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 Washington 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’Brien 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 passage 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 passage. “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 glass 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 bumper was close to the Buick’s rear bumper. 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 anticipated the carton could possibly be so heavy. Again he heaved his puny strength against the dead weight. The carton shifted 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 — Perry — 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 sonofabitch car. Once again he tried, and once again the engine failed to start.
Hp 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 mass 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 shirt cuff.
“You got trouble?”
The sound of a man’s voice just behind him sent such a stab of alarm through Maisky’s frail body that he thought he was about to have a heart attack. He leaned against the wing of the car, cold, shocked with fear, as the voice went on, “Could be oiled up, you know. It’s the heat.”
Very slowly, Maisky turned.
A young man… not more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing only a bathing slip, his tall body so deeply suntanned, he looked almost black in the moonlight, was standing close to him.
“I guess I startled you,” the young man went on. “Sorry. I saw you trying to start her… I’m pretty good with cars.”
Maisky was aware that the moonlight was falling directly on him. This young man with his young eyes and his young memory would be able to give the police a dangerous description of him. This was something Maisky had planned all along must never happen.
“You… are… very… kind,” he said slowly, trying to control his breathing, trying desperately not to alert this young man that he was terrified. “Perhaps you could see what is wrong.” He offered the flashlight.
He felt the warm, firm flesh as their hands met. The young man took the flashlight.
Maisky stepped back. He glanced again up the beach, aware of the passing minutes, aware that Chandler, Perry or even the police might arrive at any moment. He was also aware of three $500 bills lying in the sand close to the young man’s feet. His hand crept to his jacket pocket. He drew the .25 gun and snicked back the safety catch. He held the gun down by his side.
“Your points are dirty,” the young man said. “Have you a rag?”
With his left hand, Maisky gave him his handkerchief.
“Use that… it doesn’t matter.” He was surprised to hear how shaky his voice sounded.
The young man worked for several minutes, then stepped back.
“Try her now.”
“Perhaps you would,” Maisky said, moving away from the car.
The young man slid under the steering wheel, turned on the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator.
The engine fired immediately and Maisky drew in a sharp breath. For a long moment, he hesitated, then he remembered
Lana Evans. He had killed her. One more death now didn’t matter.
“It’s okay,” the young man said as he got out of the car. He suddenly stared down at his feet, seeing the three $500 bills in the sand. “Hey! Are these yours?”
As he bent to pick up the bills, Maisky took a quick step back, and then aiming his gun at the young man’s bent head, he squeezed the trigger.
Mish Collins was shutting the lid of his tool box when he heard the distant sound of a gunshot. He straightened, a red light flashing in his mind.
That meant trouble! In a few minutes, the place would be swarming with police and security guards. He snapped off the light in the control room, then, leaving the tool box, he began to walk quickly up the narrow alley. Then he heard another shot and he flinched, his hand groping for the butt of his .38 automatic, stuffed into his hip pocket.
He paused at the head of the alley. Across the way, he could see his parked car. The doorman of the Casino was looking tensely away to his right. A scattering of people, enjoying the hot, night air, stood motionless, also looking in the same direction. Then Mish saw two Security guards, guns in hand, come running down the steps of the Casino and go off to the right.
Mish gave up the idea of using his car. He turned left and, not walking too fast, he made his way under the arc lights that floodlit the face of the Casino. During the seconds he had to walk under the blazing lights, he expected to hear shouts or the bang of a gun.
What the hell happened? he wondered, wiping the sweat off his face. Then suddenly he was out of the light and into the shadows.
A familiar voice said, “Keep moving. I’m with you.”
Chandler had appeared and fell into step beside him.
“What happened?” Mish asked, not pausing.
“Shut up!” Chandler snapped. His face was white and his eyes glittering. There was an edge of panic in his voice that set Mish’s nerves tingling. “Let’s get down to the beach! For God’s sake, don’t run!”
“Who said I was going to run! Goddam it! What happened?”
“Shut up!” Chandler repeated, slightly hurrying his stride.
In a few moments, as the wail of a police siren cut the air, the two men reached the promenade. They plunged down on to the beach.
Not far from them was a party of young people, grouped around a barbecue, its charcoal fire making a splash of red in the moonlight, the smell of grilling steaks savoury in the hot, still air. They were too busy laughing and talking to notice the two men as they slid into the shadows of the languidly swaying palm trees and sank on to the sand.
“What the hell happened?” Mish demanded, ripping off the blouse of his uniform. He felt stifled.
“Trouble… it’s a murder rap now,” Chandler said, trying to steady his voice. “That punk Perry shot a guard!”
