to get out, a shocking pain struck him in his chest, making him fall back against the seat, his clawlike hands clutching at his chest. For a horrible moment, he thought he was going to die.

He half lay, half sat, waiting, and the pain gradually receded: like a savage animal that had pounced, struck at him, and then drawn back.

He realised he had suffered a heart attack, and his thin lips came off his teeth in a snarl of frustrated fury. After all his planning, all his trouble, the danger and the risks he had taken and just when he was within sight of owning two million dollars . . . this must happen to him!

He remained motionless for more than an hour, trying to breathe gently, terrified to move lest the pain struck him again. He thought of all the money locked in the boot. There was no hope now of getting it up to the cave. It would have to remain in the boot and he would have to hope the hide was good enough to conceal the car should someone pa.s.s nearby, but it was essential for him, somehow, to get himself up to the cave where the contents of his medical chest might save him.

As he lay waiting for his strength to return, he thought of the young man he had shot. How long would his body remain undiscovered? Had anyone heard the shot? There had been a number of transistor radios blaring on the beach. Their noise might have covered the sound of the shot. The police were certain to connect the shooting with the robbery. The truck was there to tell them. He wondered if the others had got away. The chances were that they had, but if one or more were caught, would they talk? Would they give the police a description of him?

He was now beginning to feel a little better, although very weak. Cautiously, holding on to the side of the car, he drew himself upright. He waited, thinking of the steep climb to the cave with dismay. Well, if it took him the rest of the night, he just had to get up there.

Before starting off over the rough gra.s.s, he looked at the boot of the Buick. He again thought of all that money, alive in his mind, but locked out of sight. There was nothing he could do about that . . . anyway, for the moment. Perhaps after a good sleep and a rest, he would be fit enough to move the money up to the cave.

Walking very slowly, his hand pressed against his chest, Maisky made his way cautiously up to the cave.

Mish and Chandler reached Maisky's bungalow around four a.m.

The bungalow stood under a group of palm trees within fifty yards of the sea. It was served by a narrow road that went on to a number of small bungalows and cabins, out of sight and some distance away.

As the two men approached the shabby little building, Chandler caught hold of Mish's shoulder, halting him.

"There's a car . . . look . . . to the left."

In the shadows, Mish could just make out a small car parked to the left of the bungalow. He squinted at it, frowning, then he pulled his gun from his hip pocket.

"That's not Maisky's car . . . it's a sports job."

"Whose then?"

"Let's go and find out," Mish said and began a cautious move forward.

"You don't think . . . the cops?" Chandler hung back.

"Not in a sports job . . . it's a T.R.4," Mish said impatiently.

The two men approached the car, keeping in the shadows. They paused when they were twenty yards or so from it and looked at the bungalow, which was in darkness.

"Maybe he had trouble with the Buick," Chandler said. "It's a bad starter. Maybe he used this one if he couldn't get the Buick to start."

"Yeah . . . that could be it," Mish said, relaxing. "I tell you, he's a real smart cookie. Yeah . . . that must be it," and he walked quickly to the T.R.4 and paused beside it.

The light of the coming dawn was spreading across the sky and the light was sufficient for Mish to see the dark stains on the white leather of the bucket seats. He frowned at them and looked at Chandler who had joined him.

"What's this?"

Mish touched one of the stains with his finger tip, feeling wet stickiness, and then holding his hand up to the growing light, he drew in a sharp breath.

"Judas! It's blood!"

"Maybe he was. .h.i.t," Chandler said, uneasily. "He could be dead in there."

They moved quickly up the path that led to the front entrance of the bungalow, paused, listened, then Mish, gun in hand, eased open the door and the two men stepped into the stuffy, tiny hall.

"Maisky?" Mish said, raising his voice. "You there?"

"No . . . I am . . ." Perry said from the living-room. There was no giggle in his voice and it sounded far away. "Get in here quick!"

Mish jerked open the door, stared into the gloom, then his hand groped for the light switch, found it and snapped it down.

Perry sat in an armchair. He held a blood-soaked cushion against his belly. There was blood on the floor, his right trouser leg was black with blood. His washed-out blue eyes were slightly out of focus.

"I'm bleeding like a G.o.ddam pig," he said huskily. "Do something about it."

