Well Now, My Pretty Part 6

Keeping his face dead pan, his eyes slightly surprised, Chandler said, "Emergency, pal. We've just changed the calculator in the vault." He was a little uneasy to hear his voice sounded so husky. "Mr.

Lewis's orders." He slammed the other door of the truck. "My luck! What a time to have an emergency."

"Hold it!" O'Brien snapped. "Open up. I want to look in the truck."

Chandler stared fixedly at him.

"Know something, pal? I want to get home. But okay, take a look," and he opened one of the truck doors.

O'Brien peered in the dark truck.

"What's in that box?"

"The calculator . . . the one that's broken down," Chandler said, now aware that he beginning to sweat.

"You got a pa.s.s-out?" O'Brien asked.

"Why, sure . . . old man river gave it to us," Chandler said and jerked his thumb towards the gla.s.s box where Regan was watching what was going on.

"I want to see what's inside that box," O'Brien said. "Open it up."

Perry, listening, eased out his Colt .38. To the short barrel there was screwed a four-inch silencer.

Chandler felt sick. This was about to become the moment of violence he had been dreading, but without hesitation, he pulled the carton towards the end of the truck.

O'Brien moved forward. His broad back was turned to Perry. Wash, watching, felt his heart constrict. This fool! he was thinking. This conscientious fool! If he could only let the truck go!

Listening to all this, Maisky put the clutch out and gently moved into gear.

Perry lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger as...o...b..ien reached forward to open the carton.

The .38 slug smashed through O'Brien's rib cage and cut his heart in two. The sound of the gun was no more than the sharp clap of hands.

O'Brien fell forward as Maisky released the clutch and sent the truck shooting forward.

For a brief moment Perry remained motionless . . . a wisp of smoke drifting from his silencer, then he jerked up the gun and fired once more. The slug smashed through the door of the truck that had swung shut as the truck shot forward.

For a paralysed moment, Sid Regan watched his old friend O'Brien as he fell, then with a reaction astonis.h.i.+ng for a man of his age, his hand slid under the desk to where a .45 revolver had lain, gathering the rust, for several years; a gun O'Brien had given him and which Regan had treated as a joke. His h.o.r.n.y fingers found the trigger, hooked around it and pulled with violence. The gun in the confined s.p.a.ce went off with a nerve-shattering bang, the bullet ploughing through the wooden part.i.tion of Regan's box and whistling past Chandler so close that he felt the wind of it against his face.

As Regan fired, he rolled off his stool and out of sight behind the wooden part.i.tion.

Perry swivelled around, lifting his gun, but Chandler's tense voice halted his murderous impulse.

"Get out! Quick!" Chandler cried and, turning, he ran up the alley.

Realising in seconds he would have a ma.s.s of guards converging on the entrance to the vault, Perry followed him.

Wash, shaking with shock, moved out of the shadows and bent over O'Brien. His first thought was to see if he could help the murdered man. He turned him over. The light from the doorway fell directly on O'Brien's dead face and, shuddering, Wash straightened. This was no one he could help. He looked to right and left, hesitating. His legs were shaky. There seemed no other way of escape except up the narrow, orange-tree-lined alley. As he stared up it, Tom Lepski, gun in hand, came swiftly down. Wash stopped, hesitated, unaware he held his gun in his hand, then in a moment of panic, he plunged towards Lepski.

Lepski's gun banged once and Wash was thrown backwards. He felt a burning sensation in his chest then the stars and the big floating moon dimmed into slow, empty darkness.

Sergeant Joe Beigler suppressed a yawn, then reached for a carton of coffee that stood on his desk. He poured coffee into a paper cup, then lit a cigarette. He looked around the dimly lit Detectives' room. The only other officer on duty was Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby who was crouched over a desk, reading a book.

"What the h.e.l.l are you reading?" Beigler asked. He never read anything and resented those who did.

Jacoby, the keenest officer in the City's police force, young, Jewish and good looking, glanced up.

"a.s.simil . . ."

Beigler blinked at him.

"a.s.sy . . . who?"

