HARRY LEWIS, Director of the Casino, neatly parked his black Fleetwood Cadillac in a vacant parking bay outside police headquarters, cut the engine and slid out into the early morning sunshine.
Lewis, tall, thin, elegantly dressed, was moving into his late fifties. He had been in charge of the richest Casino in the world now for fifteen years. He had the air of affluence and supreme confidence that only a background of extreme wealth can give a man.
He walked up the steps and into the Charge Room, where the desk sergeant, Charlie Tanner, was coping with a mass of drunk-incharge-of-a-car reports.
Seeing Lewis, Tanner dropped the reports and jumped to his feet.
’Morning, Mr. Lewis. Something I can do?”
Lewis always recieved V.I.P. treatment from the police. They were well aware of his generosity at Christmas and Thanksgiving Day. Every detective and every patrolman received a sixteen- pound turkey and a bottle of Scotch on these two festivals, and they realised this generosity must cost a whale of a lot of money.
“The Chief in?” Lewis asked.
“Sure, Mr. Lewis. You go right on up,” Tanner said. “How’s your wife, Charlie?”
Tanner grinned happily. This was another thing about Lewis. He seemed to know everything about everyone in Paradise City. Tanner’s wife had just come out of hospital after a difficult miscarriage.
“Fine now, Mr. Lewis… and thanks.”
“You must take care of her, Charles,” Lewis said. “We men take our wives too much for granted. Where would we be without them?” He flicked a folded bill across the desk. “Fuss her… women like being fussed.”
He walked over to the stairway that led to Chief of Police Terrell’s office. Tanner’s eyes grew round when he saw the bill was for $20.
Lewis tapped on Terrell’s door, pushed it open and walked into the small, sparsely furnished room.
Chief of Police Terrell, a massively built man with sandy hair, turning white at the temples and a jutting, aggressive jaw was pouring coffee from a carton into two paper cups. Sergeant Joe Beigler, his right-hand man, watched the coffee with an eye of an addict while he rested his big frame in a creaking, upright chair. Both men stiffened as Lewis walked casually into the little room. Beigler got to his feet. Terrell reached for another paper cup, smiling.
“Hello, Harry… you’re early,” he said. “Have some coffee?” Lewis took Beigler’s chair, shaking his head.
“You two… you seem to live on coffee,” he said. “Busy?”
Terrell lifted his massive shoulders.
“We’re starting the day… nothing very special. Something on your mind?”
Lewis selected a cigarette from a gold case. Beigler was quick to give him a light.
“At this time of the season, Frank, I have always plenty on my mind,” he said. “But tomorrow’s something special. I thought it would be an idea to talk to you. Tomorrow, we are expecting twenty top class gamblers from the Argentine who are really out to win some money from us. These boys don’t give a damn how much they lose. We have the job of coveting their play. There will be a lot of money in the Casino and I thought some police protection might be sound. Think you can help me?”
Terrell sipped his coffee, then nodded.
“Of course. What do you want, Harry?”
“I am moving three million dollars in cash from the bank to the Casino tomorrow morning. I’ll have four of my guards with the truck, but I would also like a police escort. That’s a lot of money, and I want to be sure it arrives all in one piece.”
“That’s easy. We’ll have six men with you,” Terrell said.
“Thanks, Frank, I knew I could rely on you. Then I would like three or four of your men at the Casino in the evening. I don’t anticipate trouble. I have twenty good men of my own, but I think it would have a depressing effect on anyone with ambitions to see the police were around too.”
“I’ll fix that. You can have Lepski and four patrolmen.” Lewis nodded.
“Lepski would be just the man. Well, thanks, Frank.” He tapped ash off his cigarette, then went on, “What’s the situation like? Anyone here I should know about?”
“No. We have had a number of hopefuls, but they have been recognised and turned back. From the reports I’ve been looking at we haven’t one really dangerous specimen in town.” Terrell finished his coffee and began to fill his pipe. “You can relax, Harry. I’m satisfied. We have really been working on this thing. There is, of course, the odd chance that some amateur might have a try at you, but with the extra precautions, you don’t need to worry.” He regarded Lewis thoughtfully. “You have no reason to worry, have you?”