While Chandler stood staring at him, Mish went quickly into the bathroom and opened the cabinet door above the washbasin. His small eyes narrowed when he saw the cabinet was empty. He remembered the previous day when he had cut his hand opening a can of beer, Maisky had taken him into the bathroom and the cabinet had been well stocked with all kinds of first-aid and medical equipment. He ran into Maisky's bedroom, opened one of the drawers in the chest to find that empty too. Cursing, he s.n.a.t.c.hed off the cover from the bed, ripped a sheet off and came back into the sitting-room.

Mish had dealt with many wounds in his past. He snapped to Chandler to get hot water and to hurry.

Twenty minutes later, Perry was lying on the settee. His fat face was drained white, but his wound had been skilfully bandaged. For the moment, at least, the bleeding had stopped.

While Mish was working on Perry, Chandler had gone through the bungalow.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d ratted on us!" he said, returning, his face white with rage. "I told you! He's pulled out!"

Perry opened his eyes.

"Get that car out of the way. Dump it somewhere. If the cops spot it . . ." He tried to go on, but faintness overtook him and his eyes closed.

Mish and Chandler looked at each other.

"Yeah . . . you lose it, Jess," Mish said. "If someone spots those bloodstains, we'll have the cops here like a swarm of bees."

"He ratted on us!" Chandler repeated.

"One thing at the time . . . get rid of that car!"

Chandler hesitated, then left the bungalow. Mish watched him through the window get in the car and drive away.

He looked around the room, saw a half bottle of whisky on the table and made a drink.

"Here . . ." he said, bending over Perry, who drank greedily.

"The little b.i.t.c.h . . . she shot me . . ." Perry murmured. He giggled. "She was a good lay . . . she . . ." He drifted off into unconsciousness.

Mish wiped his sweating face. There was a battered radio on one of the bookshelves and he turned it on. Then going into the kitchen he got a pail of hot water and a swab and, returning to the living-room, cleaned up the mess of blood on the floor. He also washed the armchair, although he couldn't entirely efface the bloodstains.

A voice suddenly broke in over the swing music: "We interrupt this programme of dance music coming to you from Paradise City Station XLL with a news flash. The Great Casino robbery. The police have issued the following descriptions of the three men wanted in connection with the robbery . . ." There followed a fairly accurate description of Mish, Chandler and Perry. "These men are dangerous. If seen, please telephone Police Headquarters. Paradise City 7777."

Mish grinned uneasily. Well, the heat was now on. That old man in the gla.s.s box wasn't such a dope as he had looked. He snapped off the radio.

He poured himself a shot of whisky, drank it and then went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty and so was the store cupboard. Mish rubbed the back of his neck. He was hungry. Worried, he went back and stood looking down at Perry, shaking his head.

Perry had been shot in the stomach. The bullet had cut through a layer of fat and had nicked an intestine. Mish knew the wounded man badly needed hospital treatment, but that was out of the question.

What did he mean about a girl shooting him? Mish wondered.

He poured himself another drink, lit a cigarette, then cursed when he saw he had only two more left in the pack.

He was sitting brooding when Chandler, twenty minutes later, returned.

"Okay?" Mish asked.

"I dumped it." Chandler was jumpy. "Way out on the beach behind a sand dune. Listen, Mish, on the way back I've been thinking. We better get the h.e.l.l out of here . . . go back to our hotels and sweat it out. At least we have some money."

Mish grinned.

"Not a chance, boy. It came over the radio half an hour ago. They have our descriptions. You haven't a hope of getting back to your hotel or getting out of the City. We have to stay right here if we are going to survive."

Chandler stared at him, his face tight with frustrated rage.

"Do you think he's coming back?"

Mish shook his head.

"No . . . I guess he's taken us for suckers. Beats me . . . I really thought I could have trusted him. He's pulled out . . . taken everything with him and the dough."

"If ever I run into him again I'll kill him!" Chandler said.

Mish shrugged.

"One of those things, boy, but at least, we are in one piece." He looked at the unconscious Perry. "Not like him."

Chandler looked coldly at the wounded man.

"Who cares?" He dragged open his shirt collar. "If I don't have a cup of coffee, I'll blow my stack."

"Go ahead and blow it. There's not a d.a.m.n thing left . . . no food . . . nothing except that whisky. You got any cigarettes?"