Mish had spent too many years of his life mixing with killers to be impressed by violence.
“How about the money?”
Chandler took a long, deep gulping breath. His body was now jerking and shuddering as he remembered how Perry had slaughtered the tough Irish guard.
“We got it… Maisky ran out on us… he took the money with him.”
Mish regarded him, his small eyes narrowing.
“What’s the matter with you? What are you so worked up about?”
Chandler swung around and grabbed hold of Mish’s shirt front.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? That bastard Perry killed…”
Mish’s heavy, fat hand slapped across Chandler’s face, sending him flat on his back. Chandler lay motionless, staring up at the brilliant stars that pinpointed the dark sky. He lay there for some moments, then with a shuddering breath, he sat up.
“Okay, Jess,” Mish said quietly. “Relax. So Maisky has the money. Fine… I told you he was a bright boy. You don’t have to worry about him. Never mind Perry… that’s just too bad. What happened to Wash?”
Chandler fingered his aching face.
“I don’t know.”
Mish stared at him, stiffening.
“What do you mean… you don’t know?”
“There was a guy there… an old man… he let off a gun. He nearly nailed me. We ran for it. I didn’t worry about Wash or Perry… they are big enough to look after themselves. I don’t know what happened to either of them.”
Mish didn’t like this, but he guessed he would have done the same thing.
“How much money do you reckon we’ve got?” Mish asked.
“We haven’t got it! Maisky’s got it!” Chandler exploded. “The little rat took off as soon as there was trouble!”
Mish stared at him.
“What are you talking about? What the hell did you expect him to do… stick around so they could grab the money back?”
Chandler hadn’t thought of this possible explanation. He asked more hopefully, “You think that’s what happened? I got the idea he was ratting on us.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Maisky wouldn’t do that. I know him. You think for a minute… trouble started: he knew you guys could look after yourselves so he took care of the money… he beat it. I would have done the same. I’ll bet he’s right now at the bungalow, waiting for us to join him… that’s what we arranged, isn’t it?”
Chandler began to relax.
“Yeah.” He shook his head, trying to convince himself. “When he took off, I really thought…” He paused, then shrugged. “We had better get back to the bungalow. It’s a hell of a walk.”
“How much do you reckon you got?”
“I don’t know. We crammed that carton full of money. Exactly how much I have no idea. We had to work fast.” Chandler pulled from his hip pockets two thick rolls of bills. “There’s quite a lot here… all in five-dollar bills.”
Mish eyed the money and drew in a deep breath.
“Looks nice, doesn’t it?”
Chandler hesitated, then gave him one roll and put the other back in his hip pocket.
“We’d better get moving.” He looked uneasily across the beach. There were still too many people in the sea and on the beach for comfort. “These damn uniforms…”
“Take ’em off,” Mish said and stripped off his khaki shirt. “Turn the pants into shorts and no one will take a second look at us.” He found a penknife in his pocket and, taking off his slacks, and using Mish’s penknife, he also completed the same operation.
When they had buried the shirts and the cut-off trousers’ legs in the sand, they got to their feet.
“Let’s go,” Mish said.
They moved out of the shadows and headed towards the sea. They had to pass close to the group around the barbecue. One of the girls, in a bikini and slightly drunk, waved to them. Mish waved back, but kept moving.
The two men, walking easily, not hurrying, headed towards Maisky’s bungalow.
Jack Perry shed his I.B.M. blouse and dropped it behind a flowering shrub. The moment the truck had taken off, he had slid away with the swift, silent movements of a jungle cat, not up the path, but through the hedge, across the soft earth, moving away from the Casino. As he slid through the trees and bushes, he unscrewed the silencer on his gun and dropped it into his hip pocket. He knew that within minutes the police would seal off all exits from the Casino. He knew also the old man would sooner or later give the police a description of him. He should have killed him, he thought. He now had to make his own way back to Maisky’s bungalow. This was a two-mile walk, and it would be dangerous.
By now he had reached the promenade. He was conscious of looking out of place in his khaki shirt and slacks as a group of young people came towards him, wearing only bikinis and swimming trunks. He kept on, seeing that they looked at him. When he was clear of them, he took off his shirt and tossed it behind a tree. His gun bothered him. It wasn’t easy to conceal. Holding it in his hand, down by his side, he kept walking. After some five minutes, he left the promenade and struck off across the sandy beach. Here, it was quiet and less frequented. He paused suddenly as he saw some hundred yards ahead of him a small sports car, parked under a palm tree. By it stood a girl, slipping a sweat shirt over her bikini.
Perry’s evil blue eyes darted to right and left. There was no one near the girl. He moved forward.