Patiently, Jacoby explained. "It's a French course. I'm trying to learn French, Sergeant."

"French?" Beigler sat back, astounded. "What the h.e.l.l for?"

"Why do you learn anything?" Jacoby asked.

Beigler considered this, then he scratched his head.

"But French . . . for Pete's sake!" Beigler's fleshy face suddenly brightened. "You reckon on going to Paris, Max?"

"I don't know. Anything's possible."

"You want to parlez with the girls . . . that it?"

Jacoby controlled a sigh.

"That's it, Sarg," he said, glad not to explain that he wanted to better himself.

"Listen, son, I've been to Paris," Beigler said seriously. "You don't have to talk French. If you want a girl, you just whistle. It's that easy. Rest your brains . . . you'll need them for your job."

"Yes, Sarg," Jacoby said and went back to the adventures of Monsieur Dupont who was ordering a coffee and making a tremendous fuss with the waiter.

At this moment, the telephone bell on Beigler's desk shrilled. Beigler scooped up the receiver with a large, hairy hand and listened to the voice that hammered against his ear drum, then he said, "Stay with it, Tom. I'll get Hess to you," and he slammed down the receiver. As he began to dial, he said without looking at Jacoby, "Call the Chief, Max. Robbery at the Casino. Two men dead," and then as Jacoby dropped his textbook and grabbed at another telephone, Beigler was already speaking to the Headquarters Control Room. "Alert all check points . . . robbery and murder at the Casino. All cars to be searched. Warning . . . these men are dangerous. Road blocks on all major and minor roads. They haven't been gone more than three minutes. Immediate action. Alert Hess." He waited only to hear the quiet, efficient voice of the controller say, "Okay, Sarg," and then he hung up.

He swivelled around in his chair and looked at Jacoby, who was just replacing his receiver.

"The Chief's coming," Jacoby said.

"Okay, Max. You stay here. I'm going down to the Casino." Beigler once again lifted the receiver. "Hess on duty?" he asked when the acting desk sergeant answered.

"Yeah. He's across the road, having a beer."

Beigler hung up, checked to see he was carrying his gun, then, struggling into his jacket, he left the Detectives' room, taking the stairs three at a time.

chapter four.

Chief of Police Terrell arrived at the Casino twenty minutes after the shooting. This was pretty fast going considering he had been in bed and asleep when Jacoby had called him.

Already the Homicide Squad, under Frank Hess, was at work. Dr. Lowis, the police surgeon, with two other doctors who had been in the Casino and had come to his aid, were working on the four unconscious girls and the two guards. The bodies of Mike O'Brien and Was.h.i.+ngton Smith were being photographed. Sergeant Beigler was trying to cope with Sid Regan. The old man was still in shock, but that didn't stop him from being garrulous. What he was saying was so mixed up, Beigler had trouble in controlling his temper.

Five cars, packed with patrolmen, had arrived, and the officers were now holding back a vast crowd of people, all anxious to get a glimpse of the bodies.

Harry Lewis, white-faced but calm, greeted Terrell as he slid out of his car.

"They've got away with nearly all our cash," Lewis said. "It's a disaster, Frank. We'll have to close the Casino tomorrow."

"They may have got your cash, Harry," Terrell said quietly, "but they haven't got away . . . yet. Let me get into the picture. You take it easy," and he walked over to Lepski, who was waiting for him. "What happened, Tom?"

Briefly, Lepski told him. He had heard a shot, rushed down to the vault, met the negro, who had shown fight, so Lepski had shot him.

While Terrell was listening to Lepski's report, Beigler spotted his Chief. He said to Regan, "Okay, you relax. I'll be right back. Just stay where you are," and he hurried over to Terrell.

"Well, Joe?"

"The old guy has seen them all, but he is in shock," Beigler said. "We'll have to be patient with him, Chief. Once he has got his balance, he should be able to give us a description of all the men involved. Seems there were three of them, plus the driver of the truck, who seems to have lost his nerve or else he ratted on his pals. As soon as...o...b..ien started trouble, the driver took off in the truck. At least the old man has given me a description of the truck and the licence number. I've already alerted the road patrols. The truck can't get far. It hasn't a chance of getting past the road blocks."