“No reason… I worry just the same.”
“Well, don’t. What time are you collecting the money from the bank?”
“Ten-thirty sharp.”
“Okay. I’ll have my men at the bank and they will escort you. Okay?”
Lewis got to his feet.
“I think I will relax,” he said and shook hands.
When he had gone, Beigler reached for the carton of coffee.
“Three million dollars!” His voice was outraged. “What a goddam waste of money! Think what one could do with all that dough… and it’s going to be used to give a bunch of Spicks a thrill.”
Terrell eyed him, then nodded.
“It’s their money, Joe. It’s our job to take care of it for them.” He flicked down the switch on his inter-corn. “Charles? Where’s Lepski? I want him.”
At seven o’clock on this Friday morning, Serge Maisky got out of bed, put on the coffee percolator and then took a shower. He shaved with a cut-throat razor, dressed, then went into the small kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Carrying the cup into the shabby living-room, he sat down and sipped the coffee.
So far, he decided, everything was going according to plan. Jess Chandler was staying at the Beach Hotel. Perry was at the Bay Hotel, Mish Collins was at the Sunshine Hotel and Wash was at the Welcome Motel. Tonight, the four men would come to his bungalow and rehearse their particular jobs. He was now satisfied, having met the men, that he had a team he could rely on. Mish Collins’ choice had been sound.
He finished his coffee, washed up the cup and saucer, then went to a closet where he had stored two five-gallon plastic containers. These he filled with water from the kitchen tap. He then collected a fair-sized carton full of canned food from another closet in the kitchen. He carried the carton to his Buick and put it in the boot. He then went back and carried out the two plastic containers which he also put in the boot.
His movements were slow and deliberate. He was feeling his years. He was sharply conscious that he was sixty-two and exertion of any kind didn’t agree with him.
He paused for a long moment to make certain he had forgotten nothing, then, remembering the batteries for his flashlight, he collected them from a drawer in his living-room and now decided he was ready to go.
He locked the door of his bungalow and then walked to his car, slid under the driving wheel and started the motor.
Thirty minutes later on the highway out of Seacombe, which was a suburb of Paradise City, Maisky edged the car on to the far right-hand lane, then swung off on to a dirt road that led in a climbing drive into the pine forest that circled the outskirts of Seacombe and Paradise City.
The road was narrow and he drove with care. One never knew, even at this early hour, if someone might come belting down the road which was scarcely wide enough to take two cars. But he met no one. Finally, after driving through the forest for twenty minutes, he again swung off the dirt road and on to a narrow track, leading into the depths of the forest. He slowed long enough to inspect the sign that he himself had painted and erected two days ago. The sign read: Game Preserve. Private. Keep out. He gave a nod of approval as he continued up the track. The sign was weathering. He had to admit it was well executed, and it looked convincing.
A few seconds later, he slowed the car and then edged it off the track, bumping over the hard, dry ground into a small glade which he had discovered during his thorough search of the district for a safe hide. Here, he had already built a canopy of tree branches and uprooted shrubs: a task that had taken him several days. Under this canopy, he drove the Buick. Getting out, he took from the boot the water containers, paused long enough to assure himself that he was completely on his own, then, walking at a steady pace, he moved out of the glade, brushing through the undergrowth, and climbed a path that led to a tree- covered hill.
A two-minutes slow walk, leaving him slightly breathless, brought him to a mass of dead wood, branches and brown leaves. He pulled some of the branches aside, then, ducking under them, he moved into a dark, dank-smelling cave, completely hidden by the camouflage of branches he had erected during the past week.
He paused in the cave to get his breath back. He was a little disturbed that he was so breathless, and there was a small, but ominous pain nagging in his chest. He set down the water con tainers, then waited. A few minutes later, he began to breathe more freely, and he took out his flashlight and turned the powerful beam around the cave.
Well, he thought, I can’t expect miracles. I am getting old. I am doing too much, but at least, so far, everything is going the way I have planned it.
