Well Now, My Pretty Part 18

She shrugged. It was only half past eleven. The morning seemed endless. She went into the lounge, hesitated before the TV, then, deciding there couldn't be any programme to hold her attention, she dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She was now beginning to feel sorry that she had agreed to stay in the bungalow all day. It was all right for Tom. He was getting around, talking to people. But she was now in prison! But she knew she daren't go out . . . suppose someone . . . but who? She sat up, frowning. The money was buried. Who could possibly come here and dig up the garden? It was a ridiculous thought. She hesitated, then decided she would go out. At least, she could go to the Sandwich Bar and have lunch. That would make a change from sitting in this dreary hole all day. Yes, she would do that.

She went into the bedroom and changed her shoes. As she was getting her coat out of the closet, the front-door bell rang.

If it's Dylan again, I'll kill him! she thought and marched angrily down the pa.s.sage and jerked open the front door. Then she stiffened, startled.

A small, slimly built clergyman stood on the doorstep. He was carrying a shabby suitcase and he looked at her, his grey eyes mild behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. His shock of white hair made two big wings under his black hat.

"Mrs. Whiteside?"

"Yeah, but I'm busy," Sheila said, curtly. "Sorry, we don't give to the church," and she began to shut the door.

"I have come about the money, Mrs. Whiteside," Maisky said gently. "The money you stole."

Sheila turned to stone. She felt the blood drain out of her face. The shock of his words made such a devastating impact on her, she thought she was going to faint.

He watched her reaction with a cruel little smile.

"I am so sorry to upset you like this." His cold, snake's eyes moved over her body. "May I come in?" He moved forward, riding her back down the pa.s.sage. He closed and locked the front door.

Sheila pulled herself together.

"Get out or I'll call the police!" she said huskily.

"That would be a pity, Mrs. Whiteside. Then neither of us would have the money. After all, there is enough for us to share . . . two and a half million dollars. Is this your living-room?" He peered into the room, then entered, setting down his suitcase. He took off his hat and walked over to the lounging chair, noticing with distaste the ashtrays spilling cigarette b.u.t.ts on to the floor, the used gla.s.ses standing on the sideboard, the film of dust everywhere and he grimaced. He had high standards of cleanliness. He decided this beautiful looking girl was a s.l.u.t. "Do you mind if I sit down? I haven't been too well recently . . . exciting times." He looked slyly at her and laughed.

She stood in the doorway, watching him, wondering what she should do. He must be the fifth robber the police were looking for, but got up like this! A clergyman! Then she realised his cleverness. No policeman would give him a second glance.

"I don't want you here," she said, trying to steady her voice. "I know nothing about the money . . . now, get out!"

"Please don't be stupid." He crossed one thin leg over the other. "I saw you and your husband take my car. The money was in the boot. When you brought the car back, the money wasn't in the boot. So ." He lifted his hands. "I don't blame you for taking it. What have you done with it?"

"It's not here. Ia"I don't know what you are talking about."

Maisky studied her. She moved uneasily as their eyes met. She had never seen such malevolent eyes. They sent a chill through her.

"Mrs. Whiteside, when I play a role, I like to remain in character. At the moment, as you can see, I am playing the role of a kindly, harmless clergyman." He paused, then leaning forward, his face a sudden mask of terrifying, snarling fury. "You had better make sure I remain that way, you stinking wh.o.r.e, or I'll teach you such a G.o.dd.a.m.n lesson you won't ever forget it!"

She was appalled at his viciousness and shrank back, her heart pounding. He stared at her, then relaxed. Suddenly he was mild and all smiles again.

"Do sit down, my pretty."

Unnerved, Sheila moved into the room and sat opposite him. She was really frightened. She felt this little horror would murder her at the slightest encouragement.

"What is your name?" he asked, mildly.

"Sheila." The word came reluctantly.

"A nice name." He put his finger tips together and peered at her over them, then he giggled. "You see, I am back in my role. Have you noticed the way clergymen use their hands? I should have been an actor. I watch people. I make a note of how they behave." He continued to smile his sly, cruel little smile. "But we were talking about the money. Where is it, my pretty?"

She thought of the soil on the garden path. He had only to look out of the kitchen window and he would know.

"We buried it in the garden last night," she said through dry lips.

"How clever of you! I think I would have done exactly the same." His eyes ran over her, lingered on her long legs, then he asked, "All of it?"

"Yes."

"Neither you nor your husband kept a few bills for your personal use?"

"No."

"Very sensible." He looked around the lounge and grimaced. "As I intend to stay here for a month or so, my pretty, I must ask you to keep the place cleaner. It is very sordid, don't you think? I am used to cleanliness."

Sheila felt blood rush to her face. Forgetting her fear of him, for this really touched her on the raw, she burst out, "You go to h.e.l.l. I don't want you here! I won't have you here!"

He regarded her, his snake's eyes suddenly cold.

"Oh . . . so you are still uncooperative?" He shook his head. "What a pity." His clawlike hand dipped into his pocket and he produced a small gun. He pointed it at her. Sheila drew in a hard, quick breath and pressed herself back against the chair. "Well now, my pretty, perhaps after all, I had better teach you a lesson. This little gun contains a strong acid. It is extremely effective at short range. It can peel the skin off your pretty face the way you peel an orange. Look . . ." He aimed the gun at her feet and squeezed the trigger.

A tiny cloud of white smoke appeared at her feet. When it had cleared, she saw with horror a small hole had been burnt in the carpet. She reared back as the fumes of the acid bit into the back of her throat.

Maisky chuckled.

"Impressive, isn't it? I suggest you keep this place cleaner in the future. Is that understood?"

She stared at him, unnerved, but furious. All right, you sonofab.i.t.c.h, she thought, you hold the cards now, but wait until it's my turn.