Terrell nodded. He was thankful he had a crew he could completely rely on.

"You keep working on him, Joe. We must have a description of all the men as soon as we can and then we will get the descriptions on the air. Watch him . . . he could be our star witness. See he's protected."

"Yes, Chief."

As Beigler went back to Regan, Terrell walked down the pa.s.sage to the vault.

Dr. Lowis was standing by the unconscious bodies of the four girls laid out on the floor. The other two doctors were working anxiously on Hank Jefferson. Bic Lawdry was already showing signs of coming to life.

"Well, doc?" Terrell asked, pausing in the doorway.

"The girls will be all right," Lewis said. "It was some kind of paralysing gas. The container is on the floor over there. I haven't touched it. This chap . . ." He indicated Hank, "is in a pretty bad way. He must have had a heavy dose. The other guard will be all right."

Terrell's keen eyes moved around the vault. He took a plastic bag from his pocket and very carefully rolled the empty gas cylinder into it, then he sealed the bag as Harry Lewis came in.

"My doorman tells me that a Corporation electrician was in the control room without authorisation," he said. "He tells me the man reported a breakdown . . . there wasn't one. He must have been one of the gang."

"I'll talk to him," Terrell said. "How was it he didn't report to you?"

"It would seem my staff are having it too good," Lewis said, a bite in his voice. "This is going to cost him his job. I'll take you to him."

Beigler was talking to Sid Regan again.

"Let's skip the background build-up," he said impatiently. "What I want to know . . ." He paused as Lewis and Terrell came up the pa.s.sage. "This old guy is driving me nuts," he said to Terrell. "I just can't keep him on the beam."

"Let me handle him," Lewis said quietly. He walked over to Regan who was sitting in his gla.s.s box, his eyes blank, but still talking. "Sid!" The firm voice made Regan lift his head. "You did a fine job," Lewis went on, putting his hand on the old man's arm. "Thanks . . . now, you can help the police find these men. They want a description of them. I know your photographic memory, Sid . . . no one like you to remember details . . . just think for a moment. There were three of them . . . is that right?"

The blankness went out of Regan's eyes. He nodded.

"You're right, Mr. Lewis. I remember them," and then he began to talk sense, so fast, Beigler, notebook in hand, had difficulty in keeping up with him. "There was this short, fat guy with snow-white hair. . . he had a tattoo mark on his left hand . . . no, I'm wrong. . . it was his right hand . . . a girl with her legs apart. I've seen that before . . . you close your fist and her legs close. He was grinning all the time . . . blue eyes . . . then there was . . ."

"Keep talking, Sid, I'll be right back," Lewis said, patted the old man's shoulder, then, jerking his head at Terrell, he led the way out into the hot, still night.

Once clear of the Casino, Maisky slowed the speed of the truck, but he still maintained a steady forty miles an hour. He knew all the side roads that led eventually to the sea: a honeycomb of narrow lanes which he had studied now for months. He drove a hundred yards or so along the broad highway that led to Miami, then turned off down a narrow road. Once away from the highway, he flicked up the lever of his dashboard and the two I.B.M. signs dropped off the truck, banging down on the road. Slightly accelerating, he continued on down the road for the best part of a mile, then he turned left, and driving more slowly, he went down a narrow road, lined either side by luxury villas; another left turn brought him to the sea.

His plan was working out exactly as he had foreseen. He had been certain that trouble would start at the Casino. He had known O'Brien would be the explosive spark to start the trouble for he had watched the security guard night after night and had known to the minute when he would visit the vault. This was the only reason why he had included Jack Perry among the members of the gang. He wanted Perry to start trouble. It would then give him the chance of driving away and leaving the rest of them on their own. It had been like looking in a crystal ball . . . the events predicted . . . the events taking place.

His heart beat a little faster when he thought what might have happened if his planning had been wrong. But it hadn't been wrong, and now he was on the second leg of his operation to own two million dollars without having to share a dollar of it.