He swung the beam of the flashlight on the sleeping bag, the stores of provisions, the transistor radio and the medical chest: the necessities he had put in this small cave for a six-weeks’ stay.
He went to the entrance of the cave to listen, then, satisfied that he was entirely on his own, he went down to the car to collect the rest of the things he had brought with him. Once again, he made his journey up to the cave, moving more slowly, feeling the growing heat of the sun now on his back as he climbed the hill.
Again he checked the contents of the cave to satisfy himself that he had forgotten nothing. Then nodding, he went outside, and very carefully arranged the tree branches to hide completely the entrance.
He went down to the Buick, got in, looked up at the mass of branches and dead leaves that shielded his hideout, nodded his approval, then, reversing the car, he drove back to his bungalow at Seacombe.
Lana Evans opened her eyes, blinked at the sunlight coming through the yellow blind, moaned a little, and then turned over, hugging the pillow to her. But in a few moments she was wide awake. She sat up in bed and looked at the bedside clock. The time was ten minutes after nine o’clock.
She flicked back the sheet, swung her legs to the floor and went into the bathroom. Her toilet completed, she came back into the dreary little sleeping-cum-living-room and went to the chest of drawers. From under her meagre stock of linen, she took out a roll of $100 bills. She got back to bed and surveyed her fortune. She felt the blood move through her with excitement mixed with fear. Suppose someone at the Casino found out what she had told this little man? She was now certain he was planning to rob the Casino. She looked at the money and forced herself to shrug her shoulders. After all, the Casino could afford to lose money. They were stinking rich and she…
Then she moved uneasily, frowning. How to explain to Terry how she had suddenly acquired all this money? That wasn’t going to be easy. Terry was jealous. He suspected every man working at the Casino was after her… in a way, he was right, they were, but she wasn’t after them. This, he found difficult to believe. She would have to be very careful how she explained to him about her sudden wealth. The money, exciting at first, now began to worry her. She got out of bed and re-hid the money under the freshly laundered bed linen.
She went over to the window and drew up the blind. She looked down at the distant sea, the sun reflecting on the still, blue water and the sailing boats with their yellow and red sails moving out of the harbour.
If only she could tell Terry the truth, she thought, but he was so dreadfully correct. No, this was something she had to keep to herself. She got back into bed and her eyes alighted on the box of Diana hand cream. She picked it up and undid the wrapping.
He may be a crook, she thought, but he has style.
She no longer believed in the New Yorker myth. He had given her two thousand dollars - an enormous sum to her - for information which she had given him. This was a transaction that would ride rough shod over her conscience for the rest of her life. But this little box of hand cream - the de luxe of de luxe hand creams - must mean that there was a lot of kindness in him, even if he had lied, bribed and corrupted her.
She unscrewed the cap and regarded the white cream ointment that smelt faintly of crushed orchids. With infinite care and with pleasure she spread the deadly cream over her hands. But she found herself a little depressed that this luxury treatment didn’t give her the pleasure she hoped it would. Her mind was too occupied. She put the cap back on the jar and the jar back on the bedside table. She began again to concentrate on the problem of how to convince Terry that there was no man involved in her sudden wealth.
Later, still worrying, she shut her eyes and dozed. She kept telling herself that it would work out all right and she would convince Terry. Sometime this afternoon, she would go to an Estate Agent and inquire about a one-room apartment.
An hour later, not aware that she had fallen asleep, she woke with a sudden start, feeling surprisingly cold. Puzzled, she looked at the bedside clock to see it was now twenty minutes to eleven. She thought of a cup of coffee, but she now had no inclination to get out of bed. She not only felt chilly, but lazy and torpid. This growing feeling of chill alerted her… was she becoming ill? Then suddenly, without warning, bile rushed into her mouth and, before she could control the spasm, she vomited over the bedclothes. She felt her hands had turned to fire.
Alarmed, she tried to throw off the bedclothes and get out of bed, but the effort was too much for her.
Her body was now icy cold and clammy and yet her hands burned, and there was a terrible burning sensation in her throat.
