Well Now, My Pretty Part 22

Beigler picked up the telephone receiver.

"Charlie? Get me Mr. Locking of General Motors."

Terrell put down his cup of coffee and regarded Beigler with worried eyes.

There was a short delay, then Beigler said, "Mr. Locking? This is Sergeant Beigler, City Police. Sorry to bother you, but I have a little query you could help me with. With a Buick coupe, can the ignition key open the boot or do you have to have a separate key?" He listened, then said, "Thanks, Mr. Locking . . . much obliged," and hung up. He looked at Terrell. "The ignition key can open the boot of a Buick coupe, Chief."

Terrell sat back.

"Whiteside said it couldn't?"

Beigler nodded.

"That's what he said."

They looked at each other, then Terrell pushed back his chair and stood up. As Beigler once again slid his .38 into its holster, the telephone bell rang. Impatiently, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver.

"The Head Teller of the Florida Bank is asking to speak to the Chief," Tanner told him.

Beigler pa.s.sed the receiver to Terrell.

"For you, Chief. The Florida Bank."

"Yes?"

"Chief, this is Fabian, Florida Bank. We have one of the marked $500 bills just come in from Ashton, the jewellers. The name on the bill is Mrs. Whiteside, 1123, Delpont Avenue."

Terrell looked over at Beigler, then asked, "You're sure it is one of the marked bills?"

"I'm sure."

"Thanks, Mr. Fabian. Keep the bill for me, please," and he hung up. "Get Lepski and Jacoby," he went on to Beigler. "You're right on the target, Joe. She's already spent one of the bills. Let's go."

"I'm still on the target," Beigler said. "That little runt . . . Father Latimer. Is it likely people like the Whitesides would have a clergyman shacked up with them . . . could be Maisky."

Terrell suddenly grinned.

"The trouble with you, Joe, is you're getting too smart. Come on, let's go."

Seeing the .25 automatic on the floor, Maisky bent and grabbed at it. Tom struck it out of his hand. The gun fell between them. Cursing, Maisky again bent to grab it, but Tam kicked it under the bed.

"Cut it out!" he said.

Maisky straightened. He glared at Tom, his eyes wild.

"Yes . . . I have something better than that for that wh.o.r.e!" As he made to leave the room, Tom grabbed him by his shoulder and whirled him around.

"I said . . . cut it out!"

Maisky's face worked convulsively.

"Do you think I'm going to let that b.i.t.c.h get away with this?" he shrilled. "The plan of a lifetime . . . two and a half million dollars, and because of her G.o.dd.a.m.n greed, she queers it! I'll strip the skin of her face." His clawlike hand slid into his pocket and he pulled out the acid gun.

Tom hit him hard on the side of his jaw, grabbing the gun out of his hand at the same time.

There seemed to be an explosion inside Maisky's chest. He fell on his knees. The pain for a brief, dreadful moment was beyond his endurance. Although he tried to scream, no sound came. Then darkness folded in on him and there was nothing. He flopped limply face down on the floor.

Sheila came to the doorway. She looked at Maisky's body, then at Tom. Her face was white and granite hard.

"I'm pulling out," she said. She saw the gold watch on the floor and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

Tom gripped her wrist and wrenched the watch out of her grasp.

"Get out!" he said. "You're not taking this! This goes to the police!"

She drew back regarding him, her smile sneering and contemptuous.

"You poor sucker," she said, "Will you never learn?" Turning, she went into the pa.s.sage, then hesitated. Her mind was working fast. She had eleven hundred dollars . . . not much. She wondered if that little freak had any money. She ran into the second bedroom. His shabby suitcase stood against the wall. She put it on the bed and snapped back the clips. She found no money in the suitcase, but there was a jar of Diana hand cream amongst his dirty s.h.i.+rts. Diana hand cream! for G.o.d's sake, she thought. It cost $20 a jar! What could a little creep like him be doing with this! She dropped it into her handbag.

Well, she thought, with eleven hundred dollars, I'll get by. I came to this G.o.ddam City with nothing . . . at least, I am leaving with something.

She went into the tiny hail and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her coat. There was a Greyhound bus due in five minutes. She could just make it to Miami. Once there, she could drop out of sight. She started for the front door.

"Sheila!"

She paused and looked at Tom as he stood in the doorway.

"I'm going . . . . so long, Cheapie, and thanks for nothing," she said and jerked open the door.

"He's dead," Tom said. "Do you hear? He's dead!"

"What do you expect me to do . . . bury him?" Sheila asked and started down the path.

She half ran, half walked towards the bus stop, carrying her death in her handbag.

The End.