He arrived by the car as the girl, now seated at the wheel, was slamming the car door shut. She looked up, startled as Perry appeared by her side.
“Hello, Toots,” he said with his giggling laugh. “You and me are going for a little drive,” and he rested the cold barrel of his gun against her cheek. “Get the photo?”
He couldn’t see much of the girl, except her hair was long, wet and dark. The moonlight fell on her breasts, covered by a white sweat shirt, and he told himself she was quite a woman. Perry liked women. Even now, at the age of sixty-two, lust like a misshapen dwarf rode always on his thick shoulders.
The girl caught her breath sharply and Perry dug the gun barrel deeper.
“No fuss, chick,” he said. “One little yap out of you and I’ll blow your pretty face apart.”
He opened the car door and slid into the passenger’s seat. He waited a few seconds to allow the girl to recover from her shock, then he lowered the gun.
“Let’s go… I’ll tell you where.”
With a shaking hand, the girl thumbed the starter and then engaged gear. She drove the small car off the beach and up on to the road that led away from the promenade.
She knew she was in deadly danger. This fat man, sitting so relaxed by her side, filled her with a nightmare terror. She drove automatically, unable to speak, her heart fluttering, a knotted ball of fear coiled like a spring inside her.
Perry said, “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out on the beach alone?”
She said nothing. She could see the glint of the gun in the shaded dashlight, the barrel pointing at her body, and she shivered.
“You don’t have to be this scared,” Perry said. His continual giggle increased her fear. It was the most horrible sound she had ever heard. “What’s your name, baby?”
Still she couldn’t speak. Her tongue felt like a strip of dry leather in her mouth.
Perry put his hot, sweating hand on her naked knee. His touch made her shy away violently. The car swerved, mounted on the grass verge and then bounced back on the road.
Cursing, Perry put his foot across hers and stamped on the brake. The car jerked to a stop and the engine stalled. They were in this narrow road, overhung by trees. There were no villas. It was a road seldom used and leading eventually to the sea. The headlights of the car showed a long tunnel of darkness ahead of them. There was no sound, no movement.
Perry switched off the headlights. The tiny parking lights made a faint splash of yellow on the road. He took the girl by the nape of her neck and gently shook her.
“What’s the matter with you, baby… scared of me?” he asked and giggled.
The girl’s mouth formed into an O. Her sun-tanned face with its small features was grotesque with terror. Suddenly, as if the coil inside her had become released, she began to scream. Perry’s thick fingers shifted around her throat and nipped the screams off. Then frantically, wild with panic, she began to struggle, beating his face and chest with her small fists, thrashing with her legs.
Cursing, Perry let his gun slip to the floor of the car so he could use his other hand to control her. She had no chance against his strength. His fingers tightened around her throat, his left hand holding her wrists. He choked her into submission. Then aroused by the contact of her slim, half-naked body, he leaned over her, opened the car door and shoved her out on to the road. She sprawled on the sandy surface, only half conscious as Perry got out of the car and knelt over her.
She was dimly aware that he was ripping off her sweater and her bikini. She became aware of a sharp stone grinding into her spine, but that was nothing to the pain when he thrust into her body, brutally and with animal violence.
Finally, his lust satiated, he heaved himself from her and stirred her with his foot.
“Come on, baby,” he said impatiently. “This is for the record. Come on… up on your feet,” then when she continued to lie at his feet, he reached down, twined his thick fingers in her hair, and hauled her upright. She collapsed against him, moaning, but he shoved her, naked, into the car, his hands sliding over her shivering body.
“Come on… come on… I’ve got to get going,” he snarled and walked around to the passenger’s seat.
Her foot touched the gun. Still half conscious, feeling herself bleeding, not fully understanding what she was doing, she picked up the gun as Perry dropped his heavy body into the passenger’s seat. She aimed the gun at him, and sobbing, she pulled the trigger.
Perry saw the flash of the gun, heard the bang and then felt white hot pain grip his bowels. He sat motionless, stupefied, unable to move, his mouth falling open, cold sweat breaking out on his fat face.
He watched the girl roll out of the car, get to her feet and then run naked with lurching strides out of the dim light of the parkers. He smelt the cordite of the exploded shell acrid in his nostrils, then he felt blood seeping into his trousers.
Somehow he managed to shift his wounded body from the passenger’s seat into the driving seat. He started the engine, found the right gear and let in the clutch. He headed the car down the tunnel of darkness, knowing he just had to reach Maisky’s bungalow before he bled to death.
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 pass near by, 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 grass, 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 hit,” 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 goddam 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 snatched 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 bastard 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 bitch… 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 glass 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 hell 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 damn 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 reassuring 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.