What is happening to me? she thought, terrified. Her heart was racing and she had difficulty in breathing.
She forced herself out of bed, but her legs wouldn’t support her. She folded up on the floor, her hand vainly reaching towards the telephone that stood on a near-by table.
She opened her mouth to scream for help, but a disgusting, evilsmelling bile choked her, rising into her mouth, down her nostrils and on to her pink, shortie nightdress.
The black, sleek Persian cat who she fed as a routine of love every morning came to the open window thirty minutes later. The cat paused expectantly, regarded the still body lying in a patch of sunlight, twitched its whiskers, then dropped from the window into the room with a solid plop of paws.
With the selfish indifference that is natural to a cat, it walked purposefully to the refrigerator in the kitchen. It sat before the refrigerator, waiting with anxious impatience.
At eight-thirty p.m. Harry Lewis left his office, took the red velvet-lined elevator down to the second floor, nodding to the boy who ran the elevator.
The boy, immaculate in the bottle-green and cream uniform of the Casino, his hands in white cotton gloves, his tanned face shiny, ducked his head, gratified to be recognised.
This was Lewis’s favourite hour when the Casino began to come alive. He liked nothing better than to go out on to the big, overhanging balcony and look down on the terrace below, where his clients were drinking, talking and relaxing before going to the restaurant and then into the gambling rooms.
The full moon made the sea a glittering, still lake of silver. It was a warm night with a slight breeze that moved the palm trees, surrounding the terrace.
He stood for a long moment, his hands resting on the balustrade, as he looked down at the crowded tables below. He saw Fred, the head barman, moving from table to table, taking orders, passing them to his various waiters, pausing to make a discreet joke or to exchange a word with an habitué, but always efficient, seeing that no guest had to wait for a drink.
“Mr. Lewis…”
Lewis turned, raising his eyebrows. This was his ritual moment when he disliked being disturbed, but seeing the pretty, dark girl at his side, he smiled. Rita Wallace was in charge of the vault. She had worked now for Lewis for five years, and he had found her completely dependable, supervising the work of the vault with a calm, efficient manner that make the exacting work easy for the other girls.
“Why, Rita… good evening.” Lewis regarded her. “Something wrong?” He asked the question automatically. He never saw Rita unless there was some problem she couldn’t solve, and that was seldom.
“I’m a girl short, Mr. Lewis,” she said. He regarded her neat, black dress and wondered how much she had paid for it. Lewis had that kind of mind. He was curious about everything. “Lana Evans hasn’t come in.”
“Oh? Is she ill?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Lewis. I called her apartment an hour ago, but there was no answer. I must have another girl. Could I have Maria Wells from the general office?”
“Yes, of course. Tell her I hope she will help us out.” Lewis smiled. “I think she will.” Then he thought, looking at Rita inquiringly, “Odd about Lana. I can’t remember her taking a night off without letting us know. You say she doesn’t answer her phone?”
“That’s right, Mr. Lewis.”
Lewis shrugged.
“Well, try again later.” He smiled, nodded and dismissed her. This was a domestic problem he knew she could handle. As she left him, he turned once again to survey the lower terrace, then satisfied that everything was working with its normal clockwork efficiency, he made his way through the big gambling hall.
At this hour only fifty or sixty habitués were at the roulette tables: elderly, rich residents of Paradise City who remained rooted to the tables from midday to midnight.
He caught the eye of one of the croupiers who had been in his service for the past eleven years. The man, fat, sleek, with bulging eyes, gave him a dignified nod as he guided a stack of chips with his rake to an old woman who reached out her little fat fingers to welcome them.
Lewis walked into the restaurant and had a word with Maitre d’hôtel Giovanni whom he had stolen from the Savoy Hotel, London, at a considerable cost. There were a few early tourists, studying the enormous menus that a suave Captain of Waiters had presented to them. In another hour, the restaurant would be a maelstrom of hungry, noisy people.
“All well, Giovanni?” Lewis asked.
“Perfect, sir.” The Maitre d’hôtel lifted a supercilious eyebrow. The very suggestion that it couldn’t be well in his restaurant was an implied insult.