"Yes," she said.

"Good." Maisky dropped his gun into his pocket. "Let us now consider the situation. The police are hunting for me. This is an excellent hiding place. You are here to take care of me and the money is here . . . it is ideal. Now . . . you must have friends. Will they think it odd that you have a clergyman staying with you?"

"Yes."

"Of course. . . so we will have to find a reason why I am staying here. Now tell me, is your mother dead?"

"What has my mother to do with this?" Sheila demanded, startled.

"Come now, my pretty . . . I ask the questions . . . you answer them. That way we won't waste time. Is your mother dead?"

"Yes."

"Did she die here?"

"No . . . in New Orleans."

"Well, then, suppose I am the clergyman who buried her? I arrive here . . . you remember your dear mother . . . offer me hospitality . . . I accept. What could be simpler?"

"My b.i.t.c.h of a mother dumped me when I was twelve!" Sheila said viciously. "I only know she died because a guy she two-timed too often cut her throat. It was in the paper!"

Maisky looked shocked.

"Who else knows this sordid tale?"

Sheila hesitated, then shrugged.

"Well . . . no one. If you think you can get away with it . . ."

"Then that's settled." Maisky looked at his watch. "It is nearly twelve. I am hungry. What have you to eat in this place?"

"Nothing."

He regarded her, his head slightly to one side.

"I had an idea you would say that. Well, then, go and buy something. A nice steak, a green salad and French fried potatoes would do very well."

"I can't cook," Sheila said sullenly.

His eyes moved over her body.

"That again doesn't surprise me, but I can. Go and get the food." He settled more comfortably in the armchair. "Are you good at anything, my pretty? Do you give your husband pleasure in bed?"

"Oh, go to h.e.l.l!" Sheila went into the bedroom. She paused, then moved into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door. She took the three $500 bills from the Kleenex box and pushed them down the top of her stocking. Then she flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and, moving into the bedroom, she put on her coat.

Maisky was standing in the pa.s.sage as she came out of the bedroom.

"Don't be long, my pretty. I'm hungry."

"I'll need some money. I have only five dollars."

"Let me have your bag."

She handed it to him, thankful she hadn't put the three big bills in there. He opened it, looked inside, then closed it. He took a fat wallet from his pocket and gave her ten dollars.

"A nice steak. . . the best . . . do you understand?"

She moved past him, opened the front door and walked down the path.

Tom Whiteside was trying without success, to sell a Buick Sportswagon to an elderly client. They were in the G.M. showroom, surrounded by cars and Tom was saying, "Look, Mr. Waine, you can't beat this model. Look at the size of it. With your family, it's dead right for the job."

Waine had listened to all Tom's sales talk and he was still unconvinced. Now, Tom was beginning to bore him.

"All right, Mr. Whiteside, thanks for your time. I'll think it over." He shook hands. "I'll talk to the wife."

Tom watched him walk out of the showroom and he swore under his breath. This is always happening, he was thinking. I get the jerks right up the dotted line and then they walk out on me.

Miss Slattery, who ran the office, called to him.

"You're wanted on the phone, Tom . . . your wife."

Tom stiffened. Now, what the h.e.l.l? Was something wrong?

"I'll take it in my office," he said and hurried to his small box of a room and grabbed up the receiver. "h.e.l.lo? Sheila?"

"Listen and don't talk," Sheila said. She was calling from a booth in a drugstore. Quickly, she told him about Maisky. Tom listened, stiff with alarm.

"You mean . . . he knows we have the money?" he said. "Judas! We'd better call the police!"

"Will you shut up and listen," Sheila said, her voice harsh.

"There's nothing we can do . . . yet. We buried the money, didn't we? That makes us accessories. Tom . . . can you buy a gun?"

"A what?" Tom's voice rose a note.

"He has an acid gun. I don't trust him. We may even have to kill him," Sheila said. "We must have a gun."

"You're mad! Kill him? What are you talking about?"

"Can you buy a gun?"

"No! Of course I can't!"

"Yes, you can. Any p.a.w.nshop will sell you a gun. Bring it back with you!"

"But I haven't the money. Besides . . ."

Sheila drew in a long breath of exasperation.

"You cheap, useless fool! Well, come back as soon as you can," and she hung up.

"Sheila!" Tom jiggled the crossbar, then slammed down the receiver. His hands were shaking, his heart hammering. The intercom buzzed. For a moment he hesitated, then pulling himself together he snapped down a switch.

"Oh, Tom, here's Mr. Cain. He's waiting for his Caddy," Miss Slattery told him.

"Coming," Tom said and got to his feet.

What was Sheila talking about? Killing the man? Not quite knowing what he was doing, he walked into the showroom.

Sheila left the Paradise Self-Service store, carrying one of their blue-and-white plastic bags that contained a steak, a packet of frozen chips, a bag of beef sandwiches and a carton of ice cream. She walked quickly along the sidewalk, turned left down a narrow street and slowed. Ahead of her, she saw the three golden b.a.l.l.s hanging outside Herbie Jacobs' p.a.w.nshop. She had been there several times when they had been so short of money they had had to p.a.w.n Tom's cufflinks and her gold bracelet that Tom had given to her for a wedding present. She opened the shop door and entered.

Jacobs came from an inner room.

"Ah, Mrs. Whiteside, it is indeed a pleasure." The little man was wearing a skull cap. He stroked his greying beard as he beamed at her. What a beauty! he was thinking. What a lucky guy Whiteside was! Imagine going to bed with a beauty like this every night. Nothing to pay! His for the taking!

"I'm going on a trip, Mr. Jacobs," Sheila said, smiling at him. "I wonder if you can help me. Tom thinks I should have a gun. I'm driving . . . alone. Can I buy a gun from you?"