"Used my last one." Chandler stared at Mish. "We can't live here without food."

"We show ourselves on the street and we're cooked. We have to stay under cover." Mish thought for a moment, then asked, "Have you any friends here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Someone who would bring us supplies without asking questions?"

Chandler then remembered Lolita. Would she do it? Had she heard the radio description of him and if he contacted her would she give him away to the police? He decided he could trust her. She had been in cop trouble herself . . . nothing bad, but the cops were always shoving her around, stopping her entering the better restaurants, leaning their weight on her.

"You might have an idea," he said. "There is a girl . . . maybe she would do it. Is the phone working?"

"I don't know . . . should be."

Chandler went over the telephone, lifted the receiver and listened to the rea.s.suring dialling tone. He concentrated for a few seconds, trying to remember the telephone number she had given him. Was it Paradise City 9911 or 1199? He decided it was the latter number. He was very good at memorising his girlfriends' telephone numbers. He dialled the number and waited. There was a long pause, then Lolita said sleepily, "Yes?"

Chandler nodded to Mish, then in his most persuasive manner, charm oozing out of his deep baritone voice, he began to talk.

chapter five.

By midday, Chief of Police Terrell had an almost complete picture of the Casino robbery.

Reports, telephone calls, Telex communications between Headquarters and the F.B.I. had swiftly built up a picture of the method of the robbery and a description of the men involved. A set of fingerprints had been found on the tool box left in the Casino's control room. Back came a report from Washington with Mish Collins' photograph and record. Another set of fingerprints found on the gla.s.s box at the vault's entrance identified Jack Perry, known as a vicious Mafia killer. They had Jess Chandler's description from Sid Regan, but so far had failed to turn up his record.

Terrell pushed aside the heap of reports and reached for the carton of coffee.

"Time off, Joe," he said and poured the coffee into two paper cups. Thankfully, Beigler reached for one of them and lit yet another cigarette. He had been working non-stop since the robbery and he was feeling bushed.

"Well, we are coming along," Terrell said after a thoughtful sip from his paper cup. "We know four of the men . . . one dead, but there's the fifth. It's a funny thing, Joe, but no one seems to have seen him. We have a good description of the other four, but not the fifth man. I'm willing to bet a buck, he is the man who planned the robbery. We do know he was driving the truck, but no one noticed him at the wheel. When trouble started, he took off. What I'm wondering is . . . did he rat on the others or was it agreed that if trouble started, the other men should look after themselves and he should look after the money? Lewis tells me there are two and a half million dollars missing. That's a lot of scratch. He could have been tempted to make off with it, and ditch the others."

Beigler nodded.

"Where does that get us?" he asked, not unreasonably.

"It's a thought." Terrell finished his coffee, hesitated whether to refill his cup, decided not to and picked up another report. "If he has ratted on the others and we catch any of them, they could talk. I want to find No. 5 very badly."

"We haven't caught any of them yet . . ." The telephone bell rang and Beigler grimaced. "Here we go again." He scooped up the receiver. He listened for several moments, his face hardening, then he said, "Okay, Mr. Marcus . . . sure, I understand. I'll be right over. Yeah . . . I know where you are." He scribbled on a pad, then he repeated, "I'll be right over," and hung up. He looked at Terrell who was looking at him. "That was Sam Marcus. He runs a Self-service store . . ."

"I know him," Terrell said impatiently. "What about him?"

"His daughter, Jackie, was on the beach last night with a party. They were in a hurry to get home, but as Mr. and Mrs. Marcus were away for the night, Jackie stayed on for a last swim. As she was getting into her car . . ." Terrell listened as Beigler talked, then Beigler concluded, "Here's the pay-off. This man was fat, elderly, white-haired. He was wearing khaki trousers and he had a gun. It looks like Jack Perry. After the creep had raped her, she got his gun and plugged him in the belly. She ran off and he took her T.R.4 . . . but he is wounded. Like it, Chief?"

Terrell's face turned grim.

"Where's the girl?"

"Marcus found her when they came home this morning. She was in shock. The doctor's there now. As soon as she could tell the story, Marcus telephoned."

"Okay, Joe, get over there. Make certain the girl isn't romancing. Perry's description has been on the air. One of her boyfriends might have laid her and she is blaming Perry. Check her story out."