Lewis studied the menu that Giovanni handed him. He nodded.
“Looks excellent. Tomorrow is the night. Anything special?”
“We have grouse and salmon from Scotland. Baby lamb from Normandy. The plat de jour — for the tourists — will be coq au vin. Monsieur Oliver of Paris is sending us by air his new dish… lapin et lamproie.”
Lewis looked suitably impressed.
“So we won’t starve?”
The tall, thin Maitre d’hôtel flicked away an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate dinner jacket.
“No, sir. We won’t starve.”
Lewis moved through the restaurant, noticing that each table had a bowl of orchids cunningly lit from below. He thought Giovanni’s table decoration excellent, but he wondered about the cost, for Harry Lewis was an extremely practical man.
Out on the terrace, amid the noise of the chatter and the soft music of the band, he paused until he caught the eye of the head barman. Fred, thickset, short, slightly ageing, moved towards his master, a happy grin on his fiery red face.
“Going to be a big night, sir,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Not right now, Fred. Tomorrow is going to be the night.”
“I guess. Well, we can take care of it.”
Seeing flicking fingers across the terrace, Fred turned and hurried away.
Satisfied that his machine was working smoothly, Lewis returned to his office. He had still a number of letters to deal with before he had a simple meal served on his desk. He was unaware that Jess Chandler, sitting alone at a table away from the band, nursing a whisky and soda, watched him leave the terrace.
Chandler was uneasy. Maisky’s plan seemed sound, but he was worried at the enormity of the task. Here, after spending an hour or so on the terrace, watching, seeing all these people, arrogant and so confident in their wealth, the steady movement of the guards, .45 revolvers at their hips, the feeling of solidarity that the Casino exuded, made Chandler realise that this was a millionaire’s bastion that was protected alarmingly well, and that anyone planning a robbery was taking on more than a major opertion.
He had no misgivings about his own part in the operation. He was quite happy with the role that Maisky had given him. It was just the right job for him. He was completely confident that he could talk his, way into the vault. What really worried him was that Maisky had picked Jack Perry for the operation. Chandler knew all about Perry. This man wasn’t human. In a squeeze, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill, and violence to Chandler was something he had always avoided and feared. If Perry started a massacre — and he might well do — then they all in real trouble. He knew Mish was a clever technician. He knew nothing about Wash nor did he care, but Perry scared him.
Suddenly sick of the luxury surrounding him, he paid his check and walked into the gambling rooms. For a moment he paused to look around, noting the four uniformed guards who stood by the box elevators that conveyed the money up and down to the vaults. They all looked young, aggressive and alert. Grimacing, he walked across the ornate lobby where he collected his passport from the Check-in office. There was a big crowd coming in: every woman wore diamonds and had a mink stole — the uniform of the rich. Chandler was aware that some of them looked at him with interest, their bored eyes lighting up. Not in the mood, he ignored them.
As he walked down the flat, broad steps into the garden of the Casino, he saw Jack Perry, wearing a tuxedo, a cigar between his teeth, corning towards him. Chandler turned away from the approaching man and made his way down a narrow path that led to the beach.
Maisky had told them all — not Wash, of course — to take a look at the Casino and to familiarise themselves with the background of the place. Now, Perry had arrived, but Chandler had no wish to be seen with him.
After walking down a long flight of steps, he found himself on the broad promenade that ran around the Casino’s private bathing beach.
There were still a number of people in swim suits on the beach, some sitting at tables, drinking, others in the sea. He paused to watch a couple water-skiing, holding a flaming torch in their hands and both very expert. Then he continued on his way, leaving the Casino beach and taking the circular road that would eventually lead him back to his hired car which he had parked near the entrance to the Casino.
Out of the shadows, a girl came towards him. She wore a white dress with a frilly wide skirt, decorated with a rose pattern design. She was very tanned and exciting to look at. Her dark hair framed her face and hung to her shoulders. She carried a guitar in her hand.
Because she was different to the rich bitches of the Casino and also somehow vaguely familiar, Chandler paused and smiled at her.