He drove the truck down on to the firm sand of the lonely beach where he had left his Buick. Speed was essential, he kept reminding himself, aware that his breathing was too fast and that he was sweating. There wasn't a second to waste.

Chandler knew of this hiding place. He had gone with Maisky that morning so that he could drive Maisky back after Maisky had left the Buick. There was a remote chance that Chandler would get away, find transport and come down to the hiding place. He might just possibly arrive at any moment.

Maisky manoeuvred the truck so that its rear b.u.mper was close to the Buick's rear b.u.mper. He slid out of the truck, ran around to the back of the truck and swung open the double doors. The light from the moon was sufficient for him to see the carton containing the money he had plotted to own for so many, long careful months. He leaned into the truck, caught hold of the carton and attempted to pull it towards him.

The carton remained motionless as if bolted to the floor. Its unexpected weight sent a surge of alarm through Maisky. He hadn't antic.i.p.ated the carton could possibly be so heavy. Again he heaved his puny strength against the dead weight. The carton s.h.i.+fted a few inches and then again became immovable.

Maisky paused. Sweat was streaming down his thin face and he was shaking. The night was stiflingly hot. In the far distance, he could see people still enjoying themselves on the beach, some in the sea, others playing ball in the moonlight. There was a sudden, alarming stab of pain in his chest, and, with a feeling of dread, he realised the carton was too heavy for him to manhandle into the boot of the Buick.

Maisky was a man who never panicked, but at this moment, he had to make a stem effort to control himself as he was forced to accept the bitter truth that his age and his health weren't up to coping with this carton of money. To increase the pressure of panic, here was this possibility that Chandler or worse a" Perry a" might suddenly arrive.

He climbed into the truck and took the lid off the carton. No wonder it was so heavy! For a long moment, he squatted on his thin haunches, staring at the packets and packets of $500 bills. Then, working feverishly, he began to toss the packets into the open boot of the Buick. As he worked, feeling choked and hot in the stifling truck, he became more and more aware of the laughter and shouts of the people not more than eight hundred yards from him, enjoying themselves in the moonlight.

Every now and then, he paused to look along the deserted beach to his left . . . it was from this direction that either Chandler or Perry or both would come.

Finally, with an effort that exhausted him, he emptied half the carton, then scrambling out of the truck, he dragged the carton, that was still almost too heavy for him to handle, from the truck into the boot of the Buick. He then had to replace all the packets of money back into the carton before he could shut the door. One packet of money dropped in the sand. The paper band broke and a sudden, unexpected breeze sent some of the $500 bills careering towards the sea.

Such was Maisky's greed that he began to chase the bills, but, realising the danger of wasting more time, he slammed shut the boot, slid under the steering wheel and switched on the ignition. He pressed down on the accelerator. The engine gave a cough, but failed to start.

Maisky sat rigid, his hands gripping the wheel, sweat blinding him. Cautiously, he again pressed down on the accelerator. The engine kicked, whined and then was silent.

For several seconds, Maisky cursed vilely. He had been out of his mind to have tried to save money buying a secondhand car! He remembered another occasion of no importance when he had tried to start the car and had had trouble . . . so much trouble that he had had to telephone a breakdown garage to come out and start the car. But now there was no telephone, no breakdown garage and he was in trouble with this sonofab.i.t.c.h car. Once again he tried, and once again the engine failed to start.

He turned off the ignition, opened the glove compartment and took out a .25 automatic. He slid the gun into his jacket pocket, then he opened the engine cover. He peered into the dark interior. His heart was slamming against his ribs alarmingly and his breathing was coming in short, jerky bursts.

Cursing, he went to one of the sidepockets of the car, took out a flashlight and returned to the engine. He peered at the ma.s.s of wiring which meant nothing to him. He jerked at one or two of the cables in the hope that one of them had come loose, but he only succeeded in burning his hand on the hot cylinder head and getting black grease on his s.h.i.+rt cuff.

"You got trouble?"