She stopped and regarded him. A cheap brooch of paste diamonds in her hair caught the overhead light and flashed.
“Hello, Jess…”
He stiffened, then quickly relaxed. He had no idea who she was. The trouble with me is, he thought wryly, there are too many women in my life. I know I’ve met her before, but who is she?
“Hello, baby,” he said with his charming smile. “That’s a beautiful body your dress is wearing.”
She laughed.
“You said exactly that very thing two years ago when we met almost right on this spot… but you wouldn’t remember.”
Then he did remember. Two years ago he had come to Paradise City because a pal of his had the crazy idea of walking into the Casino with ten armed men and clearing the tables. He had quickly backed out of that plan and his pal, discouraged, had decided that maybe the idea wasn’t all that hot.
Chandler had liked the City and had stayed on for a week. It was while he was wandering around the back of the Casino that he had met this girl. He even remembered her name. Lolita (that was one hell of a name now) Seravez. She came from Brazil and made a tricky living working the lesser-class restaurants, singing and playing her guitar. But Chandler had found her love technique stimulating and interesting. He had had no trouble about that. They had looked at each other, and there was a sudden fusion, and ten minutes later, they were holding each other on the hot sand, oblivious to anything except their lust.
“Hi… Lolita,” he said. “This is the nicest moment of my life. Let’s go somewhere where we can be alone.”
“My Jess… the one-track mind.” She regarded him affectionately. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t let’s waste time talking about a thing like that.” He hooked his arm in hers. “Let’s go look at the sea and feel the sand. Baby… if you knew how glad I am to see you.”
“I’ve got the idea,” she said, going with him. “It’s mutual. I’m glad to see you.”
Washington Smith lit another cigarette. He was sitting by the open window of his small, airless cabin at the Welcome Motel. Maisky had warned him not to -show himself until ten o’clock when he had a rendezvous at Maisky’s bungalow. This, Wash accepted. No one wanted to see a shabbily dressed negro on the streets. Questions would be asked. The police would converge on him. People would stare at him in that contemptuous way only the rich whites can stare at a negro.
Mish Collins, stretched out on the bed, was examining the blueprints of the Casino’s electrical wiring. He had come over in his hired car to collect Wash. They still had half an hour before they need leave for Maisky’s bungalow.
“What are you going to do with your share, Mish?” Wash asked, turning away from the window.
Mish laid down the blueprint. He fed a cigarette to his lips and set fire to it.
“Well… three hundred thousand dollars! Yeah, it’s a lump of money, isn’t it? I’ve been making plans. I’m going to buy me a small boat. I’ve always wanted a boat. Nothing very elaborate, but big enough to live on. I’ll find me a girl and then she and I will take a look at the Keys. I reckon that would be fun, just to keep sailing, stopping when I feel like it, changing the girl when I get bored with her, eating well. That’s the life for me.” He turned on his side so he could look at Wash. “How about you?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor,” Wash said. “I’ll use some of the money to train. Then, with the rest of it, I’ll buy a practice in New York.”
“For Pete’s sake!” Mish was startled. “Do you think you can make it?”
Wash nodded.
“Of course. Given the means, and if you make up your mind, there isn’t anything a guy can’t do.”
“Yeah… but all that study! Jeepers! It wouldn’t suit me. Don’t you want a girl, Wash?”
“I want a wife and family, but that will have to wait.” Wash let smoke drift down his flat nostrils. “Think we are going to get away with this, Mish?”
“Why, sure. Maisky is a real, bright boy. We’ll get away with it… I promise you that. I wouldn’t have brought you into it, Wash, if I hadn’t been sure myself.”
“It won’t be as easy as he makes out.”
“Well, okay, we can’t expect it to be easy. You don’t pick up three hundred thousand dollars without sweating a little.”
“No.”
Wash turned back to the window and Mish, after looking thoughtfully at him, picked up the blueprint, but now he found he couldn’t concentrate. A doctor! he was thinking. This dinge certainly had big ideas. What the hell makes him imagine anyone would want to be treated by a little smoke like him?
Mish found himself growing resentful. He could understand a guy when he was in the money wanting a woman, a boat and lots to eat and drink, but this idea of becoming a doctor irritated him. Who the hell would want to be a goddam doctor if he had money? he asked himself. That was the point. This was something that jarred his philosophy. He knew a doctor ran around all the time, never had any peace, got night calls, sat in a dreary office listening to people moaning about themselves — jerks who would be better off dead — what an ambition for anyone to have who owned three hundred thousand dollars!
He put down the blueprint and again looked at Wash as he sat staring out of the window. Then he shook his head and shrugged. Well, the hell with it! Why should he care?
Half an hour later, the two men got out of Mish’s hired car, carrying a suitcase each and walked up the narrow path that led to Maisky’s bungalow. A light showed through the curtains, and the door opened immediately when Mish thumbed the bell push.
Maisky waved them in.
“I hope everything so far is well,” Maisky said as he led the way into the small, shabbily furnished sitting-room. Jack Perry was already there, lounging in the only comfortable chair in the room, a cigar burning evenly between his teeth. He nodded indifferently as the two men came in.
Maisky went over to a table on which stood a bottle of Scotch, glasses and a container of ice.
“Chandler is still to come,” he said, “but we can start without him.”
He made two drinks after Wash had shaken his head. Mish dropped his large body into a chair that creaked under his weight. He accepted the drink, then watched Maisky hand the other drink to Perry.
“I will ask you to try on your uniforms,” Maisky said. “I think they will fit. I have taken trouble with them. Then we will go through the whole plan.”
A ping on the doorbell made him break off. He went to the front door and returned with Chandler, a suitcase in hand.
Chandler came into the room, nodded to the other men, set down the suitcase and accepted a drink. Watching him, Maisky realised he had been with a woman. The relaxed, satiated expression on the handsome face was enough to tell Maisky this. It didn’t worry him. He was confident enough in Chandler to know that he wouldn’t talk, even to a woman.
“There is one thing that is important,” Maisky said, sitting on the edge of the table, “which I forgot to mention last night. When Jess and Wash get into the vault, they will find the money is packaged in five, ten, twenty, one-hundred and five-hundred-dollar bills. You two will take only the five-hundred-dollar bills. There isn’t a great deal of space in the carton and we want as much money as we can get. But you must also take as many five-dollar bills as you can carry in your pockets. On this money we will have to live for three or even six weeks. I am still not sure that the five-hundred-dollar bills aren’t marked. So while the heat is on, we must only spend the five-dollar bills… understand?”
“Marked?” This from Mish. “You think they would mark their big bills?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it, but we mustn’t take any chances. Until the heat has cooled off, we will not spend one single five-hundreddollar bill.”
The four men nodded.
“Well, you all know the plan and you have had time to think it over. Have you any suggestions?” Maisky looked around, his head slightly on one side, his eyes probing.
“This cylinder of gas,” Mish said. “I could fix a gimmick so that the gas was released when they open the carton. Would that help?”
“And what would happen to them? The gas operates in ten seconds.” Maisky sounded a little impatient. “They must have their gas masks on before the gas is released.”
Mish scratched his thick nose and shrugged.
“Yeah… well, it was an idea.”
Chandler said, “Suppose we work through the whole plan? The timing has got to be exact. Why does Mish have to put the air conditioner on the blink?”
“If the temperature is too low, the gas isn’t efficient. It will work, of course, but not so fast. It is essential that the room isn’t cold.”
“About the timing… aren’t we cutting it fine if Mish starts operating at two-thirty?”
“That is right.” Maisky slid off the table, went to a drawer and took out a sheet of paper, “I have revised the schedule. It’s all here. You will each be given a copy. But before we go into that, I want you all to try on your uniforms.”
Ten minutes later, Chandler, Perry and Wash had on the I.B.M. service uniforms and found no fault with them. Mish was wearing the Paradise City’s Electricity Co’s uniform.
“Yes, they will do very well,” Maisky said after a careful inspection. “Now, I will show you the truck.”
“Just a second,” Chandler said. “How did you get hold of these uniforms?”
Maisky regarded him, his gentle smile in evidence.
“You are very curious, my friend. I have many contacts. A tailor who owes me a lot was happy to make them… you need not worry. He won’t talk.”
“Who cares?” Mish said enthusiastically, regarding himself in the mirror on the wall. “They are great.”
“Yes… the fit is good,” Maisky said. “Now let me show you the truck.”
He led them through the kitchen and into the double garage where a small truck was parked beside his Buick. On each of its sides was a bold painted sign: red letters against a white background. It read:
I.B.M. THE BEST CALCULATORS IN THE WORLD. WE DELIVER AND SERVICE AROUND THE CLOCK.
“You did this?” Mish asked, staring in obvious admiration.
“Yes… I think I can say there isn’t much I can’t turn my hand to,” Maisky said, obviously pleased. “I have installed a gimmick on the dashboard so that with a lift of a lever, these signs can be jettisoned. We must not forget that once the robbery has been discovered, the truck will be red hot and we must get rid of these signs.” He opened the double doors at the rear of the truck. Inside there was a long bench seat. “There will be room enough for you all to ride in the truck, except, of course, Mish, who will arrive and get away in his own car. There is also an arrangement by which I can change the number plates by another gimmick. The plates swivel over and new ones take their place.” He demonstrated the changing of the plates while the four men watched, then with the air of a salesman, he said, “I have found a safe place, a mile from the Casino, where we will dump the truck. I will have my car there.” He looked at Chandler, “I will ask you to follow me in your car tomorrow morning so that you can drive me back, after I have left my car. The sooner we get rid of the truck after we have the money, the better.” He paused, looked at the four men, then asked politely, “Are there any questions?”
Chandler regarded the truck. He felt much more relaxed. The more he listened to this little man explain his plan, the more confident he became of success.
“What happens if we run into trouble at the Casino?” he asked. This was a question that was haunting him.
“What kind of trouble?” Maisky asked, raising his eyebrows. His calmness again added to Chandler’s growing confidence. “I don’t anticipate trouble.”
“You can’t say that… none of us knows,” Chandler said sharply. “We might not get into the vault.”
Maisky shrugged.
“In that case, we don’t get the money… it’s as simple as that. But I am sure you will get into the vault.”
“What happens if we get the money and someone sets off the alarm?”
“No one will set off the alarm because Mish will have put it out of action.”
Chandler moved uneasily. He was searching for trouble. “Suppose some guard gets nosy?”
“Then Jack will take care of him.”
There was a long pause, then Chandler said, “You mean he will kill the guard?”
“Listen, buddy-boy,” Perry said in his soft, giggling voice, “don’t worry your gut about what happens to who. You take care of your job… I’ll take care of mine.”
“We are going to make three hundred thousand dollars each out of this operation,” Maisky said. “You have to break eggs to make an omelette.”
Chandler looked at Mish and Wash.
“Do you two want to get yourselves tied up in a murder rap?” he asked.
“Now, wait…” Maisky’s voice was sharp. “I am satisfied that this operation will work. We don’t have to consider violence. You are looking for trouble that doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t want to be tied to a murder rap,” Chandler said, and there was sweat on his face.
“Then what the hell are you here for?” Perry said. “Look, buddyboy, be your age. Do your job and keep your worry gut of a mouth shut.”
Again there was a pause, then Chandler, thinking of all that money, suddenly shrugged.
“So, okay… I keep my mouth shut…”
Mish said, now a little uneasy, “But suppose it does turn sour? Just what do we do?”
“It won’t, but I agree with you, we should know what to do,” Maisky said. “Whatever happens we come back here… if we have the money, we split it and go on our own ways… if we haven’t got it, we still split up, but let us make this place here, which is quite safe, a meeting place after the operation.”
Chandler hesitated, but he was now committed. He wasn’t too happy, and he was scared of Perry, but the thought of all that money pushed him to agree.
“Okay… the uniforms are fine… the truck is fine… now let’s look at the schedule.”
Maisky smiled.
“Of course.”
He led the way back to the bungalow.